I Cannot Break Through the Ceiling of Chinese Medicine's Anticancer Efficacy

I spent a long time studying Chinese anticancer medicine, always wanting to raise my success rate in treating cancer. But one day this year I suddenly realized that there is a ceiling to the efficacy of Chinese medicine in treating cancer—a ceiling that neither I nor anyone else studying Chinese medicine can break through.

The famous physicians of ancient China left many writings; most doctors were honest, and from their works I also saw their words of helplessness: “at most one lives out one’s years with the disease,” “it can only prolong life,” “of a hundred treated, a hundred die.” These words are far from the cure that patients and their families expect, and far from my own original wish.

Now I have gradually adjusted my goal in studying medicine: no longer seeking grand success, I no longer aim to cure cancer patients, but instead try my best to extend patients’ lifespan and improve their quality of life. It is true that a very few lucky patients may, with my help, temporarily rid themselves of malignant tumors, but such efficacy is a matter of chance, not of certainty. The regression of their tumors is also related to their own efforts, the help of other doctors, and their own luck.

Several years ago, a fellow Hubeinese met me at a youth hostel in Wuhan. We sat at a dining table and she asked me what my success rate was in treating her illness. I told her it was under ten percent. In my heart I very much wanted to tell her it did not even reach one percent, because she was already a terminal patient who had repeatedly been treated by other doctors without good effect, and the cancer cells in her body had long since become resistant to various drugs. But I feared saying it too low would undermine the patient’s confidence. After hearing my answer, she was immensely dejected and said to me, “The success rate is that low?” At the end of our meeting she left disappointed and never came back to me; perhaps she went to seek another Chinese medicine practitioner.

I often lose opportunities to diagnose and treat patients because of such honest answers, but I do not regret it, because it lets me live without too much pressure. When a doctor promises a patient an efficacy he cannot achieve, he will live in tension and unease—at least I myself do.

I recently took an examination, and the examiner asked me: how high is your cure rate for cancer? I answered frankly: if we speak of cure rate, I can only say it is close to zero; but my treatment has improved the quality of life of some patients and extended their survival, and this efficacy makes these patients highly compliant toward me, and their families trust and understand me. Even if this answer might make me fail the exam, I do not care; under any circumstances I do not intend to tell lies.

It is true that a few patients’ tumors have regressed under my treatment and have not recurred on follow-up over many years, but even for such patients I dare not assert that I have cured them, because I cannot be certain whether their tumors will recur in future. Among patients I treated before, there was exactly such a case: after vanishing for many years, the tumor suddenly recurred. Therefore, unless I can follow them for decades and see them die a natural death, any claim that these patients are cured is not rigorous. It is just that decades later, my own life will also be nearing its end.

I have passed the impatient age; now I can frankly admit that my skill is insufficient to achieve breakthrough efficacy. I choose to rely on seriousness and care to strive, for every patient I diagnose, for the longest survival and best quality of life—of course, within the limits of my ability; efficacy beyond my ability is something I dare not hope for. At first, admitting that my ability could not break through that ceiling was a painful thing, but as I slowly accepted it, I felt a relaxation I had never known.

There are many cancer patients, rational and otherwise. For a Chinese medicine practitioner of my limited ability, some patients and families recognize me, and it is enough for me to serve this group well. Every blank check issued on efficacy ultimately becomes a crisp slap on one’s own face. In earlier years I too was impatient and overestimated my ability, and as a result received many such slaps. Now I should adjust my mindset and calibrate my positioning.

My understanding of the medical profession has also deepened greatly. We can only provide limited help to the public; this is determined by our ability. Medicine is only at this level; most chronic diseases cannot be cured, and we need to manage patients’ health together with them; only thus can we help patients to the greatest extent.

Medicine is not a race where a hundred boats contend upstream; it need not display one’s surpassing ability through loud slogans. What medicine needs is doctors helping patients as sincerely and calmly as possible. Life always has an end; we are merely a group standing guard at the end of other people’s lives. If we can make those lives that will eventually slip away more comfortable in their final days, and help them ease their fear of death, that is already quite good.