Year-End Reflections 2019: Life Is Hard—Walk, and Step Back

Last night was Christmas Eve, but Christmas Eve was not peaceful.

An aunt of mine was admitted to the hospital ICU on Christmas Eve after a ruptured cerebral aneurysm caused brain hemorrhage, and the hospital told us to prepare 100,000 yuan for surgery. A female emergency physician in Beijing was also stabbed to death on Christmas Eve by a family member of a 95-year-old patient, and could not be saved despite emergency rescue.

At year's end, the medical field I care most about has seen quite a few accidents: several vigorous doctors died from overwork, and several violent attacks on doctors occurred.

Besides this Beijing female doctor hacked to death by a patient, on December 3 a rural female doctor in Hunan was also hacked to death by a fellow-villager patient—his reason for killing her was that he had become paranoid and convinced that physical checkups make people's bodies progressively worse.

Harder than the profession of doctor is being a female doctor. Women are the weaker sex, and in this high-risk occupation female doctors are more vulnerable to physical violence from assailants.

Several of my own close relatives fell ill in 2019.

On one hand, I saw that ordinary people—including my own relatives—need doctors' help. On the other, I saw the enormous risks that exist in the medical profession.

Society is complex, and in the rest of my life I want to live both meaningfully and more lightly.

Patients have it hard, and doctors have it hard too. Many Chinese medical students are fleeing the profession. A popular saying in doctor circles goes: whoever persuades someone to study medicine deserves to be struck by lightning.

When I decided to study medicine, my senior fellow apprentice—a neurologist at our local people's hospital—earnestly urged me not to take the path of medicine. Now I fully understand his care and love for me.

If I had a younger brother who now wanted to study and practice medicine, I would also persuade him to abandon the idea. Although my son has studied Chinese and Western medicine with me, he has not the slightest wish to be a doctor. His interests lie in mathematics and physics, and he hopes to do academic research in those two fields. I feel it is enough that our family has me studying medicine; descendants may study medicine but need not practice it.

And frankly, I myself am now preparing to shift from clinical practice to basic medical and pharmaceutical research. If over the next ten years I am fortunate enough to make the transition successfully, I would prefer to spend the rest of my life on drug development and medical education.

But I will not abandon the patients who have followed me for years and responded well to treatment; I will be responsible for their lives to the end—they are no different from my own relatives.

A few years ago I followed a retired, rehired senior physician in clinical practice. Once she told me: don't rush; it is not too late to practice even in your forties or fifties, and retire after twenty years. She told me that, in China's medical environment, after twenty years of practice one's passion will have burned to ashes.

My teacher has probably now gone to Australia to look after her grandchild. I am deeply grateful to her for teaching me so much medicine, and for teaching me so much about how a doctor should conduct himself and protect himself.

I really do not now burn with the passion for being a doctor I once did. The longer one practices, the more cautious one becomes. I am very fortunate that over the years I have not encountered the most extreme patients and families.

Although some people, not understanding the medical profession or me personally, have cursed me online—thank heaven, no one has cursed me to my face yet. Compared with most doctors, I count myself lucky; my personal safety has not been threatened.

Yet in China's current social environment, no medical professional dares let his guard down. No one knows what the next patient he meets will be like, or what the next family member will be like. I only wish those with paranoid personalities would themselves study and practice medicine, holding themselves to the standards they demand of doctors—selflessly saving lives and healing the wounded, with every drug working and not a single mistake.

I do not want to throw away the medical experience I have accumulated over so many years. So henceforth I will, on one hand, continue to help acquaintances fight cancer, and on the other, devote myself to studying medicine and pharmacology. If possible, to develop in this lifetime some drugs or formulas with good efficacy for cancer patients and write articles that help them will not have wasted my original reason for studying medicine.

My mother has been gone eight years, taken by cancer. For three years I was trapped in grief at losing her, but time has gradually healed my wounds.

I feel deep compassion for cancer patients, because I myself once suffered as every patient's relative in that group does. But there are also many times when I am exhausted body and soul from the fight.

Starting in 2020, I hope to live more lightly, keeping my love of medicine while stepping a little farther from strife.

I hold deep respect for the overwhelming majority of China's medical workers. I thank every doctor who treated me and my family, whether the outcome was good or bad; I thank them for trying without shunning the suspicion.

So in this life I will still continue to do some work to promote public understanding of doctors. My ability is limited, and I can only influence some of my readers through my articles, so that they are more considerate of medical workers.

I also feel compassion for all patients, and I will as always write up and spread the medical and pharmaceutical knowledge I learn. Over the years, readers have repeatedly told me that one of my articles helped them and solved some of their problems; such feedback makes me very happy. I like seeing others benefit because of me, whether or not I myself receive financial return.

But I also know that over the years I have not fulfilled the wishes of every reader who turned to me. My ability is limited; many came to me full of hope but ended in disappointment.

Medicine is just that hard. However hard a person studies, he cannot satisfy every patient's expectations. To those who left disappointed, I am deeply sorry: had I known in advance that the result would disappoint you, I would not have opened the relationship between us.

Everyone has it hard. I am willing to forgive all the harm others have done me, but I do not expect others to forgive me—forgiveness is their freedom. I will reflect on the mistakes I have made, but I have no wish to fix my gaze on others' shortcomings.

Life is like a journey against the current, and I too am a traveler. There are storms on the road, and choosing a safer way forward is something I am forced to do. I hope you will understand.

I will live what I consider a relatively good life, though it may seem trivial in others' eyes. I will keep my love of life and my love of medicine. I will use the skills I have learned from forty years of living to stay clear of strife and avoid the hidden reefs of life.

May every reader also welcome a better year.