Dr. Xu: A Chinese Medicine Novel

An invitation becomes a lasting bond as Evan and Oliver return to work in Beijing.

In the end, both Evan and Oliver became Dr. Qian’s disciples, with Evan the senior of the two.[1]

Dr. Qian had made an exception and taken two disciples.

It was only fitting. In the situation they had just faced, Evan and Oliver had been the only two to step forward.

There was one day left in their outreach visit. After seeing patients the next day, they held a meeting with their comrades at the county hospital, then went home.

The county doctors were reluctant to see them go. Dr. Zhao, the obstetrician, even drew Evan aside for several drinks and promised to visit him in Beijing.

Back in Beijing, Evan and Oliver threw themselves into their demanding work again.

Their acceptance as disciples was never announced, though everyone at the hospital knew about it.

In those days, one still couldn’t speak too openly about taking a master. People might accuse you of building a faction and reviving feudal customs, and that could mean trouble.[2]

So Evan and Oliver always addressed him as Director Qian. Occasionally, in private, they called him Teacher.

Days passed. Years passed.

Both men excelled. They learned quickly, their treatments worked very well, and their patients were pleased. Before long, they had made something of a name for themselves in Beijing. Many patients came specifically to see them.

Dr. Qian was deeply gratified.

Evan had one small regret: during his last trip back, he hadn’t managed to discover who Professor Liu’s wife was. Now, whenever Oliver asked, he had no answer.

Eventually, unable to fend off his questions, Evan named Rose Wang, the nurse in internal medicine, off the top of his head. Oliver actually believed him. As if his last bout of indecent behavior hadn’t been enough, off he went to find her again.

Evan felt rather guilty. What made him more uneasy was that Grace Xu, a doctor who had joined the gynecology department when they arrived, had somehow fallen for him…

Oliver, meanwhile, was relentless in his own pursuit.

After more than two years, he finally won over the woman he’d been courting. They had a grand wedding, and the whole hospital celebrated.

Dr. Qian happily joined the wedding feast.

Evan wished Oliver well with all his heart.

Another year passed. Oliver had a child of his own. He was a father now. Not long after the birth, Dr. Qian finally retired at the age of eighty-six.

He was a Suzhou native, and retirement meant going home to spend his remaining years there.

Evan and Oliver went to the station to see him off.

On the platform.

Dr. Qian’s family had already carried his luggage onto the train. He stayed behind while Evan and Oliver said goodbye.

Holding the platform’s iron railing, Dr. Qian looked at them and smiled. “What’s all this? Why the long faces? I’m retiring. I can finally rest. Isn’t that something to be happy about?”

Both men lowered their heads, heavyhearted.

Oliver looked up and rubbed his stinging nose. “It’s just… we’ll miss you… Why do you have to go back to Suzhou?”

Dr. Qian smiled and waved a hand. “I was born and raised there. I never did get used to Beijing’s weather or its food. Now that I’m old, I can finally go home. Just thinking about a bowl of three-shrimp noodles in early summer makes me happy.”[3]

“I’ve been longing for that taste for years. I’ve spent my whole life treating people. Now I can finally rest. Go home, stroll through the streets, keep a few birds, have tea at a teahouse, listen to some pingtan. What a pleasant life. Can’t you let me enjoy myself for a few years?”[4]

Oliver scratched his head, embarrassed. “Of course. It’s just hard to see you go.”

Dr. Qian chuckled. “If you miss me, come to Suzhou. I’ll take you both out for hairy crabs.”

“We will! We’ll come often.” Oliver nodded hard.

Evan kept his head down and said nothing.

Dr. Qian looked at him. “Evan, you really must do something about your love life. Oliver’s a father already, and you don’t even have a girlfriend.”

Evan still wouldn’t lift his head.

Oliver glanced at him, then said to Dr. Qian, “Don’t worry, Teacher. I’ll keep an eye on him. I’ll get him and Grace together.”

“Good.” Dr. Qian nodded, smiling.

He looked at them both and sighed softly. “Go on back. You have work to do. With you two in the department, I have nothing to worry about. I can retire in peace.”

“Off you go. It’s time I got on the train.”

He waved, glanced at Evan’s bowed head, and turned toward the train.

His family took his arm and helped him walk slowly toward it.

He was almost aboard when Evan finally lifted his head and called, “Shifu!”

Dr. Qian already had one foot on the carriage step. At the sound of Evan’s voice, he turned at once. Tears were streaming down Evan’s face.

Stolen story; please report.

“Shifu!” Evan cried again, then dropped to his knees with a thud.

People at the station stared in astonishment. Everyone was looking at him.

By the carriage door, Dr. Qian hastily wiped his own eyes. His face set, he waved once more, then hauled himself onto the train.

There had been a time when Evan thought his life was over. Dr. Qian had given him another chance: he could still be a doctor, still be a true practitioner of Chinese medicine.

He had always regarded Dr. Qian as his master. That cry, and his kneeling, were the long-delayed ceremony acknowledging it.[5]

Dr. Qian settled into retirement in Suzhou. Evan and Oliver made time to visit him several times a year. But work kept them terribly busy. Their reputations grew, and more and more patients registered to see them.

They hardly had time to rest. However busy they were, though, they kept to the same habit: treating patients by day and reading by night.

Another four years passed. Oliver’s child was nearly through kindergarten, and Evan was still single. Oliver worried endlessly about him. People at the hospital even began to wonder if there was something wrong with him!

Grace, who had joined the gynecology department at the same time as them, still loved Evan. She had remained unmarried all these years, waiting for him.

Oliver had tried to persuade him many times.

Evan had talked it over with Grace, turning her down again and again, sometimes openly, sometimes by implication. But as long as he neither married nor found a girlfriend, she refused to give up hope.

He didn’t know what else to do.

All he could say was that he didn’t want to get married.

Still, Grace waited, hopelessly in love.

Evan and Oliver continued to excel, and the hospital intended to promote them. Just as their promotions were approaching, they received a phone call.

Dr. Qian was dying.

They immediately put aside all their work and rushed to Suzhou.

They hurried to the Qian family home. His family said he had been waiting for them for a long time, and they ran inside.

Dr. Qian was propped up in bed, his face unnaturally flushed. He beckoned when he saw them. Both hurried forward and took his hands.

“Shifu.”

“Shifu.”

Their eyes brimmed with tears.

He held their hands and smiled. “You… came…”

Both nodded hard.

“Did you ask for leave?” he asked with another smile. “You haven’t sneaked off, have you? They might dock your pay.”

Looking at him, they couldn’t hold back their tears.

Dr. Qian shook his head. “What are you crying for? You’re grown men. Any child who saw you would laugh. You never cried when I used to scold you two little rascals.”

Oliver didn’t know what to say. He kept wiping his eyes.

Dr. Qian smiled, then his breathing suddenly grew harsh. He panted like an ox, and sweat glistened like oil on his forehead. He wiped it away and said between labored breaths, “Panting like an ox, sweating like oil. My time has come.”[6]

“Shifu,” Oliver cried in anguish.

“Don’t cry.” Dr. Qian tightened his grip on Oliver’s hand.

“Shifu, is there anything you’re still worried about?” Evan asked, choking back sobs.

Dr. Qian slowly shook his head. Breathing hard, he said, “Evan… I don’t know why… but I know you’ve always shut yourself away. From now on… don’t keep closing yourself off… Smile more… Look at the people around you…”

He tightened his grip on their hands and spoke slowly. “What I’m proudest of… in my whole life… isn’t how many patients I’ve treated… It’s having two such fine disciples. With you here… I can worry a little less about the future of Chinese medicine.”

Tears streamed down both men’s faces.

The light in Dr. Qian’s eyes began to fade. With the last of his strength, he asked, “Evan… there’s something I’ve always wondered. Back when you were being assigned to a mentor… why did you slap yourself? Were you really swatting a mosquito?”

Still crying, Evan suddenly laughed. “I wanted to get your attention!”

“Heh… heh…” Two faint laughs came from Dr. Qian’s throat. His mouth slowly widened into a smile, and he gently closed his eyes.

A small, contented smile lingered at the corners of his mouth.

Reader Notes

↩︎ Disciples and seniority. Becoming a physician’s disciple means entering a personal relationship of instruction and transmission, beyond simply being assigned to observe a senior doctor. Evan is the shixiong, the senior fellow disciple: this is a place within the same teacher’s lineage, rather than a claim that the two men are blood relatives or that Evan is older. The medical source describes learning a mentor’s ideas and practical experience; its modern administrative requirements are not rules for this historical scene. Sources: Ministry of Education — Shixiong (in Chinese); National Administration of Traditional Chinese Medicine — Clinical mentorship, articles 3 and 6 (in Chinese).↩︎ “Feudal” customs and factions. These are political accusations in the narrator’s explanation of why the relationship is kept quiet. Personal allegiance to a master could be described in those terms; the passage does not identify a particular regulation. It should not be read as evidence that all clinical apprenticeship was forbidden in 1979. Beijing Daily’s own historical archive records organized placement of disciples with senior physicians by 1978. The novel’s caution about a personal bond and that documented institutional practice should be kept distinct. Source: Beijing Daily — Its archival account of medical apprenticeship, section 2 (in Chinese).↩︎ Three-shrimp noodles. Sanxia mian is a seasonal Suzhou specialty. “Three” refers to three parts of the shrimp used in the topping—meat, roe, and the rich material from the head, often called shrimp “brain” in English descriptions—not three individual shrimp or three species. It is associated with the short early-summer season when local freshwater shrimp carry roe. Dr. Qian is imagining a familiar taste of home; the scene does not show him eating it or establish the date of his journey. Source: iSuzhou, via Our Jiangsu — Three-shrimp noodles.↩︎ Pingtan. This is Suzhou’s local storytelling tradition, performed principally in the Suzhou dialect. The name includes pinghua, spoken storytelling, and tanci, which combines speaking and singing. Its pleasures include narrative detail, humor, characterization, and the sound of the local language. Here, going to hear a few passages belongs to Dr. Qian’s picture of an unhurried retirement at home. It does not imply a particular play, venue, performer, or performance he has already attended. Source: Suzhou Intangible Cultural Heritage Office — Pingtan art (in Chinese).↩︎ Shifu. A direct address to the teacher or master who has passed on a field of knowledge or skill. It is retained here to distinguish the personal relationship from “Director Qian,” the workplace title, and the more general “Teacher” used in private. Evan’s cry publicly names that bond. The narrator identifies the cry and his kneeling as a delayed acknowledgment of discipleship; this interpretation belongs to the story, rather than establishing a compulsory ceremony for all medical apprentices. Source: Ministry of Education — Shifu (in Chinese).↩︎ “Sweating like oil.” Traditional Chinese medical descriptions of juehan or tuohan use profuse, beadlike or oil-like sweat as language for grave collapse. The comparison describes the sweat’s appearance, not oil emerging from the skin. Dr. Qian reads his own labored breathing and sweating as signs that he is dying; that conclusion remains his statement in this scene. These words alone do not establish a modern diagnosis or a universal test for imminent death. No cause of his final illness is given. Source: Beijing University of Chinese Medicine — Sweating in the Neijing, “Juehan” section (in Chinese).