The Sounds of Human Suffering, Each One Bringing Tears

Last night my older brother called. As we talked, he mentioned a visit he had made to my uncle, who spoke of the days before my aunt (his wife) died. He said that on the very day she passed away she had still been at home bending steel bars, making building components to sell and support the family. My uncle wept as he spoke, feeling he had treated her badly in this life and let her suffer. I had only known that my aunt died of emphysema, coughing up blood; I had never imagined she was still working so hard near the end, and that her hemoptysis must have been caused by overwork.

Putting down the phone, I could not calm down for a long time. My mother had four sisters and one brother; that one brother's wife, my aunt, was chronically ill. Since I can remember, I never saw my aunt in good health. She was emaciated and, from chronic coughing, had the "pigeon-chest" deformity described in medicine. When I was small, most of our relatives were as poor as my family, so my aunt had no money for good doctors and could not stop working. Her plight in her final days became my uncle's lifelong regret.

When my aunt died, I had not yet taken up medicine. If it were now, reviving her would not be difficult; I have resuscitated many hemoptysis patients and rarely failed. If my father, when young, had studied medicine under his uncle and made it his full-time profession rather than an amateur hobby, then perhaps my mother and my aunt would not have passed away so early. But both "ifs" cannot hold; real life has too many disappointments.

After my brother's call, my teacher called: my teacher's wife had insomnia, and he wanted me to think of a solution. After I put down my teacher's call, two more patients' families contacted me, also hoping I could help their relatives. In the middle of the night, a family member of a critically ill patient messaged me: his mother had been sent home by ambulance 120 because her condition was so severe, to await the final moment, yet he still hoped I could guide him in rescuing her.

Early yesterday morning an ovarian cancer patient contacted me, complaining that she had no medical insurance and the burden of treatment was too heavy, asking me to find a way to reduce it. She said she had mustered her courage to ask because her money was limited and she wanted to live as many days as possible. I told her that the will to live is human, that this was not shameful, that I understood her, that she should not describe herself that way, and that I would do my best to help.

At noon, a cervical cancer patient I treat sent me her mother's test report: her mother had gastric polyps and intestinal metaplasia, and was anxious and unsure what to do, hoping I could advise. This patient had already hit economic crisis last year; if I had not been supporting her, she would have interrupted treatment months ago.

In the afternoon, another ovarian cancer patient contacted me: her oral chemotherapy and Chinese medicine were ineffective, her CA125 was still rising rapidly, and she asked what to do. Although her case is difficult, I still have to face the difficulty and do my utmost to help. Another neuroblastoma patient's mother also found me in the afternoon: after using the high-dose Xianhecao decoction regimen I recommended, her child's platelets had finally recovered, and she wanted guidance on the next step.

Every day I am surrounded by such problems, and New Year's Eve and the first day of the new year are no exception. Disease does not take holidays like people do; patients with suffering and economic hardship can only turn to doctors. We must find ways for them, solving their problems with limited funds as best we can.

Some people like to attack TCM. In my actual work, the patients who come to TCM fall mainly into two groups: late-stage cancer or intractable-disease patients for whom Western medicine has run out of road, and the poor who cannot afford expensive modern medicine. I have a cancer patient whose daily medicine I prescribed at only ten-plus yuan, which she still could not afford; I found a way to reduce it to seven or eight yuan a day before she could manage. Without TCM physicians like us—whose status is below even that of past barefoot doctors—to treat and comfort such patients, I do not know how they would face this wretched life.

Yesterday was a relatively light workday for me. In my spare time I spent some hours organizing and categorizing the articles I have written over the years—work I had long wanted to do but never had the time to settle down to. In total I sorted out over 1,500 articles, roughly estimated at more than three million words; if printed, they would make over a dozen books. Publishers have been contacting me for years, hoping I compile books, and some readers hope I publish; I always feel my level is insufficient, so I want to postpone publication another 20–30 years.

I rate my own writing low. I want to wait until I have truly integrated TCM, Western medicine and biology before undertaking genuine authorship. If possible, I hope in my lifetime to write a truly era-valuable monograph on TCM treatment of cancer, solving practical problems, neither belittling TCM nor exaggerating. I will not parrot others' views or feed on the leftovers of my ancestors. To reach this goal I still have much to learn and much work to do; what I have learned and done so far is only the skin and hair.

Two days ago a sarcoma patient told me that at a domestic sarcoma experts' conference in 2019, everyone realized that no one in Chinese medicine was doing innovative sarcoma research; everyone was merely practicing "imported-ism," bringing in foreign medical technology. This relates partly to sarcoma remaining an unsolved world medical problem, and partly to the generally low overall level of Chinese medicine.

There are obituaries in my Moments almost every day; every day cancer patients die untreated; families impoverished by illness are beyond count; and many, like my aunt, work for a living even while sick. The suffering disease causes in the world may never be fully eliminated, but I believe everyone who has experienced it shares one wish: to advance medicine and relieve more of the pain of illness.

The first batch of students I mentor will enter university in another two and a half years. Some of the pediatric oncology patients I am treating now may well be cured; if any of them wish to study medicine in future, I hope to find a few to learn medicine from me. The hardship and tedium of medicine are not for outsiders, but those who have tasted the pain of illness will not fear that hardship and tedium, nor be felled by failure and setbacks. I believe patients and their families are the most motivated to study medicine and the most steadfast in pursuing it.

If they are willing, I hope they never enter the system or join any political organization, wasting their lives in bureaucratism. I hope they settle their hearts, cast aside outside distractions, and study medicine well. Even if our lifelong research solves only one small problem, it is worth it; the small problems of hundreds of millions of people add up to a great benefit for humanity.