Free The Magic Bullet by Harry Stein Page B

Sunday
Washington Post
and headed for the small park he’d passed every morning en route to work.
    It was, he discovered, known formally as M. Allen Smith Park, and it was exactly what he needed on this lazy summer afternoon: high grass, lots of shade trees, CLEAN UP AFTER DOGS signs that seemed to be respected.
    He walked to a quiet area, kicked off his loafers, and lay down in the grass; then, through squinted eyes, gazed upwardat the sun shafting through the trees. From a ballfield a hundred yards away came the sounds of a pickup softball game: dim exhortations aimed at the pitcher or batter, the crack of ball against aluminum, an occasional cheer. Closer by, in an enclosed playground area to his left, very young children on swings and slides made noises of abandon and joy so pure as to be almost beyond his understanding.
    Logan propped himself up on an elbow to study the scene. He noted how many of the parents were fathers; and calculated—a safe bet—that most were divorced. The kids were incredibly appealing but, God, they were demanding!
Is this something he would ever do?
He’d always taken it as a given that he would. Someday. Long, long after he’d gotten past the demands of the ACF.
    Now he opened the paper and began flipping through the news section. About midway through, a headline caught his eye: DOCTORS CLAIM BREAKTHROUGH ON PROSTATE CANCER .
    “Researchers at New York’s Memorial Sloan-Kettering Cancer Center report that a combination of radiation plus ‘souped-up’ chemotherapy has achieved dramatic results in patients with advanced prostate cancer,” it began. “The trial, headed by Drs. Lawrence Boyles and Kenneth Rotner, involved thirty-eight patients deemed incurable by existing methods. ‘Obviously, we are quite excited by these results,’ said Dr. Rotner, who explained that the team is planning a series of more comprehensive trials.”
    It went on this way for another six or seven paragraphs, but Logan had seen enough. He didn’t know the doctors involved personally, but he didn’t have to: their game was clear enough. Prostate research is an extremely tough one to get funding for—no organized lobby, zero glamour—and if they didn’t set off a few bells and whistles, who would?
    The real problem was the press itself. Easily cultivated, readily flattered by the attention of prominent doctors, reporters injected themselves into medical politics without even being aware of the fact. Wouldn’t these guys ever learn? How many years of reports of “breakthroughs” and“impending victories” would there have to be before they got it through their heads that medical miracles—Fleming’s penicillin or Salk’s vaccine—are, at best, once-in-a-generation events?
    Yet the media keep the engine churning endlessly. Who could ever forget the hoopla over interferon? It wasn’t the first time the medical press had found a cure for cancer, even that year, but rarely had it been quite so aggressive in its claims. When the drug proved a bust, they moved on; but countless doctors had to deal with the fallout, a level of despair that in many cases matched that brought on by the onset of the disease itself.
    The problem, of course, is that the truth—that progress is incremental and painfully slow—won’t get reporters their airtime or column inches. So the press reports medicine the same way it reports everything else, as high drama, a pitched battle between contending forces. “The War on Cancer,” it’s always called, “The Battle Against Crippling Childhood Illnesses,”
    “The Continuing Fight Against Heart Disease.” Never mind that there’s no intent there, that those malignant cells don’t
know
they’re hurting anyone.
    Logan lay back in the grass, closed his eyes, and smiled. It was a funny thought: the press almost made him ready to feel sorry for cancer. In its perpetual search for good guys and villains, it just
badgered
this poor disease unmercifully.
    “Hey? Excuse