Strong Medicine (8 page)

who always dressed impeccably and was never seen without a red rose in

his buttonhole, received Celia in his ornate office suite on the eleventh

floor-executive country-of the Felding-Roth building in Boonton. He

attended to the amenities first.

"My congratulations on your marriage, Mrs. Jordan. I hope you'll be

happy." He added with a smile, "I also trust that from now on your

husband will prescribe nothing but Felding-Roth products."

Celia thanked him and decided the remark about Andrew was merely

facetious, so let it go without pointing up her husband's independence

where drugs and medicine were concerned.

"You have become something of a legend, young lady," the president

continued. "Living proof that an outstanding woman, occasionally, can be

every bit as good as a man."

"I hope, sir." Celia said sweetly, "that someday you won't feel the need

for that 'occasionally.' I believe you'll see many more women in this

business, and some may be even better than the men."

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For a moment Camperdown seemed taken aback and frowned. Then, recovering

his geniality, he said, "I suppose stranger things have happened. We'll

see. We'll see."

They continued talking, Camperdown asking questions of Celia about her

merchandising experiences. He seemed impressed by her informed,

straightforward answers. Then, pulling a watch from a vest pocket, the

president glanced at it and announced, "I'm about to hold a meeting here,

Mrs. Jordan. It concerns a new drug we intend to market soon after

Lotromycin. Perhaps you'd care to stay. "

When she agreed that she would, the president called in a halfdozen male

staff members who had been waiting outside in a secretary's office. After

introductions they all moved to a conference area of the office suite,

seating themselves around a table with Camperdown at the head.

The newcomers included the director of research, Dr. Vincent Lord, a

r~cently recruited, youngish scientist; an elderly vice president of sales

who was shortly to retire; and four others, including Sam Hawthorne. With

the exception of Sam-the only one Celia had met previously-the others

regarded her with frank curiosity.

The new drug under consideration, Camperdown explained for Celia's benefit,

was not a product developed by Felding-Roth, but had been obtained under

license from a West German company, Chemie-Griinenthal.

"It is a sedative, one of the safest ever discovered," the president

declared, "and it produces a normal, refreshing sleep without unpleasant

morning-after grogginess." The product had no significant side effects, he

continued, and was so safe it could be given to small children. The

sedative was already on sale, and popular, in almost every major country

except the United States. Now, Felding-Roth was fortunate in having the

American rights.

The name of the drug, Mr. Camperdown added, was Thalidomide.

Despite Thalidomide's proven safety record, trials of the drug on humans

were required in the United States before its sale would be approved by the

Food and Drug Administration. "In the circumstances, with all that

first-rate foreign data," Camperdown grumbled, "it's a silly, bureaucratic

requirement, but we have to live with it."

A discussion followed about where and how the U.S. trials of Thalidomide

would be carried out. The director of research, Dr.

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Lord, favored recruitment of fifty or so physicians in private practice

who would g1ve the drug to patients, then report results which

Felding-Roth would submit to FDA. "There should be a mix of general

practitioners, internists, psychiatrists, and obstetricians," he declared.

The vice president of sales demanded, "How long will all that ngmarole

take?"

"Probably three months."

"Could you make it two? We need this product on the market."

"I think so."

Someone else, though, expressed concern about the trials being so

widespread. Wouldn't they be simpler and reporting be faster in a

concentrated environment such as a hospital?

After several minutes of discussion Camperdown interjected with a smile,

"Perhaps our young lady guest has some thoughts on the subject."

"Yes, I have," Celia said.

All heads turned toward her.

She spoke carefully, aware that her presence here was unusual, even

privileged; therefore it would be foolish to spoil the opportunity by

seeming too assured or brash.

"One thing that could be worrisome," Celia said, "is the suggestion that

obstetricians prescribe this drug. This means pregnant women would be

taking it, and it's usually advised that pregnancy is not a time for

experimenting in any way."

Dr. Lord interrupted testily. "In this case that doesn't apply.

Thalidomide has been widely used in Europe and elsewhere, and those

taking it have included pregnant women."

"Just the same," Sam Hawthorne put in quietly, "Mrs. Jordan has a point."

Celia continued, "A question which might be asked is this: Who are the

people who have the most trouble sleeping, and therefore need a sleeping

pill? Well, based on my experience in detailingvisiting hospitals and

institutions, as well as doctors-I'd say old people, especially geriatric

patients."

She had the group's attention. Several around the table nodded agreement

at the last remark. Dr. Lord, his face set stiffly, did not.

"So what I'd recommend," Celia said, "is that our testing of Thalidomide

be done in one or two old people's homes. If it's of any use, I know of

two of them--one in Lincoln, Nebraska, the other outside Plainfield in

this state. Both are well run and efficient, and

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wouid keep good records. In both places I've met the doctors in charge and

would be glad to contact them."

When Celia had finished there was an uncertain silence. Eli Camperdown

broke it. The Felding-Roth president sounded surprised.

"I don't know what the rest of you think, but what Mrs. Jordan has just

suggested sounds to me like very good sense."

Having been shown the way, others added their agreement, though Dr. Lord

remained silent. Celia immediately sensed an antagonism between herself

and the director of research which would persist into the future.

Soon after, a decision was made that Celia would telephone her

institutional acquaintances next day and, if they seemed cooperative, the

Research Department would take it from there.

As the meeting broke up, Celia left first, amid smiles and friendly

handshakes.

A week or so later, having done what was asked, Celia learned through Sam

Hawthorne that trials of Thalidomide at both of the old people's homes

would soon be under way.

At the time, it seemed the end of a minor incident.

Amid the pressures of their professional lives Andrew and Celia found

time to look at houses for sale. One, which Celia found and liked, was

at Convent Station, a residential suburb in Morris township, where homes

were spaced widely apart and lawns and trees proliferated. As she pointed

out when she called Andrew, the house was only two miles from his office

and even closer to St. Bede's Hospital. "That's important," Celia

declared, "because I don't want you to have to drive a long way,

especially when you have night calls and may be tired."

The location would mean a ten-mile commute for Celia on the days she went

to Felding-Roth at Boonton, but since most of her sales calls were in

other parts of New Jersey, the distance was not important.

But the house, which was a large, unoccupied, neglected, whiteframe

colonial, shocked Andrew when he saw it. He protested, "Celia, this

broken-down old barn isn't for us! Even if we patched it up, which looks

impossible, what would we do with five bedrooms?"

"There'd be. one for us," his wife explained patiently, "then one each

for the children, and after they're born we'll want live-in help, so

that's one more." The fifth bedroom, she added, would be for

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guests. "My mother will be coming to us occasionally, and maybe yours."

Celia also envisaged "a downstairs study-den which the two of us can

share, and be together when we bring work home."

Though he had no intention of agreeing to such a wildly impractical idea,

Andrew laughed. "You certainly look ahead."

"What neither of us will want," Celia argued, "is the interruption and

nuisance of changing homes every few years just because we need more

space and didn't plan for it." She looked around her, surveying the

cobwebbed, dirt-encrusted lower floor of the house through which they had

walked on a Sunday afternoon in January, with pale sunshine glinting

through grimy windows. "This place needs scouring, painting, organizing,

but it can be beautiful-tbe kind of home we won't want to leave unless

we have to."

"I'm leaving right now," Andrew said, "because what this place needs most

is a bulldozer." He added, with rare impatience, "You've been right about

a lot of things, but not this time."

Celia seemed undeterred. Putting her arms around Andrew, she stood on

tiptoes to kiss him. "I still think I'm right. Let's go home and talk

about it."

Later that night, reluctantly, Andrew gave in and next day Celia

negotiated the purchase at a bargain price and arranged a mortgage. The

down payment created no difficulty. Both she and Andrew had saved money

from their earnings over the preceding few years and their combined

current incomes were strong.

They moved in near the end of April, and almost at once Andrew conceded

he had been wrong about the house. "I already like it," he said on their

finst day; "I may even get to love it." The renovation had cost less than

he expected and results were impressive, even beautiful.

It was a happy time for them both, not least because Celia was,

by now, five months pregnant.

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The birth of Celia and Andrew's first child occurred-as Andrew was apt to

tell his hospital colleagues-"precisely according to Celia's schedule."

It happened in August 1958, nine months and one week after their marriage,

and the child was a girl, healthy, weighing seven and a half pounds. She

was a contented baby who cried hardly at all. They named her Lisa.

During her pregnancy Celia had been firm about birth procedures, which

caused an early clash with her obstetrician, Dr. Paul Keating, a fellow

staff member of Andrew's at St. Bede's Hospital. Keating, a fussy,

middle-aged man who inclined to pomposity, told Andrew at one point, "Your

wife is really quite impossible."

"I know what you mean," Andrew sympathized, "but it sure makes life

interesting. The funny thing is, what's impossible for some people becomes

possible for Celia."

A day or two earlier Celia had informed Dr. Keating, "I've been studying

natural childbirth and have begun the exercises which go with it." When the

obstetrician smiled indulgently she added, "I'll want to participate

actively in labor and be fully aware at the moment of birth. That means no