Atossa, Queen of Persia in the 6th century, almost certainly died of breast cancer. Her symptoms were documented by the Greek historian Herodotus (and recounted in Siddhartha Mukheejee's The Emperor of all Maladies). Sullen, slattern, secluded in the palace, she resigned herself to torment and death. Her Greek slave Democedes convinced Atossa to allow him to excise her tumor. This apparently provided no small reprieve. To demonstrate her gratitude, Atossa convinced King Darius to invade Greece. The rest, as they say, is history. I'm not sure how that was fair compensation for Democedes, but it seems to have become a model for how the health insurance industry operates.
Atossa was the richest woman in the world at the time. The physicians of the day could do nothing for her. This is not just some quirk of antiquity. The wealthy still get taken in modern times, by cancer or one of our other predators. Diseases both fatal and rudely disinterested in the personal wealth we have to offer. In fact, I made a list. Not to taunt or gloat, but to reflect upon the cold indifference of Nature to both our suffering and our bank account.
I call it the Atossa Club.
There are no hard and fast rules for membership. The club skews older, but I think you would agree these are all lives that had some vitality left in them. Furthermore, I tried only to include individuals who were minding their own business when the reaper came knocking. If you smoke three packs a day and die of lung cancer, that's not so much tragedy as it is biochemistry. Still, I'm not privy to every intimate detail of the lives of the rich and famous. I may have missed self-destructive behavior in some entries. Overdose disqualifies you, but suicide does not -- if you were driven to it by the pain.
So, then, a brief roll call of dead rich people, in no particular order.
And these are just the rich people with Wikipedia entries. There are approximately ten million millionaires living in the US (LA Times, 3/14/14). Simple probability demands they are suffering their share of tragedy in anonymity. Diabetes, stroke, Chron's, Alzheimer's, MS, COPD, cystic fibrosis, epilepsy, a broad array of mental illness, and of course the Big C. Unnamed Scrooge McDucks vomiting on their useless mountain of coins while chemo makes their feathers fall out.
Herein the lesson: Your money won't save you, rich people. Neither will Yahweh or Grover Norquist or the ghost of Ronald Reagan. The combined wealth of the Atossa Club exceeds the GNP of some countries. All it could do was buy a better death. Sure, drifting off doped up in a hospice is better than writhing wide eyed in a gutter, but the end result is the same.
Would you like to know what can save you?
I can.
Not me, specifically. Rather, my people. Scientists.
Which brings us to funding.
Gore Vidal once wrote that the purpose of the Republican party is to eliminate taxes on the rich. I always thought his assessment was rather unfair. Hate on the 1% all you want, they pay almost a quarter of all federal income tax (Washington Post, 11/14/14). I can see how that sort of thing might stick in their craw. Heck, I remember looking at how much income tax I paid on my little graduate student stipend and was inclined to murder. But then I saw my friends and professors working long hours in the lab and when I was reminded where at least some of those taxes go I felt better.
I won't attempt to debate tax policy here. I only know three things: (1) the National Institutes of Health is the primary agency for the funding of medical research in the US, (2) the percentage of submitted research grants the NIH is able to fund is currently the lowest it's been in history, and (3) controlling interests in the Republican party have created the mantra that any non-military spending is a de facto evil. ("Sequestration"?? These people are so ashamed of themselves they're speaking in tongues.)
Here's what I want: I want the annual NIH budget doubled. It's currently about $30B. It should be $60B. Congress could manage that with a quarter of a percent tax increase on households earning more than $1 million.
In return, you get your life. Yours or that of someone you care about. Your spouse, perhaps. Brother, sister, parent. Partner. Mistress. Mentor.
Or your child.
Because one day, after years of everything going swimmingly, something is going to go wrong. It will start innocently enough. Fatigue. A headache. Or maybe some nausea. A lingering cough or night sweats. A lump or a spot of blood. Eventually you'll see a doctor about the damn thing. A test will come back positive, and everything you know will suddenly be a different life.
If you're lucky, my people will have found you a way back. A cure, a remedy, a treatment. But if not? That's the ballgame. Each today becomes the best today you're ever going to get. Every tomorrow better than the tomorrow after. Nothing you do or have or buy will make any difference. Beg, plead, pray, rage, threaten. It will change nothing.
The difference you could have made was 20 years ago. Twenty years ago somebody funded by an NIH research grant working in a university laboratory shouted Eureka! (or, more likely, mumbled tha hell?) and today your doctor writes you a prescription. You dodge a bullet.
That 20 years ago is today.
We make headway, science does. We accumulate more tools -- antibiotics, angioplasty, endoscopy, laproscopy, tomography -- and more understanding -- the germ theory of disease, circulation, the Krebs cycle, the genome -- but the climb is hard and slow. Discoveries do not come on demand. They often come out of the blue. The dividends don't arrive by the close of business day or this quarter or next fiscal year. That's just the way it is. You cannot wait until you need a cure to develop one.
The goalposts get moved slowly. It takes years. Or decades. Until then, get caught on the wrong side of the line and you're going to have a bad time. The enemy is ever vigilant and eternally patient. And many of our current treatments are worse than the disease. If you need a reminder of what is waiting for you, go pay a visit to a hospice or oncology unit.
It's simple, really. You can buy a bigger house or a nicer jet ski or sequester some more cash.
Or you can fund the NIH.
You can live or die.
Your choice.
Atossa was the richest woman in the world at the time. The physicians of the day could do nothing for her. This is not just some quirk of antiquity. The wealthy still get taken in modern times, by cancer or one of our other predators. Diseases both fatal and rudely disinterested in the personal wealth we have to offer. In fact, I made a list. Not to taunt or gloat, but to reflect upon the cold indifference of Nature to both our suffering and our bank account.
I call it the Atossa Club.
There are no hard and fast rules for membership. The club skews older, but I think you would agree these are all lives that had some vitality left in them. Furthermore, I tried only to include individuals who were minding their own business when the reaper came knocking. If you smoke three packs a day and die of lung cancer, that's not so much tragedy as it is biochemistry. Still, I'm not privy to every intimate detail of the lives of the rich and famous. I may have missed self-destructive behavior in some entries. Overdose disqualifies you, but suicide does not -- if you were driven to it by the pain.
So, then, a brief roll call of dead rich people, in no particular order.
Steve Jobs -- 56 (pancreatic cancer)
Glenn Gould -- 50 (stroke)
Gilda Radner -- 42 (ovarian cancer)
Roger Ebert -- 70 (oral cancer)
John Wayne -- 72 (stomach cancer)
Warren Zevon -- 56 (mesothelioma)
Steve McQueen -- 50 (mesothelioma)
Patrick Swayze -- 57 (pancreatic cancer)
Benjamin Orr -- 53 (pancreatic cancer)
Andy Gibb -- 30 (myocarditis)
Robin Wiliams -- 63 (depression)
Tony Scott -- 68 (cancer)
George Gershwin -- 38 (brain cancer)
Billy Carter -- 51 (pancreatic cancer)
Lou Gehrig -- 37 (ALS)
George Carlin -- 71 (heart disease)
Dudley Moore -- 66 (PSP)
Evel Knievel -- 69 (diabetes)
Linda McCartney -- 56 (breast cancer)
Molly Ivins -- 62 (breast cancer)
Elizabeth Edwards -- 61 (breast cancer)
Sam Walton -- 74 (multiple myeloma)
Ingrid Bergman -- 67 (breast cancer)
Charles Schultz -- 77 (colon cancer)
George Harrison -- 58 (cancer)
Frank Zappa -- 52 (prostate cancer)
Waylon Jennings -- 64 (diabetes)
Johnny Cash -- 71 (diabetes)
Glenn Gould -- 50 (stroke)
Gilda Radner -- 42 (ovarian cancer)
Roger Ebert -- 70 (oral cancer)
John Wayne -- 72 (stomach cancer)
Warren Zevon -- 56 (mesothelioma)
Steve McQueen -- 50 (mesothelioma)
Patrick Swayze -- 57 (pancreatic cancer)
Benjamin Orr -- 53 (pancreatic cancer)
Andy Gibb -- 30 (myocarditis)
Robin Wiliams -- 63 (depression)
Tony Scott -- 68 (cancer)
George Gershwin -- 38 (brain cancer)
Billy Carter -- 51 (pancreatic cancer)
Lou Gehrig -- 37 (ALS)
George Carlin -- 71 (heart disease)
Dudley Moore -- 66 (PSP)
Evel Knievel -- 69 (diabetes)
Linda McCartney -- 56 (breast cancer)
Molly Ivins -- 62 (breast cancer)
Elizabeth Edwards -- 61 (breast cancer)
Sam Walton -- 74 (multiple myeloma)
Ingrid Bergman -- 67 (breast cancer)
Charles Schultz -- 77 (colon cancer)
George Harrison -- 58 (cancer)
Frank Zappa -- 52 (prostate cancer)
Waylon Jennings -- 64 (diabetes)
Johnny Cash -- 71 (diabetes)
And these are just the rich people with Wikipedia entries. There are approximately ten million millionaires living in the US (LA Times, 3/14/14). Simple probability demands they are suffering their share of tragedy in anonymity. Diabetes, stroke, Chron's, Alzheimer's, MS, COPD, cystic fibrosis, epilepsy, a broad array of mental illness, and of course the Big C. Unnamed Scrooge McDucks vomiting on their useless mountain of coins while chemo makes their feathers fall out.
Herein the lesson: Your money won't save you, rich people. Neither will Yahweh or Grover Norquist or the ghost of Ronald Reagan. The combined wealth of the Atossa Club exceeds the GNP of some countries. All it could do was buy a better death. Sure, drifting off doped up in a hospice is better than writhing wide eyed in a gutter, but the end result is the same.
Would you like to know what can save you?
I can.
Not me, specifically. Rather, my people. Scientists.
Which brings us to funding.
Gore Vidal once wrote that the purpose of the Republican party is to eliminate taxes on the rich. I always thought his assessment was rather unfair. Hate on the 1% all you want, they pay almost a quarter of all federal income tax (Washington Post, 11/14/14). I can see how that sort of thing might stick in their craw. Heck, I remember looking at how much income tax I paid on my little graduate student stipend and was inclined to murder. But then I saw my friends and professors working long hours in the lab and when I was reminded where at least some of those taxes go I felt better.
I won't attempt to debate tax policy here. I only know three things: (1) the National Institutes of Health is the primary agency for the funding of medical research in the US, (2) the percentage of submitted research grants the NIH is able to fund is currently the lowest it's been in history, and (3) controlling interests in the Republican party have created the mantra that any non-military spending is a de facto evil. ("Sequestration"?? These people are so ashamed of themselves they're speaking in tongues.)
Here's what I want: I want the annual NIH budget doubled. It's currently about $30B. It should be $60B. Congress could manage that with a quarter of a percent tax increase on households earning more than $1 million.
In return, you get your life. Yours or that of someone you care about. Your spouse, perhaps. Brother, sister, parent. Partner. Mistress. Mentor.
Or your child.
Because one day, after years of everything going swimmingly, something is going to go wrong. It will start innocently enough. Fatigue. A headache. Or maybe some nausea. A lingering cough or night sweats. A lump or a spot of blood. Eventually you'll see a doctor about the damn thing. A test will come back positive, and everything you know will suddenly be a different life.
If you're lucky, my people will have found you a way back. A cure, a remedy, a treatment. But if not? That's the ballgame. Each today becomes the best today you're ever going to get. Every tomorrow better than the tomorrow after. Nothing you do or have or buy will make any difference. Beg, plead, pray, rage, threaten. It will change nothing.
The difference you could have made was 20 years ago. Twenty years ago somebody funded by an NIH research grant working in a university laboratory shouted Eureka! (or, more likely, mumbled tha hell?) and today your doctor writes you a prescription. You dodge a bullet.
That 20 years ago is today.
We make headway, science does. We accumulate more tools -- antibiotics, angioplasty, endoscopy, laproscopy, tomography -- and more understanding -- the germ theory of disease, circulation, the Krebs cycle, the genome -- but the climb is hard and slow. Discoveries do not come on demand. They often come out of the blue. The dividends don't arrive by the close of business day or this quarter or next fiscal year. That's just the way it is. You cannot wait until you need a cure to develop one.
The goalposts get moved slowly. It takes years. Or decades. Until then, get caught on the wrong side of the line and you're going to have a bad time. The enemy is ever vigilant and eternally patient. And many of our current treatments are worse than the disease. If you need a reminder of what is waiting for you, go pay a visit to a hospice or oncology unit.
It's simple, really. You can buy a bigger house or a nicer jet ski or sequester some more cash.
Or you can fund the NIH.
You can live or die.
Your choice.
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