Be an Ox That Plows Deeply and Tills Carefully — Written for the Spring Festival of the Ox Year
Mr. Wang Xiaobo said that when people reach middle age, the theme of life is work. This is indeed true: the forties and fifties are the golden age of life, full of energy, with rich work experience and social experience; if not cherished, the years will inevitably be wasted.
We middle-aged people are regarded as the mainstay of society, and both family and society have high expectations of us. In childhood, we sheltered under our parents' care, carefree; in youth, we had nothing, and even independent self-support was difficult—hoping to contribute to family and society, we were mostly unable to do so for want of strength; in old age, we are cared for by our children and no longer able to contribute; only in this middle period can we mobilize considerable social resources to accomplish something.
I have reached middle age, and over these years many people have been willing to help me, for which I am especially grateful. I thank my teachers and elders, who not only passed on skills and knowledge to me but also taught me the principles of being a person; I thank my patients and their families, who trusted me and gave me the opportunity for clinical practice and to verify the medical knowledge I had learned; I also thank my readers, many of whom have given me warmth and care, enabling me to stand back up when I suffered setbacks.
Not long ago, the mother of a child with neuroblastoma told me that she especially hoped I would keep walking the road I am on now, continuously studying and advancing, and not abandon her child or other children with neuroblastoma like hers. She told me that many parents of neuroblastoma children, like her, have great expectations of me.
Among the families of neuroblastoma patients across the country, quite a few know my name; I hear that some of this community's exchange platforms rank my name relatively high among doctors nationwide. They are full of hope in me, hoping I can save their children. Besides the neuroblastoma community, there are also many people who recognize me among ovarian cancer, cervical cancer, lung cancer, and liposarcoma patients; many patient groups come together to see me. This recognition from patients is already enough for me to carry out a series of specialized studies. I feel both admiration and shame, because I know my ability is limited and I am unworthy of such trust; this trust puts no small pressure on me.
Among my peers, I am one of the lucky ones, because many cancer families support my research, and some kind-hearted healthy friends also support my cause. But I have also been constantly anxious, never knowing when the cancer patients I treat might suddenly deteriorate, spiraling out of control to the point where I cannot help them. Every time a patient entrusts their life to me, it means one more heavy burden on my shoulders.
Most cancer patients who seek TCM help are in the middle or advanced stages, some even in the terminal stage; some are already terminally ill, and I have to refuse their families' pleas for help. Because I know I cannot help these patients, I do not want their families to end up losing both money and the patient, nor do I want to plant the seeds of doctor-patient disputes.
The vast majority of people have a rational understanding of medical care, but a minority do not. So for various reasons, over the years I have failed to win the recognition of some patients and their families; some may criticize and blame me through various channels.
I deeply understand their accusations and criticism, and I accept them sincerely—I am not qualified to talk about "humbly accepting," since I am no great figure, merely an insignificant person who studies medicine, so I can only use "sincerely accepting" to express my feelings.
People often ask me why I embarked on the path of cancer research. I can only say it was fate's arrangement. I love my mother; she developed cancer, and to save her life I naturally began researching cancer. As I researched and researched, I naturally moved from an initial small circle to a larger one. Now I have no way back, because if I abandoned anticancer research, many patients who have followed me for years would despair.
People who live purely for themselves are rare; I am certainly not someone who lives only for myself, and I cannot endure a life without value. I bear the expectations of some cancer patients who want to live; they hope I keep advancing and exploring for their lives and health, they hope I study cancer with undivided attention, and some patients are even willing to give everything to support my deep immersion in cancer research.
But I do not need anyone to give everything for me; I have no high demands on material life. I have always lived by the principle: "To have wants is to suffer; to be without desires is to be at peace; let things go as they may and follow nature." Even in a metropolis I live a life of simple fare and walking instead of driving, no different from the countryside.
I often think that if one day I can return to the countryside, I will. The cost of living in the countryside is low, and there is enough space for a laboratory and a herbal medicine base. Many of my patients are loyal fans; wherever I go, they will follow me, and they will not disdain me if one day I turn back into a folksy "country bumpkin." To them, this "country person" is approachable and trustworthy, and they are willing to entrust themselves to me—that is enough. Of course, this is not an obsession that must be realized; if doing research in the city is more convenient, I am also happy to stay in the city.
I only want to set down external possessions one by one, enter a state of complete immersion, and delve into cancer treatment regimens to fulfill the wishes of countless cancer families. There are many things in this world that make me happy; books go without saying, and even a few wildflowers or clumps of weeds outside my door can make me utterly content. In spring, bees and butterflies flit among the rapeseed flowers, birds of all names sing clear songs, and I stroll and think easily along the field ridges—such a life holds greater appeal for me than wealth and glory. Since this is so, why should I be burdened by material things?
I am not considered clever, but I am a hardworking person. I grew up used to farm work, and was the most diligent student in school. I have never indulged in laziness. If I were in my hometown now, I would, as I have on every Lunar New Year's Day in the past, after paying New Year calls on neighbors, relatives, and friends, carry a shoulder pole of manure to the fields to fertilize them. This is a kind of ritual labor in my hometown: families who do farm work on New Year's Day never raise lazy sons. My mother often said: "Diligent, diligent, there'll be rice and dishes," so she did not want the word "lazy" in the family ethos. While my mother was alive she would not let me slack off; now that she is gone, I still remember her teachings and will not be lazy, even on New Year's Day.
Nowadays, the fields I must till are no longer those farm plots, but oncology. I may not become the most outstanding oncologist, but with the diligence I have always had, I will plow and till carefully in the field of oncology. As hardworking as the big water buffalo I herded as a child, which almost never slacked off and always plowed diligently during the busy farming season, I also almost never slack off, keeping up the habit of reading and writing every day outside of work.
I believe that heaven rewards diligence. Back in school, because I believed this, I was always diligent in study and thought, pursuing perfection, and sometimes scored full marks. But oncology is not as simple as math, physics, or chemistry; I know I can never score full marks in medicine, but I deeply believe that those who study diligently will reap more. I have no extravagant hopes; if my cultivation in this field can leave others with some valuable inspiration, I will be very satisfied with this life.
This is the inner voice of this tireless, clumsy ox in the Year of the Ox. I hope that in the 365 days of the new year, I can still, with the attitude of diligence making up for clumsiness, basically manage to read some literature, solve some patients' problems, and write an article every day for all my readers.
Finally, Happy New Year to everyone! In 2021, may you have good health, a joyful mood, academic achievement, a happy and harmonious family, and progress in your career.