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

Kokomo, Indiana. Christmas is here.

Snowflakes were falling heavily outside the window, but the two-story white villa was warm and cozy. The oak wood in the fireplace crackled and popped.

Twelve-year-old Ryan White was sitting on a wool rug, eagerly tearing open the largest gift box.

As the confetti was torn away, a dark brown baseball glove, exuding the scent of leather, appeared before his eyes. The glove also had the signature of his idol—the Chicago Cubs' star pitcher—embossed on the side.

"My God! Is this real?!"

Ryan jumped up excitedly, put the glove on his left hand without hesitation, and slammed his fist into his palm.

"Thank you, Dad! Thank you, Mom!"

Looking at her son's flushed face, Ryan's mother, Jenny White, leaned against her husband, tears welling up in her eyes.

Two months ago, Ryan wouldn't have dared to do this.

As a patient with severe hemophilia A, Ryan was born lacking factor VIII in his blood. His blood vessels were like a faucet that could never be turned off. Even a simple jump, an accidental bump, or a violent cough could cause massive bleeding in his joint cavity.

He spent his childhood in hospital emergency rooms and hospital beds.

But it's different now.

Jenny walked to the kitchen island, picked up a small glass bottle, and her eyes were filled with an almost religious devotion.

It was a small bottle, no bigger than a thumb, containing white freeze-dried powder. The bottle was marked with the blue "W" of Walter Pharmaceuticals, and a line of prominent text:

"Factor VIII (Eighth Factor) - High Purity Concentrated Preparation".

"In the past, we had to go to the hospital to receive a cold, snot-like substance. Only a small amount of factor could be extracted from a large bag of blood plasma. Each infusion took several hours, and we often had allergic reactions."

Jenny said to her visiting neighbor, her voice filled with gratitude.

"Now, all we have to do is dissolve this powder at home and give Ryan an intravenous injection. It only takes five minutes. In those five minutes, he can go to school, ride a bicycle, and even play baseball like a normal child."

"This is simply a miracle," the neighbor exclaimed, looking at the small bottle. "Is this what they call 'modern medicine'? That company called Walter has really done a great thing."

"yes."

"Did you know? This is the essence extracted from the blood plasma of thousands of people. The doctor said that this small bottle of medicine may contain the life force of thousands of people. We wrote a thank-you letter to this company. If it weren't for them, Ryan might have been stuck watching other children play through the window forever."

Ryan, wearing gloves, tossed a baseball high into the air and caught it steadily.

"Dad, the snow has stopped, let's go to the backyard to pass the ball!"

"Of course, little champion." The father put down Time magazine, stood up with a smile, and ruffled his son's hair. "When the snow stops, let's go hit a home run."

Looking at the smiling faces of the father and son under the Christmas tree, Jenny felt that this was the happiest Christmas of her life.

......

However, happiness is like a snowflake, melting away at the touch.

Two weeks later.

Intensive Care Unit (ICU) at Cokomo General Hospital.

Ryan lay on the hospital bed, his once rosy face now flushed red. He opened his mouth, breathing heavily, his chest heaving violently.

He had lumps the size of eggs bulging on both sides of his neck, under his armpits, and in his groin—these were extremely swollen lymph nodes.

"Body temperature 104 degrees Fahrenheit (40 degrees Celsius). Blood oxygen saturation 85%. Both lungs are filled with moist rales."

The nurse spoke quickly as she recorded the data, her voice tinged with panic.

"Is it the flu?" Jenny gripped her son's hand tightly; it was alarmingly hot. Her voice trembled. "Lots of people at school have the flu lately. Did he play in the snow for too long?"

"It doesn't look like it."

The attending physician, Wilson, frowned as he looked at the blood test report that had just come out.

"His white blood cell count is alarmingly low. Only one-tenth of a normal person's." Dr. Wilson looked up, his eyes grave. "If it were the flu, the immune system would react, and the white blood cell count should rise. But Ryan's case... his immune system seems to have completely 'gone on strike.' Or rather, disappeared."

"Disappeared?" Jenny didn't understand. "What does that mean?"

"This means that even a common cold virus, or even mold in the air, can now penetrate his body and run rampant as if it were uninhabited."

Dr. Wilson closed the medical record folder. "We need to do more detailed tests. Bronchoalveolar lavage of the lungs, and a bone marrow aspiration. We need to find out what breached his defenses."

The next three days were hellish.

Ryan was pushed into one examination room after another.

He tried one antibiotic after another—penicillin, cephalosporins, vancomycin…—but the high fever persisted. He began coughing violently, coughing up pinkish foam. This was a sign of ruptured alveoli.

On the evening of the third day, the sunset was blood-red. Dr. Wilson called Ryan's parents into his office.

Dr. Wilson stood with his back to them, watching the sunset outside the window, and remained silent for a long time.

"Doctor?" Ryan's father asked in a hoarse voice, "Are the results in?"

Dr. Wilson turned around. He was pale and clutched a pathology report in his hand.

"We've found the reason."

"What is it? Can it be cured?" Jenny asked anxiously. "We'll treat it no matter the cost."

The doctor remained silent for a long time before slowly uttering a single word:

"PCP. Pneumocystis carinii pneumonia."

Jenny and her husband exchanged a bewildered glance.

"This is an extremely rare fungal infection," Dr. Wilson explained. "It usually only occurs in two types of people: severely malnourished African refugees and late-stage cancer patients undergoing chemotherapy. A normal person's immune system can completely suppress it."

"But Ryan..." the doctor paused, seemingly gathering his courage, "his T4 lymphocyte count is almost zero. There is currently only one explanation in the medical community for this complete collapse of the immune system."

"GRID".

"What?"

"Gay-Related Immune Deficiency," the doctor said, looking them in the eye. "Or now the CDC is starting to call it a new name: AIDS (Acquired Immunodeficiency Syndrome)."

A few seconds later, Jenny seemed to realize what was happening.

"Snapped!"

She suddenly stood up, causing the chair to fall to the ground with a loud thud.

"What nonsense are you talking about?!" she shrieked, her voice shrill and distorted. "Ryan is only 12! He's a child! He hasn't even started puberty yet! He's never even had a girlfriend! How could he possibly have this... this filthy disease?!"

In the United States in the late 80s, AIDS meant not only death, but also moral judgment and social scorn.

It is the "homosexual plague." It is "God's punishment for promiscuity." It is a stain that all decent families avoid.

"I know this sounds crazy. I hope I'm mistaken." Dr. Wilson took off his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes. "But the data doesn't lie. We repeated the tests three times. Ryan is diagnosed."

"But... how did he get infected?" The father's voice sounded like he was talking in his sleep. "He didn't do that kind of thing. He didn't do drugs either. He was just a kid who liked playing baseball..."

Suddenly, the father stopped.

Like a bolt of lightning piercing through the fog, his gaze shifted downwards, landing on Jenny's handbag on the table.

There were several bottles of "Factor VIII" that hadn't been used up yet.

Jenny followed her husband's gaze. Her face turned deathly pale in an instant, as if all the blood had been drained from her. Her hands began to tremble violently, and she threw her bag away as if she had been electrocuted.

"medicine."

"It's medicine!"

"That's the only explanation," Dr. Wilson sighed. "Hemophilia patients need long-term injections of clotting factors. These highly purified formulations are extracted from the blood plasma of thousands of people. Water Pharmaceuticals' brochures say that every bottle comes from thousands of blood donors."

"This is what is meant by 'gathering the vitality of a thousand people'."

The doctor gave a wry smile. "But it's more like a giant game of Russian roulette. If even one of these thousands of donors is HIV-positive... like a drug addict selling blood for a few dozen dollars, or someone infected during the window period..."

"That entire pool of blood plasma will be completely contaminated."

"No! This is impossible!"

Jenny frantically picked up the bag and poured the medicine bottle inside onto the table.

"This is Waterpharm! A big company! They call it a 'miracle'! The instructions say it's 'rigorously virus-inactivated'! This is a life-saving drug, how could it be poison?!"

The delicate little glass bottles rolled onto the table, and in the afterglow of the setting sun, the blue W logo looked like a mocking eye.

Dr. Wilson looked at the distraught couple and felt a deep sense of powerlessness welling up inside him.

He walked to the telephone and dialed the Atlanta Centers for Disease Control and Prevention (CDC) epidemiology hotline.

"This is the Kokomo General Hospital. I have a 12-year-old child with hemophilia who has been diagnosed with AIDS. We suspect the infection was transmitted through blood products. The brand is Water Pharmaceuticals."

The operator's voice on the other end of the phone was indifferent, formulaic, and even slightly impatient:

"Doctor, there is currently no conclusive evidence that HIV can be transmitted through commercial clotting factors. The pharmaceutical company claims their processing method is safe. We will keep a record of that, but we suggest you first check if the child has engaged in any concealed high-risk behaviors. You know, teenagers..."

"He's only 12 years old! His only 'high-risk behavior' is trying to survive! What did he do wrong!" Dr. Wilson yelled into the microphone.

"Beep...beep...beep..."

The phone hangs up.

Only the busy signal echoed in the office.

Dr. Wilson put down the stethoscope, his hand falling limply to his side. Outside the window, the snow fell heavier and heavier, burying the whole world in white.

In the ward at the end of the corridor, Ryan was breathing with difficulty.

The brand-new baseball glove, signed by a Cubs star, sat quietly on the bedside table.

But he no longer had the strength to lift it.

These gloves, like the neatly arranged medicine bottles, were "gifts" given to him by Walter Pharmaceuticals!