At family gatherings he was the ugly duckling, the one who would never submit to the Hippocratic Oath. The medical career? Very little for him. His parents were respected practitioners, a neurologist father at the University Hospital of Amiens, a mother doctor at Social Security, a nephrologist sister near Toulouse, a radiologist brother in the private sector, in Seine-Saint-Denis. An entire family dedicated to the care of others. No question of imitating them. Alone against all, Emmanuel the rebel plunged without hesitation into the world of power, that of business and that of politics. Almost a snub to his.
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Some will say that he fled his natural environment, that he was built far from the original matrix. His astute biographers noticed, during his victory, in 2017, that he tended to forget, during his interventions, his own family in order to highlight only that of his wife Brigitte. The legend he then built revolves around this in-laws of the bourgeoisie of the North, recomposed around the former French teacher. Favorite letters over test tubes? Not entirely. One element should not be overlooked in this approach: the need for discretion of the Macron tribe, these white coats who have no desire to take the light, choosing the shade of hospital corridors rather than the flashes of the paparazzi . Emmanuel Macron Super star was therefore not an unworthy son, little grateful, deliberately turning his back on his parents. But there is a mystery around this dotted relationship, without image, without apparent affect. And, as always, fate plays tricks on us and sends us back to our roots.
The pandemic and the return to the fold
Emmanuel Macron, for a year, constrained and forced, returned to the sources. He put on the white coat, transforming himself over the course of events, into an epidemiologist, an emergency physician, an anesthesiologist, a specialist in molecular biology, throwing himself body and soul into the study of messenger RNA or other therapies, likely to defeat the Covid and its multiple planetary variations. So much so that his entourage was worried about this new frenzy of the Head of State, this thirst for knowledge for a world he had shunned for years. Some do not hesitate to say that the president, after a few months of cramming, now believes himself to be the equal of scientific luminaries, or even that he does not have much to learn from them. Doctor or not doctor? Doctor Macron is in charge. If, in adolescence, this strong theme, a bit rebellious, dreamed of doing theater, of becoming Gérard Philippe, the idea of following the road traced by his family was totally foreign to him. Like a forbidden passage. Now the pandemic upsets the preestablished scenario, sends the banker at Rotschild’s house in a cloud of ether and formalin, where it all began.
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What can we expect from this unexpected return to the fold, admittedly symbolic? Not just empathy, of course. That the president put the package on the hospital world, in terms of staff, but also in number of resuscitation beds; may never again the fear of the overwhelming emergency services lead us to this interminable and calamitous confinement. That considerable funds, much larger than today, be allocated to medical research, so that our French researchers no longer have to go into exile across the Atlantic to exercise their talents. That sovereignty over the production of vital medicines for our fellow citizens is not only a promise from Gascon. In the months to come, we will know if the metamorphosis of Manu the Doc will be followed by effects. What we call, in pharmacology, side effects …
