The Myth of Sloan O'Donnell

“Era majestäter, ers kungliga högheter, uppskattade nobelpristagare, mina damer, och herrar.” Dr. Annalise Bjorkland spoke from behind a formidable granite podium emblazoned with a golden medallion featuring the stately profile of a long dead philanthropist. Her gaze swept over the royal family, the dignitaries on stage, and the elegant crowd packed into the Stockholm Concert Hall.

     Sloane didn’t understand a word.

Thankfully, an English voice burst through the ear bud in her right ear. Its garish plastic did not match her mom’s graceful teardrop earrings borrowed for the occasion, but it did translate. “Your majesties, your royal highnesses, esteemed Nobel laureates, ladies, and gentleman.”

Sloane shifted restlessly in her red velvet armchair. Scanning the sea of tuxedos and evening dresses, she found her mother’s tea-green gown with long, lacey sleeves. Beside her, Sloane’s father looked slightly awkward wearing what he affectionately called his “penguin suit”. Her mom’s crystalline green eyes, which Sloane inherited, had leaked tears since the opening peals of the herald trumpets. Sloane had to admit, the trumpets were spinetingling.

Dr. Bjorkland, and the translator, continued, “It is my honor to present the Nobel Prize in Medicine to Dr. Sloane O’Donnell for her discovery of a comprehensive cure for cancer.” Annalise glanced at Sloane and beamed.

Sloane’s eyes flitted back to the crinkly smile of the woman she’d almost lost. This is all for you, Mom, she thought. For her, and for millions of others. A chill seized her for a moment, but she shook it off. It was her turn.

“Sweetheart, will you come with me?” Sloane’s dad’s voice hardly rose above the whooshing and beeping machines surrounding her mom’s hospital bed.

Sloane lay beside her mother, watching the meager rise and fall of her chest. She kept her hand on her mom’s skeletal arm a few seconds longer, then slid off the scratchy white sheets and followed her dad into the hall. He pulled the door shut and crouched down to his 8-year-old’s level.

“Sloane,” he started, then took a deep breath. As he exhaled, he ran his hand through disheveled hair that Sloane suddenly noticed was graying at the temple. “This is so hard.” He tenderly squeezed her tiny shoulders and locked his eyes with hers. “Sweetie, the doctors told me that it’s time. It’s time to say goodbye.”

Slone violently shook her head. “No!”

“Honey, I’m so sorry. We knew this day could come…”

“No, no, NO!” Sloane shrugged off her dad’s grip and took off. Tears blinded her as she tried to outrun her dreadful reality through the echoing corridor. Around the corner, Sloane slid on the icy floor into the kid-sized cubby underneath the nurse’s station. She’d found this refuge weeks ago when her mother was admitted to the hospital after vowing to fight to the end.

“Please, please, please, please, please,” Sloane whispered, hugging her knees and rocking on her lower spine. “God? Are you up there? Is anyone there?” She looked up but only saw a purple wad of gum. “Can you hear me? Please, I will do anything if you save Mommy. ANYTHING!”

A chill slowly crept into her body and settled in her bones.

“God?” she asked.

I wasn’t God.

---

“Sloane!” Her dad skidded to a stop in front of the station, jarring her from a waking dream. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Come, come!” His arms gesticulated wildly for her to follow him. He turned to sprint back the way he’d come, calling over his shoulder, “HURRY!”

Sloane found it impossible to “hurry” to what would most likely be the worst moment of her lifetime. She dragged her white sneakers covered with hand-drawn pink ribbons until she could peer around the doorframe, bracing for her life to collapse into ruin.

It remained standing. Her mom was awake and sitting up in bed, cheeks flushed and smiling.

A gold coin gripped in Sloane’s fist blazed, and a voice reminded her, “Now, it’s your turn.”

Sloane shivered and pulled her shawl closer around her shoulders. The long Scandinavian winter had found a way into the crowded hall.

Dr. Bjorkland continued speaking. “Over ten million people worldwide succumb to cancer every year; its annual worldwide medical cost reaches well over $175 billion dollars, but the human cost is immeasurable.” Sloane politely looked up as her presenter said, “Dr. O’Donnell knows the human cost well. She nearly lost her mother to the disease at age eight. This formative experience planted the seeds of her discovery twenty-two years later.”

More than eight thousand days had passed since her mom’s “miracle”, but Sloane could still smell the grape chewing gum, feel the cold tile under her hands, and see the hallway’s geometric wallpaper containing shield knots, a Celtic symbol supposed to ward off negative energy. The wards had, of course, failed her.

     Dr. Bjorkland looked up from the teleprompter and took a casual tone. “By now I know you’ve all done the math. This year, we have the youngest Nobel Laureate for Medicine in the history of the prize.” The audience chuckled and clapped.

    “Shhhhh…it’s on!” someone hushed.

A news anchor turned to the screen and said, “Tonight’s RTÉ News “Humans of Ireland” feature is about a 14-year-old Dubliner who was awarded the Freedom of the City of Dublin, making her the youngest recipient ever.”

     The screen cut to a pre-recorded video. A very young Sloane sat in a chair in front of a crowd of kids, reading a book. A female voiceover began. “Sloane O’Donnell has accomplished a lot in her young life. In addition to being set to graduate from high school in a month as the valedictorian, she has been honored for the formation of her non-profit “Kid to Kid”, a literacy and mentorship program run by kids, for kids.”

     “I wanted to do something for, like, kids who have not been fortunate to have the many privileges that I have,” Sloane said to the interviewer.

     Sitting on the shabby leather couch of her living room, Sloane grimaced. Did she just say “like” on national television?

     The camera panned a large room filled with colorful pillows, beanbags, stuffed animals, and shelf after shelf of books. Children of all ages were lounging on the ground reading to each other. “Started two years ago, “Kid to Kid” now serves thousands of children of all ages. Housed in the central Dublin headquarters are over 15,000 donated books.”

     Another clip of Sloane’s interview appeared. “We couldn’t have done it without the generosity of…well, all of Ireland,” she said.

The story cut to a video of Sloane reclining on a purple corduroy beanbag and reading an old, battered tome called “Emerald Isle Mythology” to two youngsters. She read, “To steal the magic of Ireland, Carmun, an evil sorceress, and her three sons, named Darkness, Evil, and Violence, caused famine, pestilence, destruction, and death. When one of Carmun’s spells snuffed out the sun, the Tuatha Dé Dannan, Ireland’s supernatural gods, finally intervened. They defeated the evil with magic of their own.”

Sloane had second guessed her spontaneous choice to read that book on camera all day. Her mother used to read that book to her before she got sick. It used to be one of Sloane’s favorites…before.

She squirmed, tucked her legs underneath herself, and hugged one of the couch’s ancient throw pillows. Something always bothered her about that particular myth. Sloane never understood why the Tuatha gave Carmun and her sons a choice at the end instead of just killing them. The sons chose to be forever trapped in a deep ocean abyss, and Carmun chose to be held hostage for the rest of her days. Why didn’t they just eliminate them?

     The final video clip showed Sloane and another girl smiling underneath a plaque with a round golden symbol in the center. “As Sloane heads off to the RCSI University of Medicine and Health Sciences here in Dublin this fall, her best friend, Aileen Murphy, also fourteen, will take over the non-profit. Until then, Sloane has mounted what the Lord Mayor gave her on the wall, saying, ‘It belongs to everyone.’” The camera zoomed in on the shiny token of commemoration. “This is Dedra Quinn, RTÉ News.”

     Whoops and cheers erupted from the O’Donnell’s house. Crimson-faced, Sloan reached across Aileen to grab the T.V. remote and turn the blasted thing off.

Just before she pressed the power button, the news anchor said, “And finally tonight, the title dispute for the Duke of Leinster is over. Garret FitzGerald has been named…”

Sloane’s thumb hung suspended over the button. She instantly recognized that face staring at her from the screen. Her other hand went to the burning gold coin in the pocket of her torn jeans. Suddenly, the reality of her future came into sharp focus. And it scared her.

Sloane slid her hand down the skirt of her emerald green, halter-neck gown that had a silver metallic overlay of flowers on the bodice. She felt the thin bulge of the coin located in a small pocket of her spandex knickers.

“Since the genotype of every cancer is different, a cure was not likely unless each treatment was personalized to each patient, which is no easy or inexpensive task,” said Dr. Bjorkland. “The exhausting and agonizing treatments like chemotherapy and radiation were all we had for decades. Sometimes they worked, and sometimes they didn’t.”

The coin’s sporadic searing heat was no longer excruciating to Sloane. After over two decades, her pain receptors no longer registered the pain.

Dr. Bjorkland said, “In the wake of the Covid-19 Pandemic and the success of mRNA vaccines, Dr. O’Donnell, then a junior faculty member at the Basel Institute for Immunology in Switzerland, was inspired to investigate how these novel types of vaccines might change the outcomes for cancer.”

Sloane clasped her hands on her lap. Even though it didn’t hurt, the hot medal always made the dark hollow in her grow deeper.

“Her first research grant was the most money awarded to someone under 25. She pursued her research with all the tenacity and discipline that had earlier propelled her to a different sort of world stage.”

She wanted to disappear into that hollow. It was nearly time to pay her debt.

The eerie feeling of observing herself from out of her own body struck Sloane at the most unfortunate time. She saw herself standing on a tall platform in her Taekwondo dobok; the thick black belt was embroidered with her name and school in golden thread. She watched an official drape the gold medal engraved with five rings around her neck. Then she heard the opening notes of “Ireland’s Call” as if water was in her ears and saw her mouth moving without sound. The Republic of Ireland’s flag slowly rose to the rafters.

   At the anthem’s lyric about people living in song and story, Sloane suddenly slammed back her body. Fully inhabiting herself again, she felt the stories and myths of Ireland flowing in her veins.

     Sloane searched the crowd and found her mom and dad who were decked out in green, white, and orange. The Irish flags painted on her mom and Aileen’s cheeks had rivulets trickling through them. Her smile up to them only made it up to her cheeks; her eyes had something else to do.

Her coach told her that no Irish dignitaries would attend these Games due to international tensions, but she still had to search for his face, branded into her brain.

     By now, Sloane knew everything about the Duke, like how he grew up in Cork, graduated from Trinity College, loved polo and travel, gave money to the Cancer Research Foundation, wore Abercrombie, drank coffee black, and had a scar on his temple from falling off the horse. Just before the Olympics, she had even finished researching his complete genealogy.

Here she was at her life’s greatest achievement, and all she could think about was him.

     And the Duke wasn’t even there.

     Sloane glanced up from her now clenched hands. Sitting in the front row, a man in a well-tailored tuxedo with a jagged scar that started over his left eyebrow and finished near his ear recrossed his long legs.

The Duke was here, nodding thoughtfully to Dr. Bjorkland’s speech.

     “Surmounting technical obstacles that would’ve stopped other scientists, Dr. O’Donnell discovered and developed the revolutionary, and radically inexpensive, techniques to genetically sequence each patient’s specific cancer, insert the necessary sequences into the mRNA vectors, and then manufacture enough for a single vaccine. When patients are inoculated with their personalized formula, the vaccine recruits their bodies’ own disease-fighting cells to become cancer-killers.”

Over the years, Sloane determined that Duke Garrett was a genuinely good person. In interviews she watched of him, he seemed humble, and ironically, he too was passionate about cancer research. In a documentary about Ireland’s peerage, he had even said, “I am grateful to be able to help others who are not as fortunate to have the privileges I have had.” She’d thought, Wow, he’s a lot like me.

Dr. Bjorkland continued, “In the first clinical trials, 100% of patients who received the vaccine were cured within 3 months. Of course, they quickly administered the vaccine to those who’d had only been injected with placebo. They all survived.”

Sloane reached down with the pretense of scratching her leg, but really, she checked to make sure the syringe strapped to the side of her calf was still there.

“Many of the first recipients of this groundbreaking vaccine are here tonight. Will you please stand?” Dr. Bjorkland asked. Two handfuls of people scattered throughout the auditorium stood to thunderous applause. Lord Garrett turned in his seat to find them. Sloane silently pleaded to the back of his head, Why do you have to be the descendent of the Tuatha Dé Dannan?

As the noise died down, Dr. Bjorkland said to those standing, “It seems that you have all claimed a bit of Dr. O’Donnell’s luck of the Irish.’”

No, Sloan thought. I am cursed.

     In the intense florescent brilliance of Sloane’s lab, the golden elixir sitting on the lab bench seemed to glow. She leaned over to inspect it then shook her head and regarded the cages of lab mice behind her. Two weeks ago, those mice had malignant tumors the size of golf balls. Each tumor grew from human cancer cells that were injected sub-dermally and monitored daily by her post-docs. The specially tailored vaccines were administered ten days ago. When Sloane heard jubilant cries in her lab that day, she had to investigate.

The mice were in complete remission.

     Sloan went back to her office to re-examine the health reports from the veterinarian. She had to be sure. Created in the dead of night while everyone else in Switzerland slept, Sloan had worked furtively to perfect and conceal another DNA sequence only she knew about. The sequence whe’d had in her head since the 3^rd grade.

     The mice were completely normal. Her indetectable stretch of nucleic acids had no physiological effect on them. But of course, they didn’t have the correct genealogy.

     Sloane picked up the test tube filled with the miracle cocktail. This is it, she thought. In my hands I am holding the salvation of millions…and the possible assassination of one.

She fiddled with the coin in her pocket that was worn completely smooth. She’d always assumed what she was coerced to create would kill, but she had no way to test that hypothesis. Was being a god like having cancer?

“Dr. O’Donnell, on behalf of the Royal Swedish Academy of Science and the Nobel Committee, I give you our warmest congratulations. Please stand and receive the 2027 Nobel Prize in Medicine from Queen Victoria of Sweden.”

The place went wild as Sloane and the Queen stood and started walking across the stage toward each other.

Every direction her life had taken, every decision, every success, every golden achievement led Sloane to this moment, to fulfill a pact she’d made at age eight to save her mom. People always claimed that Sloane led a charmed life, but she knew better. If it weren’t for the imprisoned sorceress’ enchantment, would she have accomplished anything at all?

I can’t do this, she thought. Shaking, Sloane tried to resist a pull to the right and keep walking straight to the Queen who held her next golden prize in a blue velvet box. Will I spend the rest of my life in prison for murder when I’m finally free of the pact? Or will the vaccine just cure him of his godliness?

The spell took over. As if she tripped on her gown, Sloane stumbled and fell toward the front row of seats.

The syringe clattered to the floor.

In a panic, she grabbed and concealed the syringe before anyone saw it. It ended up in in her fist with he needle pointed down.

I can’t do it, she shrieked wordlessly. Then, a calm voice inside her head said, But you can’t NOT do it. Sloane knew, thousands, even millions of lives were at stake, even her mom’s.

Sloane tried to right herself, but a force stronger than gravity yanked her back on course to vaccinate the one person who would never get cancer.

The Duke Garrett FitzGerald of Leinster, the last living Tuatha, whose very life’s essence held the impenetrable abyss of exile intact, leapt from his chair to try to catch her.

Time slowed, and Sloane had time to think, What a gentleman.

The needle in her fist stabbed into his thigh, and the golden liquid flowed into him to commence his genetic undoing.

Garrett cried out and grabbed his leg. Sloan’s forward momentum caused her head to slam into the thin ivy-patterned carpet that covered hard cement underneath.

Her consciousness floated away, buoyed by an incredible awareness of freedom. But she had one last bitter thought. Carmun better have one hell of a family reunion.