EpiPen Debut: A Life Saved
I gazed at my patient, who was breathing heavily with effort. He looked like he'd be okay.
"Try taking a deep breath."
I checked his wrist for his pulse and blood pressure. His pulse was already returning steadily. Systolic blood pressure over about 80. Acute anaphylaxis. In simple terms, a severe allergic reaction. If the airway mucosa swells and blocks the air, it can be fatal. It often triggers shock too.
Sitting on the floor amid the crowd was a lean white man. Just as I'd thought, he had the kind of face that screamed allergy-prone.
"He'll be fine, right?"
I fiddled with the EpiPen prototype in my hand. All eyes were on me. It was just the existing allergy drug epinephrine, so there was no reason it wouldn't work. Still, confirming success was a relief.
As the patient who'd collapsed stood up perfectly fine, the band at the center of the hall quietly resumed playing. It wasn't some sitcom. But we'd cleared the immediate crisis.
I helped the patient to his feet, and his family rushed over to support him. He coughed a few times as if in pain, but he seemed to recover quickly. He turned to me.
"Thanks to you, I survived... Are you a doctor?"
"Yes. Just doing what needed to be done."
The man seemed to recognize me now. "Ah, you're the one who gave the speech before dinner started... What was wrong with me?"
The symptoms vanished right after the epinephrine injection. Definitely acute anaphylaxis.
"A severe allergy."
"I don't have allergies?"
"You do now."
I shook my head. Allergies usually develop from repeated exposure. But sudden onsets happen plenty.
My patient bowed his head to me. "I see... If you hadn't been a student here, I'd be dead today. Thank you so much."
His family, who'd swarmed like clouds in that short time, expressed their gratitude too. Being called a student was a bit absurd, but that's how I might look to Americans.
"Still, go to the hospital. Get checked for what in the food caused the allergy."
The man offered his hand. "Arthur Valentine. If there's ever anything you need, call me anytime... I'll help however I can."
He handed me his business card, and I stuffed it into my pocket. Glad it wrapped up smoothly.
EpiPen. The first demo of the civilian epinephrine auto-injector was a success. I'd expected it, but not that it'd go exactly to plan so fast.
Rigelotte eyed me and the EpiPen in my hand with interest.
"Want to see it?"
I set the EpiPen on the table, and she picked it up, examining it slowly.
"Amazing... That there's even a treatment for this is wild. How'd you know someone would collapse from an allergy tonight?"
"I explained earlier. Among whites and Jews, certain allergies hit harder, and those traits are common here tonight."
Rigelotte tilted her head. "I thought you were joking."
"No joke."
She stared blankly into space, lost in thought. Proper pedigree vibe. Rigelotte Weiseman, right? The Weisemans are a massive banking family based in Palo Alto. Their capital stretches across U.S. industry, centered on Stanford.
Around Rigelotte, two women in black suits eyed me. Armed bodyguards, probably.
She smiled again. "Fun... So now you're gonna ask us to invest in your invention?"
She looked young, but banking families must drill business early. Or maybe she'd dealt with plenty of money-chasers.
"No."
I had no such plans. Patent the EpiPen, then take it to a pharma company that could already produce epinephrine. Making drugs isn't just about money or tech.
"Why not?"
"Not a venture capital thing. I'll go to a pharma company."
Rigelotte scratched her head awkwardly. "I see..."
"Money isn't everything, right? If it's something that saves lives. Not about seeking investment."
Rigelotte was inwardly surprised. The Weiseman family had fled Germany during World War II. A lineage from before the Prussian era. When the old world died, they brought its lingering wealth to the new empire. America welcomed them with open arms.
The Weisemans invested in cutting-edge tech alongside Stanford academia. Lockheed for planes, Xerox for printers, Fairchild for semiconductors.
She'd seen plenty of weirdos. Money draws flies. Even the baby of the family, Rigelotte, got suitors now and then. Mostly beggars with excuses. New business, new idea—just need funding. They called themselves "venture investors" or "venture entrepreneurs."
Her father dodged them like pigeons or trash raccoons—feed one, and pests swarm. Give money or connections once, and it's not just lost cash; it's infestation city.
Anyway. She'd assumed this guy would hawk his new gadget too. But things more important than money? Not selling? Blasphemy. Unthinkable in Silicon Valley, land of VCs and wannabe founders.
Time to probe.
"What's the principle behind it?"
The black-haired doctor continued. "Nothing fancy. It's a common acute allergy drug in hospitals, but I plan to popularize a pen-shaped device for use outside, in emergencies."
He seemed pleased. She didn't fully get the drug talk, but the point landed.
Rigelotte decided to trust his sincerity. She set a business card on the table. He squinted slightly—like, I didn't ask for that.
"Got money? You don't look like it."
"I do! Well, not mine. My father's card."
I eyed the card on the table. Not the kind you get easily. Rigelotte's father. Like a chaebol chairman's personal contact in Korea.
"Thank you."
Not in my plans, but this could bring the EpiPen to reality faster than expected. Epinephrine existed already—if Weiseman help materialized, sales could start quick.
Money's nice, huh? I'd confidently said it wasn't everything. But ultimately, scaling drug production and access took massive capital. Finding investors wouldn't be hard, but still.
It didn't take long.
Before I could call the number, a suited man appeared before me. Obvious who—Rigelotte lookalike uncle. The party's host. Viking vibes. Eyes sharp like he'd just torched an English coastal monastery.
"Heard there was a commotion. You saved one of my guests, young doctor. I'll repay the favor properly."
I bowed in greeting. "Thank you."
"That's why we fund scholarships and invest in the school. No telling who'll drop without warning, like the one you saved..."
The Weiseman head smiled bitterly. "True enough."
"Heard you used a new drug. What's the story? Care to show me?"
I showed him the EpiPen. A syringe alone wouldn't reveal much. He examined it, then met my eyes, appraising.
"Speaking of, our Stanford scholarship kid put two papers in Nature—word's spreading. Know who?"
"That'd be me too."
"You too?"
His look screamed no way, but it checked out! I nodded.
The man returned the EpiPen. "I can't grasp the details. I'll set a conference with pharma companies we back—pitch your new drug to them."
I blinked. The moment I'd waited for. Build ties with pharma now, and later drug-making or new therapies become feasible.
Meanwhile. Stanford pediatric ward.
Combined clinical experience: 50 years. Four Stanford doctors stomped anxiously, staring at a thermometer.
What the hell...
Mysterious fever. A 3-year-old teetering on death's door.
A fellow sighed. "Day 3 at 40°C. Not budging. More antipyretics and his liver's toast—orders?"
The pediatric chief sighed. "Beats me."
They'd tried everything.