Episode 35 – Vibe Medicine: Fake It Till You’re Dead

He had always wanted to become a doctor. Not for the money or prestige, but because he respected the body. Its systems, its mysteries, its resilience. He lifted weights, ran trails, skipped fast food. He believed the human body deserved care, not convenience.

In university, he started to worry. The entrance test had been rigorous, but something was off. His first anatomy class felt more like a TikTok seminar than medical education. Professors advised students to “follow their intuition” over textbooks. One instructor claimed that memorizing metabolic pathways was “colonialist medicine” and that students should instead “feel the energy of the pancreas.”

He laughed it off, until the exam came. Multiple choice, four answers each. Easy. Insultingly so. Who Wants to Be a Millionaire-style lifelines were now standard. You could “ask the public” or “eliminate one wrong answer.” He aced them all, but saved a lifeline for one:

“What do women pee from?“
A: Urethra	B: Vagina
C: Anus	D: Skin pore

He selected the lifeline. The poll showed 70% of the students picked B.

He closed his eyes.

Scrolling through social media only added to his unease. One influencer claimed vaccines “rewrote soul frequency.” Another bragged about how an artificial trachea gave them a sexier voice. Someone posted a reel promoting Gerson Therapy to cure cancer with raw juices and coffee enemas.

Then came the breaking news: a Candaravirus outbreak in Singapore. A hypermutating cousin of Lassa fever, with neurological symptoms and an aggressive transmission profile. The report was clinical, quiet. Contained. But he felt a tightness in his chest. What if it spread?

When he opened X, the first post was a meme: a photo of people in hazmat suits edited with party hats and a caption: **”We will not comply.”

He deleted the app.

Then came the pain.

It started sharp, under his ribs. He thought it was bad sushi. Then came fever. Vomiting. He recognized the signs: cholecystitis, inflamed gallbladder. He could treat it himself, maybe. Avoid the hospital. But he knew better. Delay could be fatal.

At the ER, he braced himself for neon hair and vibe crystals. But the first doctor was in his fifties, calm eyes, crisp diagnosis. The nurse had old hands and kind focus. Relief flooded him.

He was wheeled into surgery. The world blurred.

And then he woke up.

He shouldn’t be awake.

The ceiling spun above him. The anesthetic hadn’t fully taken. He couldn’t scream. Could barely breathe.

Two surgeons leaned over him. One was older, silver-haired, smiling. Teaching.

“You don’t need to know everything,” the older one said. “You just need confidence. Fake it till you make it.”

That voice. That face.

Paolo Macchiarini.

He wanted to scream.

Paolo poured whiskey into a glass.

“You see,” he said, clinking glasses with the junior surgeon, “Andrew Wakefield was ahead of his time. They’ll understand one day.”

The younger one laughed nervously. “You think we should livestream this?”

“Only if you tag Belle Gibson,” Paolo smirked.

Then Paolo looked down.

“Oh. Conscious, are we?” He adjusted the IV. “Don’t worry. I’ve done this before.”

Darkness took him.

They told her it was a rare complication. That he went peacefully. That sometimes, infections win.

But she knew him. He didn’t go down without a fight.

She found his journals. His private notes. The lifeline poll. The deleted memes. A sketch of Paolo Macchiarini’s face with a single word scrawled beneath: “Vibes.”

She looked at the hospital. The smiling PR photos. The influencers endorsing the wellness wing.

She clenched her fists.

He had wanted to save lives. They turned it into a performance.

She would make sure the curtain came down.