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Authors: Zoltan Istvan
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be seen by a Western-trained doctor.
“Sir, we don’t have one here in
this hospital.”
“Well then find one in the city
somewhere.”
The Indian doctor glowered back.
“This is the biggest hospital in Indian Kashmir, with its best doctors. I
assure you, there are no Western-trained doctors for hundreds of miles.”
A nurse standing in the far corner
of the room interrupted the men. “Excuse me. There is one doctor I know of—an
American. She’s in my mother’s village, Kundara, near the Line of Control. She
operates on wounded soldiers and anyone else who comes to her.”
Vilimich was a decorated veteran of
the Soviet-Afghan War, and he possessed a deep respect for war-zone doctors. He
ordered the nurse: “Get this American doctor and bring her here. Go with a taxi
immediately. I’ll pay you whatever is necessary.”
“Sir, she’s four hours away by
car—and very near to the fighting. No taxi from Srinagar will go there.”
“Send her a helicopter then. I want that doctor in this hospital room in sixty minutes. I’m not a
billionaire for nothing.”
“Sixty minutes? That might be
impossible,” the nurse responded. “What if she’s in the middle of a surgery?”
“ Make it possible. My lead
engineer will help you.”
Dr. Zoe Bach arrived ninety minutes
later, transported by private helicopter. Vilimich was lucky. Zoe had been
training village nurses that day and was able to leave her medical station for
a few hours without a problem; however, she was irate with the Russian mogul
before she even met him. It was insulting, Zoe felt, to refuse the service of
capable Indian doctors—especially in their own country. It was also annoyingly
presumptuous to expect a Western doctor to ditch her surgery post at a moment’s
notice, regardless that it was at the request of one the richest men on the
planet. To make up for it, upon seeing Vilimich for the first time, Zoe coldly
told the man she required a new 1000-square-foot hospital tent in Kundara as
compensation for her medical services.
Vilimich grunted and instructed his
lead engineer to order one immediately. The engineer disappeared into the
hallway and began making calls on his cell phone.
Zoe was astonished that Vilimich
had accepted her terms so easily. The new hospital tent—instead of the
bombed-out mud hut in which she currently tended patients—would significantly
improve the healthcare of thousands of lives in and around her bullet-ridden
village. Elated, Zoe quickly proceeded to examine the Russian. She gave him a
thorough physical and took numerous blood, stool, and biopsy samples. Ninety
minutes later, after some of the results were in from the laboratory, she
performed a colonoscopy with the hospital’s substandard equipment.
After midnight, when Vilimich had
recovered from the minor sedation of the procedure, Zoe entered his hospital
room and approached his bedside. She looked tired and gloomy.
“I have some bad news for you, Mr. Vilimich.
It appears you have advanced colon cancer. The test results and the visuals I
recorded inside your intestines, while not conclusive, make the diagnosis
highly likely. It’s impossible with the equipment here to determine if the
cancer is metastatic yet, though I’m guessing your lymph nodes are already
affected. Either way, your situation is very serious, and you must go to a
modern hospital immediately—meaning you must leave tonight on your plane. You
need to see a specialist and prepare to undergo surgery, and then
chemotherapy.”
The Russian growled, fuming that he
would have to abandon his Kashmir project without even having started it.
At home in Russia, Zoe’s prognosis
was spot on. Vilimich underwent surgery and began chemotherapy treatments at the
best cancer clinic in Moscow. He was told that even though his cancer was
advanced, he had reasonable odds of surviving and being healthy again.
A week later, a new hospital tent
arrived at Kundara—and a stunning bouquet of flowers
“Sir, we don’t have one here in
this hospital.”
“Well then find one in the city
somewhere.”
The Indian doctor glowered back.
“This is the biggest hospital in Indian Kashmir, with its best doctors. I
assure you, there are no Western-trained doctors for hundreds of miles.”
A nurse standing in the far corner
of the room interrupted the men. “Excuse me. There is one doctor I know of—an
American. She’s in my mother’s village, Kundara, near the Line of Control. She
operates on wounded soldiers and anyone else who comes to her.”
Vilimich was a decorated veteran of
the Soviet-Afghan War, and he possessed a deep respect for war-zone doctors. He
ordered the nurse: “Get this American doctor and bring her here. Go with a taxi
immediately. I’ll pay you whatever is necessary.”
“Sir, she’s four hours away by
car—and very near to the fighting. No taxi from Srinagar will go there.”
“Send her a helicopter then. I want that doctor in this hospital room in sixty minutes. I’m not a
billionaire for nothing.”
“Sixty minutes? That might be
impossible,” the nurse responded. “What if she’s in the middle of a surgery?”
“ Make it possible. My lead
engineer will help you.”
Dr. Zoe Bach arrived ninety minutes
later, transported by private helicopter. Vilimich was lucky. Zoe had been
training village nurses that day and was able to leave her medical station for
a few hours without a problem; however, she was irate with the Russian mogul
before she even met him. It was insulting, Zoe felt, to refuse the service of
capable Indian doctors—especially in their own country. It was also annoyingly
presumptuous to expect a Western doctor to ditch her surgery post at a moment’s
notice, regardless that it was at the request of one the richest men on the
planet. To make up for it, upon seeing Vilimich for the first time, Zoe coldly
told the man she required a new 1000-square-foot hospital tent in Kundara as
compensation for her medical services.
Vilimich grunted and instructed his
lead engineer to order one immediately. The engineer disappeared into the
hallway and began making calls on his cell phone.
Zoe was astonished that Vilimich
had accepted her terms so easily. The new hospital tent—instead of the
bombed-out mud hut in which she currently tended patients—would significantly
improve the healthcare of thousands of lives in and around her bullet-ridden
village. Elated, Zoe quickly proceeded to examine the Russian. She gave him a
thorough physical and took numerous blood, stool, and biopsy samples. Ninety
minutes later, after some of the results were in from the laboratory, she
performed a colonoscopy with the hospital’s substandard equipment.
After midnight, when Vilimich had
recovered from the minor sedation of the procedure, Zoe entered his hospital
room and approached his bedside. She looked tired and gloomy.
“I have some bad news for you, Mr. Vilimich.
It appears you have advanced colon cancer. The test results and the visuals I
recorded inside your intestines, while not conclusive, make the diagnosis
highly likely. It’s impossible with the equipment here to determine if the
cancer is metastatic yet, though I’m guessing your lymph nodes are already
affected. Either way, your situation is very serious, and you must go to a
modern hospital immediately—meaning you must leave tonight on your plane. You
need to see a specialist and prepare to undergo surgery, and then
chemotherapy.”
The Russian growled, fuming that he
would have to abandon his Kashmir project without even having started it.
At home in Russia, Zoe’s prognosis
was spot on. Vilimich underwent surgery and began chemotherapy treatments at the
best cancer clinic in Moscow. He was told that even though his cancer was
advanced, he had reasonable odds of surviving and being healthy again.
A week later, a new hospital tent
arrived at Kundara—and a stunning bouquet of flowers
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