Youngest Lasker Laureate: Psittacosis Patient Makes Full Recovery
The psittacosis patient looked completely fine, as if washed clean. It had been a day since I administered the antibiotics. The fever I'd noticed earlier was gone, and all the other symptoms had clearly improved. Doxycycline was working like a charm.
"When can I go home?"
I put away my stethoscope. No murmurs in the heart sounds anymore.
"Your heart sounds are back to normal too... But you'll still need to take aspirin for a month. We'll decide on discharge after a few more tests."
"What a hassle."
The patient already seemed to have forgotten he'd nearly died. I couldn't exactly remind him of that. I just smiled.
"Yeah, but make sure to take good care of yourself."
"You said this was from the chickens, right? My chickens caused the pneumonia and heart problems."
I nodded. "That's right."
"What should I do? The kids love the chickens and collecting eggs."
Yeah, tell me about it. Textbooks say to cull poultry in cases like this. But telling innocent people to slaughter their chickens felt wrong. I scratched my head.
"Hmm... Normally, you'd cull them—the ones with serious diseases transmissible to humans."
The patient's face grew serious. "Isn't that a bit cruel?"
"Take them to a vet clinic."
"Can't you give me medicine for them...? I sold my car to come to this hospital. I can't sell my house to go to a vet."
This was America. Sky-high medical bills could rack up millions or tens of millions of won in the blink of an eye. Vet care was even worse. It was a shame. I started to refuse, but then the patient's son and daughter—two kids who looked about that age—looked up at me from beside the bed. When had they snuck in there?
I met their eyes. "Do we have to kill all of Coco's family?"
Wait, when did I say that? Thinking back, yeah, I kinda had.
One of the kids burst into tears. The patient half-sat up in bed.
"Don't cry. The doctor says we have to let the chickens go for safety."
I sighed. Fine, whatever. "Got it... I'll make some medicine from the hospital that the chickens can eat. That okay?"
The kids nodded. "Thank you, Doctor!"
"T'ank you!"
What a weird side quest. I fiddled with my stethoscope as I left the room. Now where was I? Calculate the dose based on the chickens' body surface area? It was an intriguing problem, at least.
This was the Stanford Hospital pharmacy. Compounding equipment was scattered haphazardly on the workbench. Never thought I'd see a day like this. A pharmacist I'd never seen before stopped at the entrance to the compounding room and stared at me, like he was wondering what the hell I was doing here.
I turned my head. "What're you doing?"
Making medicine for chickens. I set down the antibiotics I was grinding for a moment.
"Protecting kids' dreams and hopes."
"That... isn't drugs, is it?"
Why were Americans so obsessed with drugs? I stared at him blankly.
"What do you mean?"
The pharmacist squinted at the pill bottles I'd laid out. White powder from crushed tablets and doxycycline powder.
"As long as it's not drugs, it's fine. Carry on then, sorry to interrupt..."
The pharmacist dropped what he was doing and left the room, like he was fleeing. Whatever. These things happen in life. At least the veterinary textbook had poultry treatment methods listed. Thirty minutes to save ten chickens? Worth it, what else could I do?
I pondered over the crushed pills for a while.
Done.
Luckily, doxycycline was perfectly suitable for oral administration. I couldn't exactly figure out how to inject chickens anyway.
Professor Ellison eyed the medical records. The blood tests from the patient I'd just seen confirmed psittacosis exactly as that Asian doctor had said. Was he really a genius? They'd been about to treat it as myocardial infarction and heart disease. Standard treatment for infectious endocarditis was penicillin-based antibiotics, and for MI, aspirin... It would've been a total disaster. Thanks to him, they'd saved a life.
Ellison closed his eyes. That had been close. Why had that first-year resident spotted the issue before him, after decades in medicine? It was embarrassing.
Psittacosis.
With 1970s tech, there wasn't even a reliable way to culture the bacteria. Proving it was tough. This case alone had taken days for tests. Where had that resident learned about psittacosis? Textbooks?
Ellison finally understood what all those previous professors had said. It wasn't a lie. The more he chewed on that resident's words, the more they felt like magic. Like he had far more research and clinical experience.
That was settled. I grabbed the letter from the Lasker Foundation and went to find Professor McDevitt—the guy who'd co-authored the paper with me that would change immunology history. Time to brag.
The Lasker Award was second only to the Nobel in medicine. Some called it the American Nobel.
Professor McDevitt had moved his lab to the Stanford immunology research building. Where was it?
"Professor! Check this out!"
The world outside the hospital felt more peaceful than I remembered. No one dying or nearly coding in his day-to-day, I bet. The professor looked up at me.
"Oh, it's you."
"Look at this. They're giving me the Lasker for my immunology and molecular biology research, plus the Kawasaki disease Lancet paper."
I bragged busily. Professor McDevitt slowly read the letter from the foundation and nodded.
"Lasker Award? For real?"
"Yes."
"You'll be the youngest recipient. We've really raised a monster."
Why did everyone keep calling me a monster? All I'd done was save lives and think about ways to save more.
The bottom of the letter listed all the papers the Lasker Foundation had considered. Not just one or two. The professor clicked his tongue again.
"How many papers did you write? Four in Nature, one in Lancet. And a bunch more where you're just on the author list..."
"Been writing since freshman year."
Fruits of seven years' labor. I'd used future knowledge, sought out top researchers of the era, drawn on past-life experience. I'd worked hard.
"Seeing a lot of patients at the hospital?"
"Clinical papers too."
Professor McDevitt set the letter down. "That reminds me—I'm getting the Lasker this year too, in basic medical research. Thanks to the immunology work after meeting you."
"Glad to hear it."
I'd expected as much. If I got it for immunology and molecular bio, the senior profs I'd collaborated with deserved something too.
McDevitt grinned. It wasn't much different from original history. We'd just advanced the timeline by a few years. Exactly as planned. Even faster than I'd thought. What I really wanted was the Nobel, but those went to veterans with decades of work. I'd have to wait.
McDevitt looked at me again. "Ever been to New York?"
"No."
"The ceremony's usually there. Lots of world-class scholars attend."
It was on the opposite coast—East Coast, up north.
"You've got time. Talk to the hospital, clear your schedule, think about what to do in New York. Congrats again."
I nodded. "Satisfied with the Lasker, Professor? We should go for the Nobel together."
"I'd have laughed that off before."
From Lasker to Nobel—it wasn't an impossible gap anymore. Just a goal in sight with a bit more effort.
Anyway. The ceremony was only a few weeks away. Time to brag at home too.
I headed home over the weekend. Couldn't miss a chance to brag. As soon as I walked in, I brought up the award.
"I won the Lasker Award."
"What's that, some school contest?"
My parents weren't up on this stuff.
"It's the most prestigious medical research award in America. Think of it as the Nobel for American doctors."
"That's huge?"
I nodded. My parents didn't seem as shocked as I'd expected.
"Amazing... We knew you had special talent, but winning a Stanford contest too."
I scratched my head. They didn't quite get it. Fair enough.
I set the Lasker Foundation invitation on the dining table. "Anyway, it'd be great if you came."
"Of course we'll go."
Now, when to bring up the pharma company stuff? Lots to do, lots to talk about.