To coincide with the recent launch of Unhack Your Brain, my project on neuroscience and mental health, here’s a story I wrote for Nothing To See Here that explores some of the same themes, but in a very different way. My fascination with understanding how our brains function started with wondering how exactly placebos work and delving into the science behind meditation, yoga, and similar techniques. After ten years of study, I still can’t answer one simple question: is it still real medicine if you know it’s fake?
Faith
January 2023
Yeah, I know. My kids are mad at me. Can’t say I blame them, honestly. They were expecting fifteen, twenty million each, and now… that’s not looking likely.
Which one of them sent you? I know, you can’t tell me. Professional ethics, right? It has to be Robert, though. Robyne would be here herself. She’s always been the one with the balls.
You can put the gun down, you know. I’m not exactly a threat, am I? You’re twice my size and half my age. Look at me, sixty-seven years old, a hundred and thirty pounds, and I’ve got brain cancer. You don’t need a damn gun. So, easy there. I’m just going to take a sip of this apple juice.
That’s better. I get thirsty these days. Little and often, the doctors tell me. Not that the doctors know what they’re talking about. If I’d listened to them, I’d have been dead months ago. As it is, I’m doing just fine. Looking forward to a long, relaxed retirement.
And that’s the problem, isn’t it?
Look, why don’t you help yourself to a drink? I don’t touch alcohol these days, but I like to keep it around for visitors. Beer’s in the fridge, or there’s wine, bourbon, vodka, take your pick.
Woah, slow down! Sip it. That stuff’s over a grand a bottle, buddy. Savor it. That’s better.
See, when I was first diagnosed, I went to every doctor around. They put me in machines, did every test they could think of, took my money, then made concerned faces and told me they could do nothing. This thing in my head was going to keep growing till it killed me, and that was that. Of course, there was always another expensive procedure or overpriced drug they could try, which probably wouldn’t cure me, but might make things a little easier for me.
So you know what I did? I quit working and started traveling for pleasure. I had fun. I’ve got a bucket list, like everyone else, so I figured, hell, I’ve spent my life working my ass off to make money, so why not spend it? And so one evening, I found myself at a party at Bob’s place in the Caribbean. Yeah, that Bob. Known him for years. See that photo? That’s us on his yacht, back in the 80s. Lost touch for a while, but he was happy to see me. Anyway, one of his guests, some crazy lady from Massachusetts or someplace, she told me about Doctor Dragan. That’s D-r-a-g-a-n, not Dragon. It’s Eastern European. Very exclusive, very secretive, but apparently, very good. Nothing online, nothing anywhere. He’d only see you with a personal recommendation. But crazy lady decided that any friend of Bob’s, yadda yadda, and she made a phone call.
Of course, it wasn’t that easy. Actually getting to see Doctor Dragan was like taking a fricking college entrance exam. There were application forms and questionnaires and you had to send your medical notes and every single step of the way, there was another fee. At least crazy lady had warned me, so I was ready for it.
A few weeks later, I got my appointment. A room had been reserved for me in a hotel in one of those rich-people towns in Connecticut. No, I’m not telling you where. I waited in the lobby, and, exactly on time, a limo arrived. The driver didn’t say a word. Just like you. Just did his job. That was fine by me. I wasn’t in the mood for talking anyway. My head was hurting like hell.
Dragan’s place was damn near big enough to be a castle. The man himself was short, dapper, and younger than I was expecting. I don’t know why I thought he’d be my age. He ushered me into his office, and we sat in leather armchairs.
“So, Mr Murchison, brain cancer?” he said. “They’ve given you two, maybe three months?”
I nodded. Right to the point, no dicking around.
“You’re a man of science, I see,” he continued. “So, I’m going to level with you. I’ve got nothing for you.”
I threw my hands up in the air. “So why are you wasting my time?” I growled.
He smiled. “Oh, I can cure you. If you want me to. Do you want to be cured?”
“Of course I do. Why do you think I’m here?”
“Not everyone really wants to be cured,” he said. “Some just like going to the doctor. It makes them feel special. But okay, here’s what I can offer you. Do you know what a placebo is?”
“Yeah,” I replied suspiciously. “Fake drugs. What’s your point?”
“It’s more than just fake drugs,” he grinned. “It’s a whole treatment regime. In your case, we’d do fake scans, run fake tests, maybe even do a fake operation.”
“And what’s that supposed to do, exactly?”
“Cure you, Mr Murchison. Or at least stop the growth of that tumor so you can have a long, happy life.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I snorted.
“On the contrary,” he said. “There’s plenty of data and research which proves that placebo treatments work. The healing doesn’t come from the medicine, it comes from your belief that you’re being healed. Half of medicine is just theater. The way we dress, the whole rigmarole of getting to a doctor, even the posters on the walls, they all contribute to the efficacy of the treatment. Some people hate hospitals. That’s why they go to alternative therapists or faith healers, because that’s what feels right to them, and that’s what they believe in. Those questionnaires we had you fill out? That was so I could figure out who I should be for you. A suit and an office, or beads and incense in a yurt?”
“But you just told me it’s all fake,” I protested. “So now I don’t believe it.”
“That’s the really weird thing,” he replied. “The data shows that placebos are just as effective even when the patient knows it’s a placebo. I don’t understand it. Nobody does. But trust me, it works. And, it’s a matter of medical ethics. I’m not going to lie to you about the treatment I’m offering, Mr Murchison. If you choose to do this, you have the right to know exactly what’s involved.”
I laughed. “This is the weirdest con ever.”
“It’s not a con,” shrugged Dragan, pushing a folder of papers towards me. “It’s a little unorthodox, but it’s all above board. Look, take these with you, read them in your hotel tonight, and let me know in the morning.”
I took a quick look. Pages and pages of academic reports, medical case histories, and so on. Of course, they were probably fake too. All part of the treatment. “So, say I agree. How much is this going to cost me?”
“That’s up to you,” he answered. “The cheapest level we offer will cost you a dollar. I don’t recommend it.”
“A dollar? What do I get for that?”
“An M&M.” He held out a bag. “Any color you like. Most people find the blue ones most effective.”
“An M&M? Are you serious?”
“I told you I don’t recommend it. You see, one of the really interesting variables in placebo treatment is that the more expensive it is - or appears to be - the more effective it is. If I give you a pill and tell you it costs $10, it might cure you. If I give you the exact same medication and tell you it costs $100 or $1000, it’ll work better.”
“You’re kidding,” I said.
He shook his head. “Why do you think people swear by pricey brand name drugs rather than generics with identical ingredients? They work better because you believe they must be better, because they cost more.”
I had to agree, that made sense, of a sort. “So, I’ll pass on the M&M. What else have you got?”
“How badly do you want to live, Mr Murchison?” he countered. “Do you want to see your grandkids get married? Peter and Sally, isn’t it? Maybe even be a great-grandpa?”
“You bastard,” I muttered. “Of course.”
“Well then,” he said. “Let’s start at the top. The full treatment. Three months residential, right here. Private room, and full access to all our facilities. You’ll like the company. Your sort of people.” He mentioned some names. You know the ones, the sort of people who were on your TV every week and then all of a sudden they weren’t. And ten years later you read about them in some Where Are They Now piece and you’re slightly embarrassed because you thought they were dead, but there they are, quite happy, just old. Dragan went on. “We’ll do the complete package. Scans, blood tests, physio, special diet, the works. And my personal guarantee of success. If you want, we can scale it back, but then…” He made that sucky-teeth noise. “It’s your call.”
“And how much is that?” I asked.
“Everything, Mr Murchison. Every single last penny you have.”
“That’s close to forty million,” I pointed out.
Dragan nodded. “You’re in the movie business. You know that good fakes cost money. You want to make the audience believe, you’ve got to do it right. So, are you in?”
I stood up, angry. “You’re nuts. You think I’m going to...”
“Yes, Mr Murchison, I do. You want to live, more than anything else in the world. No matter what it costs, you want to live. And you know this is your last, your only chance. So yes, I think you’re going to give me everything.”
I sat down again.
“Don’t worry, Mr Murchison, you won’t be living a life of poverty. You can keep your houses, your cars, your artwork, everything, for the rest of your life. It’ll just all belong to me. Or if you prefer, you can live here, for as long as you like. Most of my patients choose that. We have almost a hundred here now. And, as I said, I guarantee success. You pay me nothing at all unless the treatment works.”
“I don’t get it,” I said.
“It’s simple. You put everything into a trust. If you’re still alive in a year, everything goes to me. If you die before then, I don’t get a cent.”
Well, of course, I signed.
That was ten months ago. My last scan showed that the tumor had stopped growing. In fact, maybe it was starting to get smaller. I still get headaches, but not often. My doctor tells me I can look forward to many more years on this earth.
Unless, of course…
The kids must have found the paperwork last weekend, when they were here for my birthday. It wouldn’t have taken Robyne long to put two and two together. One minute, Daddy’s dying and they’re about to get rich. Next minute, Daddy’s fine and they’re not getting diddly-squat. Unless, of course, Daddy dies in the next couple of weeks.
Which is where you come in, my friend.
I don’t know what they’re paying you, but I can’t match it. Like I said, I don’t have a dollar to my name.
But I’ll tell you this. How do you think Dragan’s going to react when he realizes he’s been cheated out of forty million bucks? There are cameras all over this room, and he knows exactly what you look like. His people are probably on their way right now.
So, finish your drink. Take the bottle if you want, I’m not going to drink it. And leave an old man to die in his own time.
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