American Medicine God: Starting by Inheriting a Pharmaceutical Company and Selling Medicine

"Let's play a game? Chess?! I'm curious, a cheerleader who doesn't like rugby but likes playing chess?"

"Boss, that's a stereotype! I was the president of the chess club in college. It's a pity, hobbies and talent can't make a living. Otherwise, I might be a professional female chess player!"

"No need to wait until the meeting is over, I'll play another game with you now! I hope you've improved and can last half an hour this time!"

......

Boston.

Massachusetts General Hospital, affiliated with Harvard Medical School.

Dr. Russell Porter's office walls are covered with diplomas, medals, and photos of him shaking hands with several presidents.

Dr. Porter is the president of the American Association for the Study of Pain. He is a believer in suffering. To him, pain is the body's natural alarm system, a strict teacher, and a necessary evil.

“Mr. Corleone,” Porter adjusted his glasses, looking at the young man sitting across from him, “I appreciate your offer of donation. Three million dollars, very generous. But I cannot endorse your product. Opioids are for terminally ill patients, not for housewives with back pain.”

Victor nodded respectfully. He didn't argue. He reached into his briefcase.

"I understand, Doctor. You are a man of principle. But I'm not here today to talk about medicine. I'm here to talk about human rights."

Victor placed a piece of paper on the table.

It was a copy of the New England Journal of Medicine (NEJM), dated January 10, 1980.

Title: Addiction to anesthetic drugs is extremely rare in patients!

"Have you read Potter and Jack's research?" Victor asked softly.

Porter glanced at it. "I know it. It's nothing special, no rigorous randomized controlled trial."

“But look at the data, Doctor,” Victor’s voice carried an eager, infectious energy. “They tracked 11,882 patients. Only 4 were addicted. 4. That’s less than 0.03%.”

Victor tapped the paper.

"For decades, we've been causing patients to scream in agony because of a preconceived notion called 'opioid phobia.' We treat dogs better than people. If a dog breaks its leg, we give it a sedative. If a person breaks their leg, we tell them to 'be strong.'"

Porter fell silent.

“Doctor,” Victor continued, shifting the strategy from data to philosophy, “you are the most respected voice in this field. You have the power to change this paradigm. Why is pain merely a symptom? Why isn’t it a vital sign?”

"Vitality signs?" Porter frowned.

"Yes. Blood pressure. Heart rate. Respiratory rate. Body temperature. These are the four pillars of medicine. Why is there no pain? It's the fifth vital sign."

"Imagine a world like this, Doctor, where every nurse, every time she takes a patient's temperature, asks: 'From one to ten, how much pain do you have?' If the answer is above zero, she has a moral obligation to treat it."

"A world without pain..." Porter murmured to himself. It sounded like a prayer.

“And you,” Victor turned around, “can be the one to give this gift to all mankind. Become the Lincoln of medicine, liberating patients from the enslavement of suffering.”

Porter looked at the copy again. The number, 0.03%, seemed to glow.

If addiction is truly so rare... then being stingy with drugs is indeed cruel.

"And what about your donation...?" Porter asked, his voice trembling slightly.

"Three million dollars. Donated to the Portner Research Foundation. To educate doctors about the fifth vital sign," Victor smiled warmly, "without any strings attached. Just for science."

...

Two months later. The American Association for the Study of Pain's annual meeting.

The auditorium was packed.

Dr. Porter stood on the stage. Behind him, a huge slide projected a new logo: a hand holding a ruler, measuring pain.

“For too long,” Porter’s voice echoed through the speakers. “We’ve been savages. We’ve let the fear of addiction outweigh compassion.”

He pressed the remote control. The slideshow switched to the letter from Porter and Jack. "0.03%" was highlighted in red.

"The data is clear. Addiction is a myth. The pain is real. Today, I am proud to announce the new Guidelines for the Treatment of Chronic Pain."

He held up a thick booklet.

"From today onward, pain is the fifth vital sign. It must be measured. It must be treated. No patient should leave the hospital in pain."

The audience, thousands of doctors, nurses, and pharmacists, stood and applauded. Some had tears in their eyes, feeling they were participating in a revolution. Others may have had other considerations. But at least it was quite a spectacle, wasn't it?!

Victor watched this scene from inside the VIP box.

Saul Goodman was sitting next to him, eating peanuts.

“You know,” Saul said in a low voice, “that letter from Potter and Jack…it was about hospitalized patients. Those guys got a shot of morphine and went home. It had nothing to do with long-term daily use.”

"I know," Victor said calmly.

"And that 0.03% figure... if you apply it to outpatients, it's completely misleading."

"I know."

"So, we built a religion on a typographical error?"

“We’ve set up a market, Saul,” Victor corrected him. “Watch them.”

He pointed to the doctors below. They were lining up to receive signed copies of the "Guideline".

"Starting tomorrow, whenever a patient says 'ouch,' a doctor will feel legally and ethically obligated to write a prescription. Guess whose drug is the only one approved for 'moderate to severe everyday pain'?"

"Wat Stable XR." Thor grinned.

"Exactly."

Victor picked up the program booklet. The back cover was a full-page GG from Walter Pharmaceuticals.

Pain is unavoidable. Suffering is a choice.

"Let's go, Thor," Victor stood up. "We have another factory to expand."

......

Ohio. A suburban kitchen.

Betsy, 35, a mother of two, is washing dishes.

Her back hurts. She's been suffering from back pain ever since the car accident two years ago.

She tried Tylenol. She tried yoga. Neither worked.

She opened the medicine cabinet. There was a new orange bottle. Her doctor, Dr. Henderson, had prescribed it for her yesterday.

Vortex Antidiax XR. Take one tablet every 12 hours.

"Not addictive," the doctor promised. "This is the new standard of treatment."

Becky opened the bottle and poured out a small pill.

She swallowed it.

Twenty minutes later, a warm, fluffy blanket enveloped her head. Not only did the pain in her back disappear, but the agony of her boring life, her noisy children, and her indifferent husband also faded away.

She felt loved.

She looked at the medicine bottle. There were still 59 pills inside.

She smiled. For the first time in years, she felt that everything would be alright.