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墨書 Inktalez
From a very young age, I became intertwined with medicine. During my childhood, I learned some basic herbal knowledge from my grandparents and parents, relying on the mountains for resources. Some herbs could be picked and sold at the supply cooperative for a bit of pocket money, like Ophiopogon, Lophatherum, and Kudzu that occasionally appeared in the back hills. Others could treat minor injuries like skin abrasions or cuts from small knives, such as the harder-to-find Notoginseng and the ubiquitous Great Burdock, which we called "Hairy Mustard." There were also herbs specifically for treating snake bites; since snakes and insects were common in the mountainous areas, parents would teach their children a few remedies for emergencies. I was fortunate that my father worked in the deeper mountains of Suining, where he met some herbalists who taught me things that other children had no access to, like White Flower Snake Tongue Herb and Seven-Leaf Flower.
As I approached graduation from elementary school, my mother took on the role of a Barefoot Doctor in our platoon, which allowed me to learn even more about medicine. Every autumn, she would take me deep into the mountains several miles away to collect commonly used herbs. This area was close to a reservoir, benefiting from ample rainfall and lacking too much human or animal activity, making it suitable for many herbs to thrive. We gathered various wild chrysanthemums—some as large as fists, others as small as fingers—bright red, pure white, shy pink, and proud purple.
I would run around the mountains, collecting herbs while playing and laughing, completely forgetting about the scorching sun and my empty stomach. It wasn't until my mother called it a day and we walked home that I felt the chill of hunger and exhaustion. Yet my mother still had to sort and categorize the collected herbs, laying them out on bamboo sieves to dry for the next day. Each time, we had to wait until dark to return home, where I would quickly eat two bowls of rice before climbing into bed to fall asleep.
During middle school, I had another opportunity to engage with medicine: the renowned eye doctor Liu Dawei built a new house next to ours. Farmers from nearby villages frequently came to him for eye treatments, which soon introduced me to several common remedies for eye ailments. These included Yellow Eel Herb (long strips found at field edges) and Star Pigweed (hexagonal round shapes that thrive in various environments), as well as Wild Rabbit Droppings used for eye steaming. Unfortunately, Dr. Liu treated this knowledge as his family treasure; he refused to share their scientific names with me or let me see a complete herbal prescription.
In truth, my medical knowledge did not come solely from following my mother or Liu Dawei but rather from reading what others considered "miscellaneous books" on medicine. The materials from my mother's Barefoot Doctor training served as my introduction to medical knowledge. To this day, that over-thousand-page Barefoot Doctor's Manual still rests on the bookshelf at my old home; I managed to read it cover to cover over a year. While I don't remember much now, some concepts have deeply rooted themselves in my mind.
The rhythmic verses of the Song of Decoction Recipes were almost like ancient poetry to me. Sometimes when my mother couldn't recall a line, she would ask me what came next after "Yiqi Congming Decoction with Vitex," and I could immediately recite "Add Peony and Honey-fried Licorice for those suffering from deafness and visual impairment."
Dr. Liu's collection of medical books surpassed my mother's; he claimed they were passed down through generations—entirely unpunctuated volumes bound in thread with vertical text layout. I once sneaked into his house while he was out and borrowed a few books from his young son Liu Xingyuan. Perhaps these truly were heirlooms passed down through several generations; none were complete enough for me to remember any titles. Moreover, being written in classical Chinese without punctuation made them difficult to understand; combined with unfamiliar medical terminology, there was little I could comprehend or retain.
Beyond books and "stealing knowledge," I felt deeply that "a long illness makes one a good doctor" truly reflects how folk medicine accumulates and passes down through generations. In my childhood, I suffered from chronic otitis media; due to limited resources, I could only receive a few injections of Penicillin from Barefoot Doctor Deng Jisong. As a result, my condition fluctuated without ever being fully resolved. After gaining some medical knowledge, I sought a cure but found it challenging—without major hospitals or significant funding behind me, expensive medicines were out of reach while obscure ones were impossible to find or identify. Thus, I had no choice but to gather materials locally; amidst countless books, I searched diligently without discrimination between ancient and modern texts until finally discovering a usable herb—Pine Needle.
Without any prescriptions or consultations with doctors, one quiet morning I climbed up a tall straight pine tree on a mountain peak and picked several clusters of dew-covered Pine Needles. After washing them at home and finding an earthen pot for decocting traditional medicine, I secretly simmered them over low heat for most of the day. When I poured out the medicinal liquid and took a sip—it was bitter beyond anything I'd ever tasted—but in pursuit of curing my ear infection, I grimaced and drank down the entire small bowl.
Regrettably, this remedy proved ineffective; coupled with its extreme bitterness, I only tried it once before giving up entirely. This ailment did not significantly impact my life until 1989 when participating in military school physical exams revealed that my childhood condition had resulted in "left eardrum perforation and right eardrum swelling." Consequently, I couldn't attend military school; whether my hearing had diminished remained uncertain due to lack of comparison.
The event that truly ignited my desire to study medicine occurred during the winter of 1986: one Saturday evening after returning home as usual, I found my mother lying in bed looking pained instead of working as she typically did. My siblings stood by her bedside with tear-streaked faces. Seeing her forced smile made tears well up in my eyes; I struggled not to cry as I choked out the question: "Momma, what's wrong?"
"Nothing much; I've just been feeling unwell lately but will be fine after some rest. I've already fed the pigs; you three can make dinner yourselves tonight and finish your homework before going to bed early."
After hearing her words, we left her side to prepare dinner before proceeding with our usual routine of homework, washing our feet, and going to sleep. However, lying in bed that night proved impossible; sounds of her suppressed groans and restless movements drifted through from the next room while my younger siblings slept soundly beside me. Unable to ignore it yet too afraid to ask her directly about it left me silently pondering: What was wrong with Mom? How could her pain be alleviated?
This situation persisted for several months until Dad finally told us: Mom was suffering from Sciatica—a condition characterized by unbearable pain. They had consulted numerous doctors and tried various medications without improvement; they considered visiting larger hospitals in Changsha but heard that without connections one couldn't even get through the door—waiting would require staying in hotels and eating out at restaurants which was prohibitively expensive—so they reluctantly abandoned that idea...
Dad's words pierced through my youthful heart like a thorn: The provincial capital felt so distant; medicine seemed so mysterious; Mom was suffering so greatly yet no solutions were available?!
Enduring hardship was Dad's and Mom's choice—or perhaps just Mom's stubborn decision alone—I couldn't argue against it but silently sought alternatives: searching through every accessible medical book for remedies based on symptoms or news articles for solutions or interpreting classical texts for insights yielded results either abandoned by myself or rejected by my parents; when trying to persuade Mom along with Dad to seek treatment in Changsha she always replied: "We have no connections there; we also have no money right now."
Ultimately, I resolved: I would study medicine! Now in my senior year of high school preparing for university entrance exams, Hunan Medical College became my top choice; although it wouldn't immediately relieve Mom's suffering—I believed surely solutions could be found within medical school—even if teachers couldn't provide answers directly I'd still have access to libraries!
Much like those famous figures who abandoned medicine for literature during early Republican China—I set forth this grand aspiration only for fate ultimately severing ties between medicine and myself: In 1987’s college entrance exam season—I failed even the Pre-examination! In 1988’s exams—I barely passed but fell short of formal admission scores while exceeding self-funded thresholds slightly instead; Dad even traveled all the way to Changsha seeking advice about Hunan Medical College only returning with news stating: If we paid an additional twenty thousand yuan we could enroll as self-funded students.
I was so close yet reality proved brutally harsh—for someone whose entire high school education cost only dozens of yuan per year—for Dad earning merely seventy or eighty yuan monthly—and with siblings still studying alongside Mom battling illness—twenty thousand yuan represented astronomical figures! Thus began distancing myself further away from pursuing medicine.
Now all that remains is that initial spark of ambition towards becoming a doctor!
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