novelnext Chapter 3 Limitations of Modern Medicine
Chapter 3 Limitations of Modern Medicine
The strangest morning of Leo Wallace's life began with the official website of the university's mental health center.
With trembling hands, he filled out an online assessment questionnaire about "auditory hallucinations, anxiety, and despair" on a webpage, while being forced to listen to the real-time critiques of these carefully crafted psychological questions from the "President" in his head.
A question popped up on the webpage: "Have you felt hopeless about the future in the past two weeks?"
"You should check 'almost every day,'" the voice in your head commented. "That's a very good question. Look at the incompetent bunch sitting in this Congress, and look at those unscrupulous speculators on Wall Street. Anyone with a brain would feel hopeless about the future. This isn't a personal psychological problem; it's an accurate diagnosis of the state of the nation."
The next question: "Have you heard anything that others couldn't hear in the past two weeks?"
"Without a doubt, fill in 'Yes'." The voice carried a hint of smugness. "And I suggest you add a note in the remarks column: The owner of the voice is very charismatic and possesses outstanding leadership skills."
Leo gritted his teeth, ignored the advice, quickly filled out the questionnaire, and then booked the earliest emergency consultation slot.
The room smelled cheap.
Leo was greeted by Dr. Miller, a woman in her fifties with impeccably styled blonde hair and a professionally trained smile.
Everything in her office followed certain standardized security guidelines: the walls were a soft beige, several abstract paintings that were hard to decipher hung on the walls, and a potted artificial plant with a tenacious vitality sat in the corner.
"Please have a seat, Leo."
Dr. Miller's voice was as soft and non-aggressive as the color scheme of her office.
Leo sat down, his hands resting nervously on his knees.
He knew he had to say something, but he didn't dare tell the whole truth.
He couldn't say, "Doctor, I have a dead president living in my head, Franklin Delano Roosevelt, and he talks a lot."
He will be sent directly to the intensive care unit of a mental hospital.
Therefore, he chose a safer version.
He vaguely described the "inescapable voice" he heard, saying it sounded like a real person, but he couldn't find its source.
He attributed it all to recent stress—student loans, studies, unemployment—all real enough to crush anyone.
Dr. Miller listened patiently, nodding occasionally, and scribbling down shorthand symbols that Leo couldn't understand in her notebook.
On her face, Leo saw a professional expression that said, "Everything is under control."
After Leo finished speaking, Dr. Miller gave him a smile that showed understanding and empathy.
"Thank you for sharing this with me, Leo," she said. "Based on your description and the questionnaire you just filled out, I think your situation is very typical. You are experiencing acute anxiety disorder, accompanied by mild stress-induced auditory inversion."
Simply put, your brain is overloaded.
"The recent series of setbacks you've experienced have put your mind in a state of stress. This is very common, really, you're not alone."
Her words are scientific, authoritative, and full of humanistic concern.
Then, Dr. Miller picked up her pen and began to offer him a scientific solution.
She wrote down the name of a drug on a prescription slip—alprazolam, a potent anti-anxiety medication.
"I'll prescribe some medication to help you control the physical symptoms of anxiety first." She handed the prescription to Leo. "At the same time, I strongly recommend that you have cognitive behavioral therapy once a week. Together, we'll find the negative cycles in your thought patterns and break them."
Finally, she pulled a hard card from a pretty little box on the table and handed it to Leo.
The card has an artistic inscription: "Take a deep breath and feel the present moment."
Throughout the consultation, the voice that belonged to Roosevelt in Leo's mind remained surprisingly silent.
The voice finally rang out again when Leo walked out of the clinic with the prescription and the small card, returning to the sunlight.
"Pills and empty talk." There was a hint of disappointment in the voice. "Is this what fireside chats are like in the 21st century? My child, I must tell you, when I was facing the Great Depression, if I had given every unemployed American citizen a tranquilizer and a card with a deep breath, I'm afraid what's flying over the U.S. Capitol now wouldn't be the Stars and Stripes, but the German swastika."
These words struck a nerve with Leo, who was already quite sensitive.
He stopped and glanced at the prescription in his hand.
Alprazolam.
This is a chemical that makes him dull, numb, and temporarily forget the pain.
He crumpled the prescription into a ball and threw it into the roadside trash can without even looking at it.
Science couldn't help him.
Modern medicine, in its most authoritative way, defined him as a patient who needed to be "repaired," which made him feel more isolated and helpless than ever before.
He stood on the streets of Pittsburgh, feeling a profound sense of bewilderment.
Just then, the voice in my head rang out again.
This time, there was no more teasing or mockery.
His tone became serious and heavy.
"Now, are you willing to hear my proof?"
The voice paused, as if giving him time to process what it said.
"Go to your university library, son. History never lies."
A "nothing to lose" mentality ultimately led Leo Wallace to the university library.
His student ID card had one week left before he could pay off his student loans.
A week later, the plastic sheet will expire, and he will be completely kicked out of the academic system, never to access those expensive databases and internal materials again.
He decided to make this last, and most absurd, struggle before he was completely expelled.
He chose a seat in the corner and logged into the computer.
"Very good." The voice in my mind affirmed. "Now, open the university's database homepage. You should have an interface to access the National Security Archive's declassified document database, which is only accessible to graduate students in your history department."
Leo's fingers moved across the keyboard, skillfully entering the database with its simple interface but astonishing content.
This place contains millions of US government documents that have been declassified over time.
"Are you ready, child?"
The voice spoke in a tone like that of an experienced navigator about to set a course in uncharted waters.
"...Ready." Leo practically mouthed the word.
"Search keywords: Trident Conference." The command came clearly and precisely.
"Filter by file type: Attachment Memo".
Date range: May 22 to 25, 1943.
"Authorization Level: 'TS-SCI'. Filtered from those that have just been decrypted within the past six months."
Leo's heart began to race.
These instructions are so precise that only a professional researcher could grasp them.
He followed the instructions and set the filtering criteria one by one.
The search results popped up instantly, showing only a handful of files, all of which were blurry scans and illegible PDFs.
"Open the third document on the list," Roosevelt instructed. "Turn to the third page and look at the blank space in the bottom right corner. Look carefully. During a break in the meeting that day, I was in a good mood, listening to Churchill complain about the awful weather in Washington. I casually used his pen to write a Latin phrase in that blank space—Acta non verba, meaning actions speak louder than words—and drew a haphazard little sailboat next to it."
Leo felt his throat go dry.
He moved the mouse with trembling hands, opened the third document, jumped to the third page, and then zoomed in on the seemingly meaningless blank area in the lower right corner to its maximum.
Amidst the coarse pixels of the scanned document, he saw a line of elegant and powerful handwritten cursive: Acta non verba.
Next to that line of text was a childishly ridiculous doodle of a small sailboat drawn with a few simple lines.
These details, these unheard-of, private details, completely buried by the dust of history, have never been mentioned in any publicly published book or academic paper.
Leo's reason was still putting up a last-ditch effort.
Perhaps a historian's new discovery was just published, and he just happened to miss it?
"Very good." The voice in his head interrupted his self-comfort. "Your expression tells me you saw it. Now, this is your first lesson: the devil is in the details. The second lesson is yet to come."
The voice paused, as if recalling something.
"Return to the file list. Find a document titled: Supplementary Notes on the Logistical Requirements of 'Operation Fruit Platter'."
Leo took a deep breath, went back to the search results page, and found the document with a title that sounded unremarkable, even somewhat comical.
"Operation Fruit Platter," a hint of amusement in his voice, "was a private joke between Winston and me. You know, he can't live without his Scotch whisky, but my bureaucrats are always creating logistical obstacles. So the sole purpose of this operation was to bypass those official channels and smuggle some of his favorite vintage spirits to him."
Leo opened the file.
"Now, look at the supply allocation list in the document's attachment," Roosevelt's voice guided him. "You'll see a line crossed out with a pen that says 'two cases of medical alcohol,' and next to that crossed-out line, there's a handwritten note."
Leo zoomed in on the list and found the line where the words had been crossed out.
Beside it was a line of unrestrained and bold annotation.
He could recognize the words on it.
"For medicinal purposes, of course. - FDR"
That signature.
That powerful and authoritative three-letter signature that has appeared in countless bills, documents, and historical photographs and is recognized worldwide.
FDR
Leo's blood seemed to freeze completely at that moment.
His gaze was fixed on the digitized information labels on the document.
Upload date: Yesterday.
The possibility of forgery is zero.
No historian would notice such trivial information, which is practically a historical scrap, let alone write it into a book the day before he saw it.
The truth, in an undeniable and devastating way, completely shattered all his defenses.
Leo slumped back in his chair, which groaned in pain.
His mind went blank.
The absurdity, fear, self-doubt, and struggle that had lasted for so long finally settled the moment I saw that signature.
Facing the empty archives, he spoke in a voice tinged with awe and utter terror, for the first time genuinely acknowledging this insane reality:
"...My God, it really is you, Mr. President."
The voice in his mind fell silent for a moment.
When it played again, that old-fashioned gentlemanly elegance and banter had vanished without a trace.
Instead, a kind of authority belonging to the leader was established.
The sound seemed to transcend nearly a century of history, personally striking the war drums in his ears:
"Yes, child. It's me."
"That's enough of the pleasantries."
"Our country is sick, critically ill."
"And you, holding a diagnosis in your hand, can't find a prescription at all."
"From today onwards, I am your prescription."
"Our work shall now officially begin."