Leave School at School, Return Home to the Family
"Stop memorizing vocabulary—I want you to keep me company." When I got up this morning and, as usual, took out my phone to recite words, my wife immediately stopped me. I smiled, put the phone down, and talked with her. We have been together for nearly thirty years; starting this year we have become a "weekend couple." From Monday to Friday I study at school, and on Saturdays and Sundays I am at home doing some work and fulfilling my family responsibilities.
This weekend there was a lot of heavy physical work at home; because of the renovation, furniture had to be moved. Back home, after finishing the work on hand, I moved some of the family furniture and was utterly exhausted. This kind of job really needs a strong middle-aged man to do it—this is the problem people of my age inevitably face when going back to school: the family actually cannot do without you. Fortunately the teachers at school take special care of me and allow me to take weekends off; otherwise it really would be hard to have it both ways.
When I left school on Friday, a female classmate asked me, "Uncle, why do you have to go home every week?" I answered her, "Besides studying, your uncle also has to work to support the family." The girl said "oh" and looked deeply sympathetic. The day before this year's college entrance exam, my father fell and was injured; I carried him to the hospital for admission and asked my junior fellow apprentice to arrange the surgery. The night before the entrance exam, I stayed up all night looking after my father. During the three exam days, every day after I finished taking the exam at the testing center, I had to return to the ward to care for him. A strong adult man is the pillar of the whole family and cannot only think of himself. When you take the college entrance exam at eighteen or nineteen, the whole family supports you; when you take it again at forty-five or forty-six, the whole family needs you to hold it up—the difference is enormous.
On Saturdays and Sundays, many questions from my classmates in the study group organized by school are waiting for me, and I set them aside to handle after returning to school on Sunday night. There are also some class affairs that need my help, which likewise can only be dealt with after I get back. In the same way, while I am at school, there are work matters that need handling, and I can only deal with them in spare moments or concentrate them on weekends.
On top of all this, I still need to make time to take good care of my own little family—eating with my child and my wife, exercising together, watching movies, talking heart-to-heart, going to the vegetable plot to do some farm work with them, or strolling in the countryside nearby, spending family time that belongs only to us. In my heart this is the most important thing: apart from the family, all talk of happiness is empty.
This "twin-city life" may only last three years, or perhaps six. No matter how long it lasts, time flies and the days pass quickly; a month and a half has already gone by, and thinking about it, it has not really been that hard to endure.
This weekend in Beijing I met a female gastroenterologist who is both a patient's family member and a colleague. Her child has cancer and the condition is quite serious; she had come to me through an introduction. Knowing my own limitations, I referred her to another senior physician and told her to go and register with that doctor.
That is a senior physician I deeply respect, a retired professor from Beijing University of Chinese Medicine. I have long wanted to go and shadow him for a while, and then use my own strengths to help organize his medical experience into a book for publication. Several years ago I already asked someone to pass word to the old gentleman that I wanted to do this; on hearing it, he smiled slightly—perhaps that counts as tacit approval.
Unexpectedly, he has almost stopped seeing patients since four months ago. Because of his age his stamina cannot keep up, so both his clinic hours and the number of appointments have been sharply reduced. This child almost failed to get an appointment with him; fortunately, in the end a channel was found and she saw him in person.
This incident made me realize that, besides my school studies, my work, and my family, there are some things that can no longer be delayed. Time spares no one; if I keep putting it off, such senior doctors cannot wait.
The first master I apprenticed to when I studied TCM was a renowned orthopedist from a line of hereditary practitioners. He is also old now, and he has several times raised with me, asking me to find time to help organize his family's ancestral clinical orthopedic experience into a book. Among his disciples, probably only I can help him complete this task.
Each time I told him, "Master, let it wait a few more years; after I finish a certain goal, I will definitely come help you organize it." Now I suddenly realize that this too is something that cannot be delayed. If I put it off any longer, my master will be too old and frail to move. So during these two years' winter and summer vacations, I want to complete these two things. It just so happens that I have recently finished the basic foundational knowledge of orthopedics, so I can help my master organize things more professionally.
During my time at school I realized that the experience of senior physicians who have spent a lifetime in clinical practice is actually far more precious than the textbooks. Because their clinical experience directly relieves patients' suffering, whereas medical-school textbooks are mostly theoretical and still some distance from clinical practice. The teaching level of our school's teachers is fairly good, but most lack clinical experience, so they are fine teaching basic medical theory; when it comes to clinical problems, they may truly be no match for me, let alone my masters.
This is not to say that basic medical theory is unimportant. If a physician wants to improve, both a theoretical foundation and clinical practical experience matter. Without a solid medical foundation it is hard to conduct in-depth research; without rich clinical experience, the ability to solve practical problems is also inadequate. The two complement each other and neither should be neglected. If I want to realize my ideal, I must balance both. Moreover, medicine needs transmission: we must both inherit what our predecessors learned and open the way for the next generation—both are important.
Although this kind of life is busy, I love it. In the busyness there is simply no time or energy for internal friction and worry. When a person runs about for a deeply meaningful cause, outside storms cannot easily intrude into his inner world. Whether at home or at school, every night after washing up I basically fall asleep the moment my head hits the pillow; after sleeping a solid six or seven hours I wake naturally, and then take a nap at noon. My wife always teases me that I fall asleep like a baby, snoring within a minute of my head touching the pillow. She has grown used to my snoring; now that I am away from her most of the time, her own sleep has instead deteriorated.
I am deeply grateful to her for understanding and supporting my ideal. I have basically completed my study of TCM and psychiatry and am now studying clinical medicine, drawing ever closer to the life goal I set for myself. Without her understanding and support, the home would most likely be in a total mess. But I cannot rely on her understanding and support alone; I also need to do my best to balance family and ideal. For me, family and ideal are both important; lose either and life is incomplete. So the present hardship is worth it—one must be content.