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

Madison Avenue, New York. The Sterling Cooper screening room at GG.

"This may not be his fault; it's an illness."

On the screen, a heartfelt narration accompanies the mournful sound of a cello. The scene is a dimly lit classroom, where a little boy is being punished by his teacher for not sitting still, and the camera zooms in on his mother silently weeping in the corner.

The scene then cuts to a bottle of brightly colored syrup—Focusin. After the boy drinks the syrup, he instantly transforms into a top student holding an A+ exam paper, and his mother smiles with satisfaction.

The lights came on.

GG's director, Don Draper, nervously watched the young man sitting in the center of the sofa. He was the most difficult customer he had ever encountered, even more demanding than those old men who sold cigarettes.

"Mr. Victor, what do you think?"

Victor stubbed out his cigarette, stood up, and walked to the screen.

"The visuals are beautiful, and the emotions are spot-on. But..." He held up a finger, pointing to the last slogan, "Remove the 'possible'."

"What?" Draper was taken aback.

"The line, 'This might not be his fault,' is too weak." Victor turned around, his eyes sharp. "Remove the 'might.' Change it to: 'This is an illness. If left untreated, his life will be ruined.'"

"But... Mr. Victor," Draper hesitated, "according to current medical statistics, the incidence of ADHD is only 3%. If we're too absolute, won't we get in trouble with the FCC (Federal Communications Commission)?"

"Then let it become 30%."

"Tang, you're a genius. You know how to sell sports cars. You told that middle-aged man that if he didn't buy this car, he'd be completely old. Now, I want you to use the same logic to sell medicine."

He walked up to Draper and looked him straight in the eye.

"You need to tell all the parents in America: if they don't give their children this medicine, their children will lose at the starting line. They will not get into college, they will not be able to find a job, they will become the bottom of society, they will become homeless, and eventually they will be killed by the Alice Thread."

"What we're selling isn't medicine, it's 'tickets to Harvard'."

Draper took a deep breath, the hesitation in his eyes disappeared, and a surge of professional fervor welled up inside him.

"I understand. We need to sell fear. Fear of the future."

"No, it's selling hope," Victor corrected with a smile. "It's also redemption."

...

Two weeks later. Miami Beach Hotel, Florida.

A high-level conference called the "National Symposium on Children's Mental Health" is being held.

The conference hall was filled with top psychiatrists, psychologists, and pediatricians from across the United States. Of course, all the expenses for this conference—from airfare and five-star hotel accommodations to nightly lobster dinners—were covered by Water Pharmaceuticals.

On the stage, Dr. Carter, president of the American Psychiatric Association, was giving a keynote speech. The background of his PowerPoint presentation was the blue logo of Water Pharmaceuticals.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we must face a stark reality." Dr. Carter said gravely, pointing to a chart, "In the past, our diagnostic criteria for ADHD have been too stringent. We have overlooked a large number of 'potential' patients."

"Based on the latest research data, and of course, thanks to the research funding provided by Water Pharmaceuticals, we have found that simply focusing on 'hyperactivity' is not enough. 'Inattention' is a more insidious killer."

He pressed the remote control, and a new draft diagnostic scale appeared on the screen.

Frequently loses items (such as pencils, books).

They are easily distracted during daily activities.

When sitting, they fidget or are restless.

It's difficult to wait in line.

Frequently interrupting other people's conversations.

An elderly professor in the audience frowned, raised his hand, and asked, "Dr. Carter, aren't these normal behaviors that every seven or eight-year-old boy exhibits? If we define these as pathological conditions, then there are no healthy children in schools across America."

A murmur rippled through the conference room.

Just then, Victor, who was sitting in the front row, stood up. He was there as a "special guest".

"Professor, your point is very interesting." Victor took the microphone, turned to face the audience, and said, "But please allow me to ask a question: What is 'normal'?"

"If a child's 'normal' hyperactivity causes him to be unable to concentrate in class, leads to poor grades, causes him to feel inferior and depressed due to frustration, and even ultimately leads to crime... is this still 'normal'?"

Victor's voice was incredibly captivating.

"We're not labeling children. We're rescuing them from the label of 'bad kids.' Imagine how liberating it is for a parent to know that their child's poor grades aren't due to stupidity or laziness, but rather illness..."

The doctors in the audience fell into deep thought.

Victor continued, "To support the work of all the experts, Water Pharmaceuticals has decided to invest $50 million over the next three years in research on children's mental health. We will fund each and every one of you here to discover, diagnose, and treat those forgotten children."

Fifty million US dollars.

This number was like a bombshell, instantly shattering all academic restraint.

Applause broke out. At first it was sparse, then Dr. Carter led the applause, and finally, thunderous applause drowned out the old professor's doubts.

That afternoon, the new draft of the ADHD diagnostic guidelines was passed unanimously.

According to this new standard, a child who has lost an eraser three times at school or pushed a classmate while queuing is eligible to be diagnosed with ADHD and legally obtain a prescription drug, Concerta.

...

One month later. A public elementary school in New Jersey.

Katie, dressed in a professional yet sexy suit, walked into the principal's office. Two assistants followed behind her, carrying several boxes of attractive brochures and samples.

"Headmaster, are you still having trouble with the discipline issues in Class 2 of Grade 3?" Katie smiled charmingly and placed a brochure on the table.

The cover reads: "Teachers are not babysitters; Focused Education helps you regain classroom order."

"We not only provide medication, but also 'teacher training'." Katie took out a check and gently pressed it on the brochure. "As long as you arrange for your teachers to attend our lectures and learn how to identify children with ADHD, your school can receive a substantial 'special education grant'."

The principal looked at the check, his Adam's apple bobbing.

"You mean...as long as the teacher suggests that parents take their child to see a doctor?"

"It's for the children's future." Katie blinked.

...

1986 spring.

A silent pandemic swept across the United States.

It's not the flu, it's ADHD.

Long lines formed outside the pediatric clinic. Anxious parents, clutching "suggestion sheets" given by teachers, brought their energetic children to seek medical help. Doctors, referring to the leniently worded questionnaire, issued diagnoses within five minutes.

In the pharmacy, strawberry-flavored "Concerta" syrup was sold out.

"Boss, this is insane." Thor looked at the data and felt it was unreal. "We've turned an entire generation into patients."

"No, Thor."

"We simply redefined 'childhood'."