Farewell to My Cousin, Dr. Zhou Zhiqiang

On November 2, 2023, when I arrived home from Beijing, my cousin, who had just died suddenly of cor pulmonale, had already been buried. I missed his funeral procession, but according to our local custom we will mound earth over his grave the day after tomorrow to lay him to rest, so I can still take part.

Even now, I still cannot believe he is gone. It was a sudden cardiopulmonary event; by the time he reached the hospital he was already beyond help, and the CT showed a white lung. I strongly suspect that overwork-triggered long COVID, combined with his underlying asthma, caused his sudden death. My cousin's sister keeps saying that if Zhiyuan had been there, he might have been rescued. But life has not so many "ifs"; this kind of sudden death is simply impossible to guard against.

My cousin had even more clinical experience than I, and he certainly never expected to die suddenly of disease. In his early years he served as a village doctor; some villagers owe their lives to his rescue. So his death grieved not only us close relatives but the entire village; there is hardly a household in the village he did not care for.

My cousin was gentle, never clashed with anyone, always saw patients with a smile, and got along well with them. In this, the two of us brothers are much alike. He did not practice medicine greedily and always felt ashamed to overcharge patients, so he did not earn much. He raised many children; I heard he held three jobs outside—besides being a doctor, he drove for Didi in his spare time and worked in factories.

He never told me any of this while alive, nor ever borrowed a cent from me. Hearing all this after returning home, I felt deeply pained. He had three children; I have only one. His burden was heavier than mine. If I had three children, I would probably also have to take one or two part-time jobs to feed the family.

The family tradition left by our shared great-grandfather demands that we be loyal, honest, sincere, and plain. A great-uncle of ours also practiced medicine in his day and charged not a penny. Even now I occasionally feel ashamed to charge impoverished patients, so before seeing a patient I declare that if he feels he cannot afford the consultation fee, he need not pay.

But this often leads us to bear far more than we should; this family tradition is a bit old-fashioned. I am slightly better off than he was, having done business before and earning a bit more, so my family did not live in such straits. But I too am a stranger to luxury cars and mansions; my family lives in a sixty-square-meter cramped flat and goes on foot rather than by carriage, and do not feel it is especially hard. I am by nature detached and take none of this to heart.

His sudden passing left the whole family shocked and grief-stricken. We are still discussing how to help his family; this is a problem the family must surely solve together. Fate is so fickle that a doctor in his prime can die suddenly of disease; it all seems so inconceivable.

My cousin was only one year older than I; since childhood we were not merely cousins but childhood friends who grew up together. He did not even call me his younger brother; he always called me "Elder Brother Yuan." A half-lifetime of brotherhood, a handful of bitter tears. This is one Dr. Zhou seeing off another Dr. Zhou. Between these two Dr. Zhou there ran such thick blood, shaped by the same family tradition, with an identical clinical bedside manner—how could I not grieve?

When my mother died, I fainted twice, and it was my cousin who cared for me beside me. I am an emotional animal, living quite freely, and when it comes to bereavement I grieve deeply. I have seen off elders, and now I have seen off a peer; after each farewell I remain melancholy for a long time. Walking in the village, filled with sorrow, I seem to hear my cousin calling my name and speaking to me. Yellow leaves cover the ground; autumn insects chirp; no one knows my grief. Deep sorrow turns to tears, wetting my eyes again and again.

Walking the field ridges in the dusk, recalling the past, my grief rises like tides and waves, beyond control. My father calls again and again, chiding me for not coming home before dark, worried that wild animals might harm me out there.

My cousin always admired my literary talent. Had he known he would die young, he would surely have asked me in life to write a funeral oration for him. Unfortunately, before I had time to write, he was already buried. Perhaps such an oration is better left unwritten; how painful a funeral oration written by a brother would be, for a sturdy 45-year-old doctor cut down in his prime! Life, I wish, need not be so painful.

My father said that a villager whom my cousin had saved with mouth-to-mouth resuscitation back then wept uncontrollably. A doctor's duty is to rescue the dying and heal the wounded; in a lifetime he will save many, but there are always many he cannot bring back. When my cousin practiced, he too must have faced those regrettable moments, yet never imagined that before his own end he would experience that very scene, leaving his colleagues helpless.

Though used to life and death, and used to the effect on a family when its mainstay dies young, it is still hard to accept when this happens to a close relative.

Farewell, Dr. Zhou Zhiqiang.