-Recollection of their stories from years ago years ago.
Considering the weather and road conditions, the clinic used to open at 11 a.m. during the winter and closed early at 5 p.m. Although the hours were shorter, the number of patients and the scenes unfolded remained the same.
The clinic treated a variety of complex and intractable conditions—nerve pain, numbness, and other complex illnesses that both Chinese and Western medicine often found hard to tackle. The key to treating such cases was usually not the technique but the diagnosis itself. By carefully reviewing the patient’s history, conducting thorough examinations, and following every clue, the root of the problem could be uncovered. Often, the effects were visible after just one treatment.
There were patients suffering from headaches and tinnitus caused by tumors, numbness on one side of the face, a loss of taste, and frequent tongue-biting; those who’d had no sensation in one arm for 15 years, despite years of treatment; and those with worsened post-surgery nerve pain, with repeated operations only making things worse. These people endured endless suffering and torment, seeking even the slightest hope.
But only some people who came were truly there for treatment.
There was the elderly farmer whose hands were swollen and inflamed from milking cows but refused to stop working because he had a bedridden wife at home. With his children scattered far and wide, if his hands stopped working, there would be no way to pay for his wife’s care.
Then there was the cowboy, injured in a fight and thrown headfirst into a large wooden barrel. If his neck injury wasn’t healed and he couldn’t go back to work, his wife would leave him and take the kids.
There was the stressed-out woman whose medication no longer worked and whose stomach barely moved. She rushed in and out of the clinic, hoping that relieving her stress would stabilize her emotions enough so she could go home and continue caring for her unpredictable, dementia-stricken husband.
There was the doctor’s wife, whose knee issues from a childhood condition worsened after surgery, leaving her in pain and limping for decades. Her husband, despite being by her side, had never dared to touch her legs. Elegant and well-off, she yearned for the simple joy of driving her children to school and being a more hands-on mother and wife.
And then there was the middle-aged woman who came seeking the continuous thrill she felt when the acupuncture needle hit just right, which gave her a sense of excitement that filled the void left by her husband, who no longer touched her.
Many times, we weren’t treating the illness itself but addressing the needs behind the pain. We provided a space to release stress and emotions, a place where they could speak freely without fear of their privacy being exposed, and where their physical pain was eased. It was more like a “confessional room” for both body and mind.
When patients left, while maintaining medical ethics and strict confidentiality, I often felt like I saw and heard more than a priest in a confessional. I didn’t just see their faces and expressions; I also witnessed the strength and hidden tears behind their polished exteriors—the resilience or the masks they wore.
The West often used the phrase “Walk a mile in my shoes” to express how one couldn’t fully understand someone else’s pain or hardship without experiencing it themselves. Indeed, how a person lived and what their life became wasn’t something outsiders could grasp from a single glance or a brief conversation. The judgments we made, the choices we weighed, the conflicts between reason and emotion, and the gap between reality and ideals… These were not black-and-white matters with fixed answers but rather the delicate balance that, as we aged and experienced life, often shaped the direction of our lives.
For patients seeking treatment, a medical visit was often just a medium. They truly needed the confidence, hope, or emotional support they gained after their visit. Each patient who entered the clinic was like a believer stepping into a confessional. The depth of their relationship with the doctor and what they chose to share depended on their personality and the trust and rapport built between them.
I had been practicing here for four years, not counting my internship, and most of my patients were Americans. Their mindset, behavior, and responses to Chinese medicine differed significantly from those of Taiwanese patients. How did the same “priest” handle different kinds of “parishioners,” and how did I respond to them? That was a story for another time.
Note: I didn’t practice any religion. The use of “priest” and “confessional room” was merely a metaphor to describe my experience. No offense was intended.
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