Chapter 67: The Lightness of Being

In the Department of Cardiology, one always hears a sentence like this: One of my regular patients is never coming back. Those who hear it do not ask where they have gone. Instead, they fall silent, and with a heavy sigh, offer the most common remark: Ah, yes.

To outsiders, it sounds quite bizarre—what on earth does that mean? Never coming back means they have departed, journeyed to another world where perhaps there is no more suffering from illness.

Although Ye Jing lacked a bit of initiative, she was genuinely good to her patients. She was unhurried and composed, always smiling, talkative, and fond of chatting with patients about everyday household matters, which made her very popular among the elderly.

Many of her regular patients would insist on staying in the beds under her care upon arrival, and once their conditions improved slightly, they would come to her for a chat. She was frequently surrounded by a large cluster of old men and women, exchanging idle gossip.

Ren Li disliked this kind of scene. She did not want doctors to have excessive contact with patients that was unrelated to their treatment, as it would affect the professional therapeutic relationship. She was the Ouyang of Unit Two—quite stern, where one plus one always equalled two, and she would never be all smiles like Ye Jing.

In Ye Jing's words, the driving motivation that allowed her to keep going was having a group of elderly men and women revolving around her; if even this bit of vanity were stripped away, what meaning would there be in practicing this profession? To be cold and icy all day long lacked any trace of human warmth.

A sense of accomplishment—this was precisely a sense of accomplishment.

The wards were packed to capacity, with hospital beds lining the corridors. Patients and family members were everywhere. During the morning rounds, the hallways were so congested it was impossible to move.

At the morning meeting, Ren Li flared up in anger. "With so many family members of patients crowding the area, if an emergency occurs, staff cannot even arrive in time, let alone talk about resuscitation. How can normal treatment work proceed under these circumstances? Head Nurse, starting today, implement double-shift nursing duties, increase the number of nursing aides, and clear all family members out of the ward area. Only one family member is allowed to stay by the side of critically ill patients."

This, too, was a helpless measure. The city hospital possessed the strongest cardiology department in the entire municipality, and everyone flocked toward the premier experts and superior treatment conditions. Turning anyone away was out of the question, leaving only this option.

Increasing the number of nursing aides meant raising the cost of treatment. These expenses were not covered by medical insurance. Families with genuinely limited financial means might be forced to leave and seek treatment at other hospitals.

Ren Li was not cruel; this was simply the only resort left. Should a critical emergency arise, how could anyone attempt resuscitation with a corridor full of people? A failure to rescue in time was a matter of life and death within minutes. Therefore, money had to do the talking.

Bed Number Three was occupied by a regular patient who was not very old—in his early fifties—yet his medical history was extensive. Suffering from hypertension, coronary heart disease, cor pulmonale, chronic bronchitis, and diabetes, he possessed virtually every chronic illness imaginable.

He was one of Ye Jing's veteran patients, having been hospitalized on and off for seven or eight years since his very first admission. He was also a chatterbox who loved conversing with Ye Jing. Because of his cor pulmonale, he suffered from suffocating breathlessness, sometimes even relying on an oxygen mask. Yet whenever he managed to catch his breath, he would insist on talking.

At the onset of this spring, another heavy snowfall struck, causing temperatures that had begun to warm up to plummet by several degrees. After catching a cold, his condition deteriorated sharply, and he was transferred directly to the intensive care unit, where a critical condition notice was issued.

The old man, usually so cheerful, showed little will to survive this time and had no desire to speak. His ashen complexion was tinged with an unmistakable aura of impending death. His elderly wife wore an expression of profound sorrow.

They had three children—two sons and a daughter. Over the past few years of the old man's illness, the family's meager savings had been largely depleted. Their younger son was over thirty, and after great difficulty, he had finally found a partner and prepared to marry. The daughter had only one demand: she refused to live with the elderly parents and insisted on a bridal home.

The children were getting older, and the couple constantly worried about their wedding arrangements. The elderly pair grew anxious as well, tossing and turning through entire nights without sleep. Finally, there was a young woman willing to marry their son, but she required a house. Pressed with burning anxiety, the old man's condition grew even graver.

"Auntie, we need to infuse some albumin; his levels are far too low. Look, the old master has started swelling these past few days," Ye Jing said to the old woman while looking at the biochemical lab sheet.

Albumin is the primary substance for maintaining bodily nutrition and osmotic pressure, while globulin constitutes a class of substances with immune-protective functions. The albumin-to-globulin ratio holds significant clinical importance.

It was also expensive, costing over seven hundred yuan per vial. A full course of treatment required many vials, and the exact quantity depended on his recovery progress. Judging by the old man's condition, it would take at least five or six days.

The old woman's lips quivered as she said, "I'll call the children."

"Hah! Hah!" The old man lying on the bed labored behind his oxygen mask, frantically waving his hand. It meant he refused, and told her not to call the children either. Yet his condition was desperately severe; he could not simply lie in a hospital bed waiting to die.

The old woman stepped forward, tucked in his blanket, and said, "Alright, don't get upset. I won't make the call, and in a few days, we'll go home. You must not worry or let yourself get agitated. Your illness cannot handle stress. Just lie here quietly, and I'll see Dr. Ye out."

Once outside the ward, the old woman looked at Ye Jing as if wanting to say something, but ultimately kept silent. Ye Jing knew the family's situation was poor, yet she had no other viable solutions.

After hesitating for a long time, the old woman looked back through the glass on the door at her old husband, then finally took out her phone: "Daughter, the doctor says your father needs an albumin infusion; his face has even started swelling. Speak with the eldest son; if nothing else works, let's infuse it for a few days. Seeing him suffer like this breaks my heart." As she spoke, she began to cry silently, shedding soundless tears.

That afternoon, her daughter brought over a little more than five thousand yuan. "Infuse it. The rest of us will figure out something else; there's always a solution. Tonight, let the youngest come relieve you so you can go home and rest. I don't want you collapsing from exhaustion just because my father has fallen ill."

"I'm fine. The youngest has been looking for a part-time job these past few days and is already exhausted."

Five thousand yuan was at best enough for two days of treatment. What about after two days? The old woman was completely worn out, keeping vigil by the bedside day and night. After receiving the albumin infusion, the old man slept much more peacefully; otherwise, the moment he drifted off, he would wake up gasping for air.

That night, the old woman dozed off slumped against the bedside, so fatigued she was snoring softly. The old man suddenly opened his eyes, gently stroked the old woman's hair, and gazed at her for a long time. This woman who had spent a lifetime by his side had never enjoyed a day of ease, devoting herself entirely to caring for him. She saved all the best food for him while keeping herself as thin as a dry twig.

"I can no longer be a burden to them. She and the children have had it hard enough," he thought to himself.

He quietly climbed out of bed and painstakingly draped a jacket over his wife—this was the last thing he could ever do for her. Taking a long, deep breath, he whispered, *In the next life, I hope you marry a capable man. If there is another life, I will surely never drag you down again.*

He looked back at his wife slumped beside the bed and said softly, "My child's mother, I am going ahead." His expression was serene and resolute. Stepping onto a stool, he pushed open the window. On the twentieth floor, the wind was fierce—truly, the wind was fierce. He cast his body downward.

Thump! A dull thud.

He was gone! He had left.

"I only dozed off for just a little while... why did he have to be so foolish? How am I supposed to go on living? You have such a cruel heart. Oh, my heart!" The old woman wept in absolute agony.

Relatives supported the old woman, who had fainted several times already. The exhaustion of the past few days, coupled with the devastating blow, caused her to collapse. They had supported each other through wind and rain for a lifetime, yet halfway along the road, he had fled, leaving behind solitude and endless sorrow.

Deaths in a hospital were normal—entirely normal occurrences. But jumping from a building to commit suicide had never happened before at the municipal hospital. The police, the medical affairs department, the administrative office, logistics, and security—every official in charge arrived.

The family did not make a scene, nor did they hang banners or set up a mourning hall in the cardiology department. They simply departed quietly. Carrying the belongings of her husband and their children's father, she went home in silence, leaving not a shred of resentment toward the hospital.

Yet the hospital could not simply let the matter rest. Why had he jumped? The doctors and nurses on duty that day, along with his primary physician Ye Jing, were all suspended pending an internal investigation.

The police first questioned Ye Jing, the attending doctor, and the nurses to understand the situation. Then, the department director had a conversation with Ye Jing, asking what had been said over the past few days and whether there had been any extreme behavior. The medical records were immediately sealed and confiscated for inspection by the hospital leadership.

Next, the director of the medical affairs department summoned Ye Jing. "Did you hint at anything? Did you say anything that might have driven the patient to suicide?"

Finally came Ouyang, the president of the hospital, who systematically discredited Ye Jing, dismantling her performance from the day she entered the department until she appeared utterly worthless.

Writing endlessly—she had to write out the sequence of events, documenting the progression of the past few days. Tears streaming down her face, Ye Jing wrote as she wept. The doctors in the department shared a collective sentiment of sorrow for one of their own, yet they could only offer sympathy, utterly powerless to help.

How would this matter be resolved? Whose fault was it? Who should be punished? The situation was glaringly obvious. At the absolute minimum, Ye Jing would receive a major disciplinary demerit; at worst, her medical license might well be revoked.

The director of the medical affairs department also sought out Zhang Fan to inquire about the treatment process over the past few days—specifically whether Dr. Ye had said or done anything improper. The matter had little direct relation to Zhang Fan, as Ye Jing was his supervising instructor. She had to shoulder everything; the good and the bad alike were entirely her responsibility.

That night in the dormitory, Zhang Fan lay on his bed, gazing out at the brilliantly illuminated lights outside as an overwhelming wave of exhaustion washed over him. What on earth was all of this for?