The Road Is Hard and Painful—Mourning a Child with Neuroblastoma

Around five in the morning I woke, opened my phone, and saw an obituary in my Moments: the father of a 15-year-old child told everyone that his child had passed away. The child was the same age as my son, a neuroblastoma patient I had once treated without satisfactory effect, after which the child returned to chemotherapy. This was a neuroblastoma patient who had survived for many years, known to many neuroblastoma children and their families. Their whole family had gone through great hardship all these years to save him.

Most people never have to face such scenes, but I have to face them often. We watch young children tormented by illness, try every means to save them, and ultimately to no avail. We can only watch these lovely little angels return to heaven, the grief in our hearts beyond words. Among neuroblastoma children who have died, a 15-year-old is already considered old; many die at only a few years of age.

I am an atheist, but this morning I still burned incense before the Buddha and struck the singing bowl, praying that the Buddha would guide this child to rebirth in a happy world free of illness and pain. Over the years the line between theism and atheism has blurred for me; I no longer think, as I did when young, that theism is wrong. When a beloved person leaves this world helplessly, or when one faces the threat of death, people need a faith to comfort themselves and ease their grief. It is reasonable for such people to believe in another world; why should we atheists disturb and censure people whose hearts are already broken?

Yesterday morning another 15-year-old neuroblastoma patient came to me. When the father said the child was born in 2005, my heart ached—another child born in the same year as my son. What pitiful children! Life has barely begun for them, yet they face the threat of death. The father said sincerely, "Dr. Zhou, if you solve my child's blood-count problem, I will promote you in all the neuroblastoma groups I've joined." I told him there was no need; I did not need many patients.

But the father insisted. Actually I no longer need his promotion; among neuroblastoma patients and their families I have already had a modest reputation for years. That is why he knew of me and found me. Moreover, personal fame or disrepute means nothing compared with patients' lives; I will not mind. Years ago I refused to take neuroblastoma children, because my heart was not strong enough to face the sight of these lovely children tormented by disease. Only after many neuroblastoma parents pleaded bitterly did I relent.

In my study-cum-clinic there are many toys for children; some people who see it for the first time do not understand and think I am childlike. It is simply that, dealing with these little patients, I often need toys to coax them into cooperating. I am someone who loves children, an eternal child who never grows up; back in my hometown, the children of relatives and neighbors always love to romp with me. Yet I was especially unwilling at first to take pediatric oncology patients, because witnessing their suffering is itself painful. Many people ask in surprise, "Children get cancer too?" I always answer calmly: "Yes, and the incidence is rising."

In 2013, an elderly Western-medicine physician told me earnestly that I should do something more meaningful. He meant that I was different from ordinary doctors; my writing ability was better than most doctors', and my articles could influence many people. If I could awaken everyone's attention to cancer, perhaps the incidence could fall and the number of cancer patients be reduced at the root.

I do not know whether this elder is still alive. He treated cancer all his life and, watching the incidence soar, was still heavy-hearted in old age. I am ashamed that I am not as capable as he imagined; even when my articles occasionally reach many readers, their influence on human behavior is negligible, because between money and health, most people choose the former.

The shared karma of all beings has formed, and many health-related problems have become too entrenched to reverse. Yesterday I saw a report: a study released by New Zealand's National Institute of Water and Atmospheric Research found that in fish sampled in waters around New Zealand, microplastics were found not only in the fish's internal organs but even in their muscle tissue. These microplastics affect not only fish health but, through the food chain, the health of other animals (including humans) that eat fish.

The pollutants we manufacture are flowing back into our bodies through food, air and water, destroying our health. Who can escape this all-pervading net? Does fine clothing, a mansion, being fêted, or driving a luxury sports car exempt one from dying of disease? Over the years I have watched many successful people, like ordinary folk, leave this world full of regret after suffering from illness. To die without disease, to pass away in one's bed at a ripe old age, is a true luxury; not everyone gets to enjoy it.