Forty out of ten thousand.
If I hadn’t called the FDA, pharma reps would have carried free samples into doctors’ offices, urging them to pass the pills out to patients. Hospital aides would have placed the tablets into little paper cups and dispensed them. Husbands, wives, fathers, mothers, and even a few teenagers would have shaken the pills out of prescription bottles, washing them down with a swig of water or juice.
I thought back to Paul in his final days, the sun seeping through the blinds after another sleepless night for both of us, as I held a glass of water to his lips so he could take his pills, the ones that made his pain tolerable. I trusted that his drugs would do exactly what they promised.
Yet, a reputable company—one that made products ranging from baby shampoo to a sunscreen I’d used in the past—was knowingly manufacturing medicine that would make 4 percent of its users suffer terribly. And a subset of those people would bleed to death.
I couldn’t have that blood on my hands.
The following Wednesday at 7:00 P.M. sharp, my doorbell rang. It was Finley, arriving for our third session.
She claimed her usual seat, but instead of curling up with her feet tucked beneath her, she sat up straight. Her eyes were bright and clear.
At first I felt really betrayed by you, but I’ve actually been sleeping well for the first time in ages, she said. I feel different, somehow, since you took the decision out of my hands. Like this weight that was crushing me is gone. I’ve decided to start looking for a new job; I don’t want to work for that company.
In all the months—or years, in many cases—that I’d spent treating other clients, I’d never witnessed such a radical transformation.
I thought about all the times I’d forced myself to quash my instincts, often waiting in vain for my clients to find the path that was so clearly visible to me. Ever since I’d violated the code of my profession to uphold my personal morals, I’d been sleeping better, too.
I looked at Finley and made a snap decision. “Ready to change the rest of your life?”
We met seven more times. By the end of the last session, our tenth, Finley had decided to apply for a new job at a think tank, severed ties with the “friend” who kept flirting with her boyfriend, had the difficult conversation with her father that she’d been avoiding for years, and stopped biting her nails.
I had a new career path, and it was all based on what I’d learned from Finley, my first ten-session patient.
I’d also gained a powerful new enemy.
The pharmaceutical company must have cultivated a mole inside the FDA, because after my supposedly anonymous phone call, Acelia began sending me messages, loud and clear: they knew exactly who I was, and where I lived.
None of this made it into the Post article, which ran several months after I terminated the lease on my Dupont Circle space and set up shop in my home office. The piece focused on my academic credentials, my controversial method, the loss of my license and my subsequent successes, and anecdotes from clients who agreed to speak on the record.
The Post reporter who sat in my living room didn’t ask about the security bars on my windows or the alarm code pad by my front door. He was so focused on his article that he didn’t express curiosity when I asked to see his identification before allowing him into my home.
He missed the bigger story.
The first signal that Acelia was after me came one night when I returned home following an immersive session at a client’s party and thought I detected the faint leathery scent of a man’s cologne in the air. My doors and windows were still locked, and otherwise everything was exactly as I’d left it: a pair of running shoes splayed out next to my closet, the still-damp towel from my shower hanging from the hook on the back of my bathroom door, the book I’d been reading on my nightstand next to my water glass.
When I got ready for bed, I discovered one thing was amiss, however. A bottle of medicine stood on my dresser, partially hidden by a lamp.
I hadn’t left it there. The drug was Synthroid, which I take daily to support my thyroid function. I always keep the bottle inside the medicine cabinet next to my moisturizer, since I swallow the pills first thing in the morning right after I wake up and brush my teeth. Synthroid is a prescription drug, the only one I possess. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why the pharmaceutical company whose plans to release a new medicine that could be torpedoed by my knowledge had chosen to highlight the Synthroid’s presence.
Acelia was letting me know they knew who I was and what I’d done. And that they could get inside my home without leaving a trace.