Nothing Is More Painful Than the Sounds of Human Suffering

In my WeChat Moments I often see obituaries or memorial messages posted by family members of cancer patients; some are so wretched that they bring tears to the eyes.

A young mother, still grief-stricken because neuroblastoma has just taken her toddler, longs for the child to appear in a dream so as to bring her a little comfort. I wanted to tell her to bear her grief, but I held back and did not disturb her. A pale word of comfort cannot soothe the deep wound in a mother who has lost her child. I have had a similar experience: after my own mother passed away, I too was plunged into deep, inescapable sorrow and only gradually recovered three years later. This grieving mother can only walk out of her sorrow with the help of time.

Another mother of a neuroblastoma child is from my hometown. By age she should be ten-plus years younger than I, but she has already grown old like a little granny. Her child is being treated at a children's hospital in our province; the tens of thousands of yuan in medical fees she scraped together were gone before long. I keep seeing her lamenting in her Moments.

This young mother is tender-hearted and fragile. When she heard that the father of another neuroblastoma child planned to give up treatment, although that child was not hers, she broke down in loud sobs. Even as she told me about it, she wept uncontrollably. I did not know how to comfort her; I could only hand her tissues and listen in silence. For a long time I was unwilling to take on pediatric oncology patients, because by comparison they break the heart more than adult oncology patients do.

I wish my medical skill were so superb that I could bring every patient back from the brink of death, but this beautiful wish has been shattered again and again by harsh reality. The failures I have experienced are beyond count; in the war against cancer I am not a victorious general but a defeated one. Perhaps because I deeply sympathize with cancer patients and their families, treat them with sincerity, and always try my best to find a way, I occasionally save some patients, and so I have a bit of a reputation among some cancer-patient communities.

After my mother was struck by two serious illnesses in succession, I gave up my previous life goals, laid aside the arrogance of my youth, and plunged into medical research, never changing my life's vocation again. I once thought I would surely become a good doctor, but when I question myself late at night, I feel I am not yet worthy.

Because I cannot yet serve patients selflessly, cannot put the patients' needs first and my own personal safety second. I often worry about my own safety; as soon as I encounter a dangerous patient or family member, I switch into self-protection mode. I am on guard against some supplicants with extreme language, dare not reach out to help them, and cannot relieve all impoverished patients.

I also lack accurate judgment; I do not know where the limits of my ability lie, nor how to better respond to patients' requests. There are cancer patients whom I should persuade to give up treatment, but sometimes, because of their repeated entreaties, I steel myself to accept them; when the result is unsatisfactory, they nurse resentment and I am deeply embarrassed.

Stumbling along this way, I have known the joy of success as well as the loss and blow of failure, and have felt sorrow from every cause. I have wanted to give up many times, but whenever I hear the cries of patients in suffering, some subconscious force keeps me from stopping.

A friend of mine is a dermatologist. He says he wishes he had a place of his own with expanses of green even in winter, so he could go there now and then to zone out. I understand his feelings well, because I have the same need. There is too much darkness in our work; we need bright greenery to brush away its influence, and we need a vibrant environment to keep replenishing our energy.

The American physician Siddhartha Mukherjee wrote a book titled The Emperor of All Maladies: A Biography of Cancer. Near the beginning, he mentions that when he first started his hospital residency, his colleagues told him that an oncologist must have interests and hobbies outside the profession; otherwise the negative emotions encountered at work will crush him. I have not let my life become monotonous; when I feel exhausted, I can relieve my fatigue through cycling, reading, playing the qin, and gardening. After releasing the negative emotions and returning to work, I feel renewed strength.

Every day we face many of the most helpless realities—some patients we can only watch step by step toward death, completely powerless to help. Several of my own relatives died of cancer, and I could do nothing before they died. When my aunt reached the final stage of esophageal cancer, her only wish was to eat one meal of stewed pig's trotter, but regrettably even this simple wish could not be fulfilled; we could only watch her starve to death. This is the fate that terminal esophageal cancer patients cannot escape.

I have lost count of how many patients I have seen off; I have provided hospice care for many. I remember that after my first patient died, I was filled with self-reproach, and in a dream that night I saw him tightly seize my collar and reproach me for not saving him, waking me in a cold sweat. Besides relieving the patient's suffering, we must also try to soothe the grief of the family after the loved one's death, while constantly staying on guard against family members who, having lost their reason, might do something extreme.

Every medical learner who loves the profession has one or several forces pushing them forward on the medical road. The road of medicine is rugged, and the problems it touches are often extremely thorny and life-or-death. Medical learners who lack spiritual support mostly end up merely enduring in this profession.

I am grateful that, after experiencing so many setbacks and witnessing so many deaths, I still love life and medicine and remain positive and optimistic. And I can still study diligently, write without ceasing, and have not relaxed my demands on myself as the years pass.

If I have any expectation for my future, it is only to become wiser and, as far as possible, treat patients better; to better balance saving lives with self-protection; and to do my best to relieve the suffering of those patients who trust me and entrust themselves to me. I know this is hard to do well, but I still want to do the best I can within my ability. Of course, limited by natural talent, there are many bottlenecks I cannot break through, and so I must let nature take its course.