Three Minutes to Overturn Three Misdiagnoses

The answer appeared in the very first second.

But Lynn did not speak immediately.

He put on a show, observing the man for three seconds—watching his eye movements, pressing on the Fengchi Point area at the back of his neck, and lightly touching his temple with his fingers.

These actions were all to make the onlookers feel that he was "diagnosing," not "reading the answer."

"Your headache is not a migraine." Lynn spoke, his voice steady and clear enough for everyone present to hear.

Griffin's expression did not change.

He had expected Lynn to start by refuting the existing diagnosis—otherwise, how would he steal the spotlight?

The key was whether the new diagnosis he provided was actually correct.

"You have an abnormal network of blood vessels at the base of your skull."

Lynn continued, "In a normal person, the middle cerebral artery forms two main trunks after bifurcating at the base, but you have a patch of abnormal, tiny vascular clusters at the bifurcation. These delicate vessels cannot withstand normal blood flow pressure, which is why they cause persistent headaches..."

He paused for a moment.

"Moyamoya Disease. Early stage. I suggest getting a Digital Subtraction Angiography as soon as possible to confirm."

The scene went quiet.

The three doctors behind Griffin exchanged glances.

One of the older attending physicians turned pale—he was the one in charge of this patient, and neither the CT nor the MRI had detected anything.

Moyamoya Disease—it wasn't that he hadn't considered this diagnosis, but he had ruled it out because the CT and MRI were normal.

"How do you know it's Moyamoya Disease?" the attending physician couldn't help but ask.

"Your CT scan slices are too thick. The slice thickness for a routine CT is five millimeters, while the abnormal vascular network in early-stage Moyamoya Disease might only be one or two millimeters in diameter; it can easily be missed within a five-millimeter slice. The resolution of a Digital Subtraction Angiography is over twenty times higher than a CT; you can only see it using that." Lynn said this with a tone as natural as if he were commenting on the weather.

Griffin's smile faded by a degree.

The second patient sat down.

A Latina woman, sallow-faced and listless.

"Low-grade fever. It's been burning for over two months, consistently between 37.5 and 38 degrees Celsius. I've had my blood count checked many times, but my white blood cell count isn't high. I've taken three types of antibiotics—some cephalosporin, some roxithromycin—but nothing works."

All-Things Diagnosis popped up.

At the same time, his Super Senses captured a key signal—the surface temperature of the woman's thyroid area was about 0.8 degrees higher than the surrounding skin.

A normal person wouldn't feel this temperature difference, but Lynn's tactile sensitivity was twenty times that of an ordinary person.

"Your low-grade fever is not caused by an infection." Lynn said.

"Huh?"

"Your thyroid is inflamed. Subacute Thyroiditis. It's not the kind of inflammation caused by a bacterial infection; it's caused by an autoimmune response."

"You've been using antibiotics to treat an infection, so of course you wouldn't find anything. Check your thyroid function and get a thyroid ultrasound, and the answer will be right there."

The woman was stunned.

The face of another young doctor behind Griffin began to turn red—because one of the antibiotic prescriptions for this patient had been written by him.

Two diagnoses, in less than two minutes total.

The local residents watching were already whispering to each other.

A middle-aged man whispered to the person next to him, "Is this for real? He figured it out without even touching her?"

The third patient was wheeled over.

An old man in a wheelchair.

Seventy-four years old, thin, with a gray, sickly complexion.

Standing behind him was a man in his forties—his son.

The son's eyes were red.

"My father," he said.

"Late-stage lung cancer. Small Cell Lung Cancer. The hospital said he has three months at most. He's had both radiation and chemotherapy, but it didn't work."

His voice was a bit hoarse.

"We have... we have no hope left. We saw the news that you were doing this public diagnosis, so we wanted to try our luck."

The crowd of onlookers went quiet.

Lynn looked at the old man in the wheelchair.

All-Things Diagnosis completed its scan within a second.

Then, Lynn's brow furrowed.

He didn't speak immediately.

Ten seconds.

The whole place held its breath.

"Who told you this was Small Cell Lung Cancer?"

The son was stunned: "St. Mary's Hospital... uh, the one right across the street."

A flash of unnaturalness crossed Griffin's face.

"Your father's illness is not Small Cell Lung Cancer." Lynn squatted down to be at eye level with the old man in the wheelchair.

"I haven't seen your pathology slides, but judging by your overall physical condition, the growth rate of your tumor is far lower than the typical progression of Small Cell Lung Cancer. The doubling time for Small Cell Lung Cancer is about thirty days, but your tumor has grown less than twenty-five percent in volume in the six months since the initial diagnosis."

He stood up and looked at the doctors behind Griffin.

"This doubling rate does not correspond to Small Cell Lung Cancer; it is Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma. The malignancy is not even on the same level. Furthermore—"

He turned to the old man's son.

"Your father currently only has two metastatic sites: one in the right hilar lymph node and one in the left sixth rib."

"Both of these locations are within the range for surgery."

"If you correct the pathological diagnosis and switch to a treatment plan for Adenoid Cystic Carcinoma, the five-year survival rate is at least sixty percent."

The entire scene fell silent.

The old man's son had his mouth open, unable to speak.

After several seconds, his tears finally fell.

He wasn't crying out of sadness, but because—the three-month "death sentence" might be wrong.

His father might have many more years to live.

The old man in the wheelchair gripped his son's hand, the veins on his brown-spotted hands bulging and trembling.

The crowd of onlookers was first deathly silent.

Then, someone started to clap.

The applause went from one person to two, from two to a dozen.

It wasn't the polite kind of clapping; it was the kind of applause that people couldn't hold back after being truly shocked.

Vice Dean Griffin stood to the side.

His face turned from red to white, and then from white to green.

His lips were pressed into a thin line.

The three doctors behind him looked worse than the last.

They were the ones who had made the lung cancer diagnosis—if Lynn was right, then not only had they misdiagnosed him, but they had also subjected the old man to months of chemotherapy based on the wrong diagnosis, causing additional damage to his body.

This wasn't just a slap in the face.

This was rubbing their faces into the dirt.

The reporters' cameras faithfully recorded the entire process.

The number of live viewers for the broadcast had climbed from a few dozen at the start to over two thousand.

Griffin didn't speak.

He turned around and walked away with his people, looking dejected.

His back was as stiff as a rod as he walked away.

Lynn stood where he was, watching Griffin's back disappear around the corner of the street.

He turned, walked back into the clinic, and closed the door.

He picked up the cup of coffee that had already gone cold and took a sip.

A system notification sounded in his mind—

[Prestige points changed: +80 (Public diagnosis influence bonus). Current prestige points: 330.]

That evening, the footage of this live broadcast was clipped by a local news station.

The footage was edited into a three-minute short video titled: "Young Chinese-American Doctor in Hell's Kitchen Overturns Three Misdiagnoses in Three Minutes."

It aired during the social segment of the evening news.

It wasn't just ordinary viewers who saw this news.