Resigned to the fact that this is something I need to hear, I sit back down. “I’m listening.”
The room exhales, the other men relaxing and the tension easing in seconds.
“Our profits are substantial,” he begins. “And public. Which is good for us, but vulnerable when the wrong narrative takes hold.”
“True,” Edwin says. “On one hand, we’re claiming we can’t get hold of the product, on the other, we’re declaring seven figures.”
“Exactly. This isn’t about what happened. It’s about what people believe happened.” Julian shuffles a stack of documents, then slides them over to me. I pick up the first one—a charitable organization looking for sponsors. “A few options.”
“Options of what?” I ask, confused, still focused on losing our patient. It’s not until I read the next profile that I see where he’s going with this. Each one is a pitch for funding for a new service or project, something that could benefit someone who is suffering locally, here in London.
“So your suggestion is we smooth over tragedy with philanthropy?” I don’t look up, focused on reading each pitch. “We use smoke and mirrors to redirect attention.”
“You could say that, or it’s giving back to the community after a successful few years.” He stands. He knows I won’t make a decision today. “Think it over. I’ll come see you Monday.”
“Sure…”
Chairs scuff across the tiles, and leather soles click as the doors open, the board taking their opportunity to disperse.
When I look up, I’m alone.
Just me and the paperwork—five charities needing help, five opportunities to do good.
And here I am again, left on my own to make the decision of who matters more.
***
The kettle clicks, signaling another cup of tea is on the cards. I place my laptop onto the coffee table and uncurl my legs from the sofa. Another mug will help straighten my thoughts. I’ll find the right words for this press release then.
The spoon clinks off the rim of the mug as the teabag swims in boiling water. English breakfast, my favorite. I don’t care that it’s ten o’clock at night. My eyes flick to the second hand on my kitchen clock ? ten more seconds to the perfect brew. I’ve trusted that clock with my tea timing since I moved in here twenty years ago. It looks the same, just faded. A bit like the rest of the place.
Our business requires difficult decisions. Supplies of specific medicines are often limited, requiring a determination of which patient receives treatment.
All Opengate policies were followed. Medical advice was taken.
On this occasion, Mr. Peterson did not meet the required criteria. Our deepest condolences to the Peterson family. Loss is always hard to bear. Our thoughts are with them at this time.
I revisit what I typed in my head.
That sucks.
Like really sucks.
I need to do better.
The line between regulation and emotion can appear thin, but in reality, it’s rigid. I made the correct decision based on the evidence. I know I did. But when the press gets involved, emotion overrides truth. No one wants context. They want someone to blame.
And the illness killing the patient is rarely a satisfying target.
This isn’t the first time Opengate’s distribution has been challenged. We’ve been questioned before—when supply chains failed, when one patient was chosen over another—but never has it reached the national press. Never have I experienced the open hostility I did today. A picket line outside my office. Signs with slashes through my company name.
Opengate must explain.
All decisions must be overseen by the regulator.
Life for all.
I understand the anger behind the words. All of us want to believe that everyone will have the opportunity to survive. That if death comes knocking, there are always options waiting in the wings. But in real life, that’s not always the case.