Chapter 66: The Plaster

Death! What a terrifying concept. In the cardiology department, it was encountered almost daily, capable of happening at any moment. After a week, Zhang Fan had grown numb to it; he had gotten used to it.

Actually, this state of mind was far from ideal. A lack of reverence for death inevitably breeds apathy. Normalization breeds a deficiency in empathy and compassion. Yet, what could be done? In a country with a massive population and so few doctors, what choice did these angels in white coats have but to simply go with the flow?

Many people perceive doctors as cold and ruthless, but this is often just a helpless defense mechanism born from witnessing an overwhelming amount of life and death. They are ordinary human beings, too. When they slip into those white coats, they shoulder responsibilities that the average person can scarcely comprehend.

Human emotional capacity is inherently finite. Facing and witnessing death day after day stretches those emotions thin. No matter how agonizing or heartbreaking the loss is for the grieving family, to the medical staff, it has become all too routine—much like eating and sleeping. This, perhaps, is the ultimate tragedy of being a physician.

When Zhang Fan first confronted death, he felt lost, disoriented, and utterly despondent, as if he had been abruptly hurled down from the clouds. During that period, his dreams were frequently haunted by bloody, gruesome imagery.

Doctors are not omnipotent. More often than not, they feel utterly helpless, completely powerless against the ravages of disease. Yet, they must still face the pleading, hopeful gazes of patients and their families head-on.

This is a trial of the spirit. Once one survives that grueling crucible, a doctor's professional journey truly begins. It marks the transition from an ordinary person or a mere intern into a genuine professional. When people look at him now, the prefix that immediately comes to mind is simply: Doctor.

Life in the cardiology department can be summed up in a few words: tense, cautious, rigorous, and exhausting.

As the engine of the human body, any mishap involving the heart results in fatal consequences. As the mechanics tasked with repairing this engine, cardiologists must keep their nerves strung tight at all times.

In a typical tertiary grade-A hospital, the cardiology emergency room is the largest, equipped with the most comprehensive array of drugs and medical devices. It is a common sight to see two or three medical teams simultaneously resuscitating two or three dying patients.

Medical interns with fragile psychological constitutions couldn't even dream of participating in resuscitation; simply witnessing such a scene without their legs turning to jelly was considered passing the test. These people in white coats were not born with hearts of stone.

It is forged through years of professional training and daily exposure. They have no choice but to toughen up. If they couldn't, if they wept over every lost patient, they wouldn't be able to work at all. They would spend their entire days doing nothing but sitting around crying.

During his sophomore year, Zhang Fan's anatomy professor gave her future doctors a stark warning: the medical profession is not some romantic, idealized fantasy; it requires looking death squarely in the eye. Medical students spend their first year studying foundations, and only in the second year do they encounter disciplines directly related to clinical practice.

That year, the heat was sweltering. The human anatomy lab, sealed up for the entire summer vacation, harbored an atrocious stench. The reek of decaying flesh and formaldehyde permeated the entire building.

A crowd of fresh, naive students excitedly swarmed around a cadaver storage box. Despite the oppressive heat, there were simply too many people—over thirty of them huddled together, eagerly waiting to witness their very first human dissection.

The moment the lid was lifted, a wave of acidic, putrid air rushed forward, revealing a cadaver with its skin peeled away, alternating between red and white. Nobody knew which student lost control first.

Splurt! Someone vomited. The breakfast of tofu pudding, still laced with cilantro and chili flakes—red, white, and green—splattered all over the floor. One person vomiting triggered a chain reaction; all thirty-plus students began to retch. Without exception, the floor was soon littered with milk, chewed-up bread, shredded noodles, and eggs. Miraculously, someone had eaten stinky tofu that morning, and that aroma!

With over thirty people vomiting simultaneously inside a sealed room, the atmosphere was overwhelmingly pungent.

The anatomy professor had wisely slipped outside well in advance. She knew this first lesson would not be easy, but it was a rite of passage they all had to endure. From that day onward, their human anatomy classes meant sitting closely around corpses for two whole years.

Eventually, they became so desensitized that they could casually eat instant noodles right next to a cadaver. It wasn't out of disrespect, but out of sheer resignation. If you couldn't even clear this hurdle, you might as well switch majors early on. Medicine was not for you, and you shouldn't waste your own time or endanger future patients.

In the cardiology department, the task Zhang Fan performed most frequently was writing medical records and running electrocardiograms for patients. The pharmacological agents used in cardiology were extraordinarily complex, and even after a week, Zhang Fan had yet to master them all. Without the reinforcement of a system, he was just an ordinary man.

The other two young women outperformed him. After all, they had already rotated through several departments on the internal medicine floor. If you fall behind, you simply have to catch up; you can't just sit around waiting for a system to activate. Read the books. If reading once doesn't work, read twice; if that's still not enough, read a third time. You just have to grind through it.

Back in the dormitory after work, he would study and read. His pace was steady, and by combining theory with clinical observations, the results were excellent. He picked up the foundational subjects he had previously let slip—physiology, biochemistry, pathology; not a single one could be omitted. Missing even a single subject meant failing to comprehend why a specific treatment was administered or how a disease formed.

Medicine is a discipline that heavily relies on a chain of interconnected knowledge. A missing link creates a flaw, making it impossible to understand the principles of a disease or effectively treat the patient.

Shaohua's mother was feeling much better lately; the restorative effects of Zhang Fan's massages were remarkably evident. Toward evening, her mother came to see Zhang Fan alone. Over the past few days, Shaohua had always accompanied her, and not seeing Shaohua left Zhang Fan feeling a faint ripple of disappointment.

"Dr. Zhang, thank you so much! I've been feeling a lot better lately. Look, I can even lift my arm now, and it doesn't hurt nearly as much." As she spoke, she raised her arm to demonstrate for Zhang Fan.

"That's great. You must have been doing your exercises at home, too, right? My treatments alone wouldn't produce such great results."

"That's right. I do the wall-climbing exercises you taught me every day." With that, she pulled a box of medicated plasters out of her handbag. "Dr. Zhang, take a look at this. A neighbor introduced this to me. They say it's practically miraculous—a paralyzed patient reportedly stood right up after applying just a few boxes. I didn't believe it, but she insisted I give it a try."

Zhang Fan took the box and inspected it. The ingredients consisted mainly of safflower, musk, and similar traditional herbs. "Auntie, these medicated plasters have a certain blood-activating effect, but their impact on your scapulohumeral periarthritis is marginal at best."

"I don't know, our neighbor made it sound like absolute magic, and a single box costs over a hundred yuan."

"Auntie, you should stick to your regular exercises and come in for your massages on schedule. You don't need these plasters for now. Why didn't Shaohua come with you? Does she feel comfortable letting you come all by yourself?"

"I'm almost fully recovered, so there's nothing to worry about. She's working overtime today, seems like she has to deal with some upper-level inspection. She's busy every single day."

"Oh!" Zhang Fan felt a sense of relief; he had been worried that Shaohua was actively avoiding him. Although the two of them hadn't made much romantic headway over the past few days, Zhang Fan always proactively initiated conversational topics with Shaohua while administering her mother's treatments.

Speaking of medicated plasters, a peculiar rumor had been circulating in the market recently. Someone paralyzed for a decade had allegedly used a certain brand of plaster and was miraculously able to stand up and walk again. Setting aside the medical efficacy for a moment, after ten years of paralysis, muscles inevitably atrophy. Without prolonged, intensive muscle rehabilitation, standing up and walking immediately is impossible—unless the person is a robot built of solid steel.

Yet, many elderly people firmly believed these claims, and this particular brand of plaster was touted as a cure-all. Coughing? Stick it on your throat. Headaches? Stick it on your temples. Stomachaches? Stick it on your abdomen.

Some ailments resolve themselves naturally without any treatment, but certain elderly individuals would swear by it: "I had a cold, applied two plasters, and I was cured. No injections, no pills, and it just went away. It really works."

Costing over a hundred yuan a box, spending a bit of money was no big deal, but delaying proper medical treatment for a serious condition was entirely another matter. Imperfect as China's medical industry might be, in the span of just a few decades, it managed to elevate the nation's average life expectancy from the thirties to over seventy—an achievement to which the medical sector contributed immeasurably.

The cardiology department was exceptionally busy. The transition from winter to spring was prime season for colds and viral infections, which in turn triggered chain reactions leading to heart failure. With a high volume of hospitalized patients, many lacked permanent beds and had to be temporarily accommodated in the hallways while waiting for vacancies.

When patient numbers surge, incidents are bound to happen. Ren Li emphasized this at every morning meeting, keeping everyone's nerves on edge. Ye Jing was reaching her breaking point as well; had it not been for Zhang Fan's assistance, she would have already applied for annual leave.

Yet, despite taking every conceivable precaution, a disaster struck in the ward under Ye Jing's direct care—and it was a major one. Ye Jing completely broke down on the spot.