EpiPen Invention (1)
California, Palo Alto, 1977. Stanford's city, soon to become the heart of Silicon Valley. I stared at my champagne glass on the table. The occasion was a charity event hosted by the Weiseman Foundation. A high-society party where entry fees disguised as donations bought you a seat. Why was I here? The Weiseman Foundation had invited me. Most of my full-ride scholarship came from their funds. Tuition for six years at Stanford: $30,000. In 2020s money... about 300 million won? If they'd told me to work a construction site, I'd have grabbed a shovel. They'd asked me to drop by the gala and give a short speech... their star exhibit. Me.
-It's a great chance to show our donors how the Foundation's philanthropy is changing the world.
We'd be grateful if you could attend.
I glanced at my notebook. The living proof of the Foundation's humanitarianism and the American Dream, sworn to serve humanity. Or something like that.
Soon, the gala kicked off. At the front of the ballroom, the Foundation's host took the mic.
"The Weiseman Foundation has poured tremendous effort into giving opportunities to talents who can bring our ideals to life. Today, we have a particularly proud achievement to share."
The host looked my way.
"A Stanford-trained doctor. A Weiseman scholar whose name graced a prestigious journal before even graduating. Please welcome Mr. Parks."
I walked to the stage. All eyes turned to me.
"I grew up in rural California, an adopted kid. But my new family and community gave someone as ordinary as me far more than I deserved."
1970s America was an era when the American Dream still breathed strong. Not perfectly fair, not free of discrimination. But a world where talent still opened doors.
"Thank you for the opportunity."
Just thinking about that $30,000—300 million won—in tuition made it easy to filibuster.
"With the chance from the Weiseman Foundation, I'll serve humanity on the front lines of medicine, researching as I've learned at Stanford."
I bowed to the audience.
Sitting in a corner of the ballroom, watching the crowd, I heard footsteps approaching. I turned.
"You look bored?"
"Pardon?"
She had the air of nobility. More than anything, the attendants—bodyguards, probably—standing a discreet distance behind her, eyeing me.
Ivy League schools draw highborn kids from around the world. But even the elite rarely traveled with escorts.
Who was she? Palo Alto had its power players, but narrowing it to families who could afford full retinues... not many.
"Mind if I sit?"
I studied her briefly. Modest dress, soft light-brown hair, striking blue eyes. A grace uncommon in ordinary folk, like someone trained in how to present herself. But it felt rehearsed, performative. Upper-crust habit, or her personality? The latter, I figured.
She must have arrived after my speech; she didn't seem to know who I was. I had no clue about her either. A few guesses, but she was deliberately holding off on introductions.
She smiled. "I usually come to these alone. Didn't expect someone my age. Nice surprise."
What to say? "You seem in good spirits. Food to your liking? I think it's decent."
She tilted her head. "That phrasing... I've heard it before. Trained conversationalist."
I blinked. Right on the money. Psychiatric intake checklist: affect, appetite, sleep, hallucinations, self-harm. Affect being observed emotional state. A systematic way to read people effectively. Habit more than technique.
"That obvious?"
"First line observed your mood. Second probed eating. Safe way to profile someone!"
Speechless.
"Force of habit. My apologies."
"Still impressive. Means your training's thorough enough to be subconscious. What do you do?"
I set my card in front of her.
"The star of the show? I'm Rigelotte Weiseman. Youngest daughter of the Weiseman family."
Introductions done, she relaxed a bit, settling back in. Intrigued now. Without the tension, she looked much younger. Like she'd been play-acting maturity before.
"Bet you have fascinating stories too. Though being a foreigner at Stanford can't be easy."
I stared at Rigelotte. "Foreigner? Me?"
"Immigrant, right? Must've faced hardships getting here."
I chuckled. We went to church Sundays, ate dry turkey at Thanksgiving, watched fireworks on the Fourth, raised a dog on the lawn.
"What's more American than an adoptee crossing the ocean to Ivy League, seizing a chance to better the world?"
"Should've been a poet, not a doctor."
"They invited me to speechify. Thirty-grand words."
She nodded. Anyway. Time for fun talk.
"And... half of Ivy League docs are Jewish anyway. No discrimination for not being white."
"Ah. Right."
We scanned the ballroom. I'd been wondering since earlier. Why I'd asked about the food.
"Speaking of... the buffet has Thai dishes tonight."
"Why's that a problem?"
"Allergies. Whites can't do peanuts, Jews skip shrimp—and Thai food boils both together forever."
This crowd? Jews and whites only. Except me.
"They'll know to avoid it, right?"
Common misconception. Allergies develop from repeated antigen exposure, not usually congenital.
Speaking of which. Back in my sixth undergrad year, I'd been tinkering. One key tech not yet popularized, but vital for saving lives: the epinephrine auto-injector. For instant treatment of anaphylaxis airway closure. Press a button, done. No veins needed.
Prototype.
I pulled the EpiPen from my pocket and showed her. Syringe encased in plastic for instant jab.
Rigelotte tilted her head. "Heroin?"
I frowned at her. Fair guess—heroin's injected too.
"No. Allergy med."
"Carry it everywhere?"
"Can't have someone collapsing tonight."
Rare in Korea, but Americans with allergies tote them. Life-or-death difference. And this crowd screamed risk...
"Occupational hazard."
"Kinda."
As if the universe heard. Commotion erupted across the room.
"Anyone a doctor!?"
I shot up.
"Excuse me."
Onlookers parted. In 1970s acute anaphylaxis treatment? Wait for the ambulance. No widespread emergency epinephrine like today, where patients carry them or buffets stock them.
Someone was attempting CPR, but ineffective. Lucky it was half-assed—real chest compressions could've cracked ribs or strained the heart.
"Stop compressions."
I cleared the CPR folks and examined the patient. No breathing, but pulse lingered. Straight to the thigh: epinephrine jab.
Shouldn't take long.
"Hey! Wake up!"
Grabbed a spoon nearby, wedged it back to depress the larynx.
In those life-hanging seconds. Breath turned to wind, wind to breath.
Epinephrine kicks in fast. Seconds. Patient coughed, eyes fluttering open. I dropped the spoon.
Whew. Clean save.
"What... happened?"
All eyes on me.