Translated by Hinh
Acute inflammation arrives like this—swiftly, and there is nothing I can do about it, just as I cannot argue against the quality and conditions of this life. What I mean is: amid all this noise, the gastrointestinal organs tend to be emotionally sensitive. I cannot control the chronic gastric ulcers that have plagued me for years, and naturally I cannot fend off the acute appendicitis that came knocking.
Perhaps this is not an extraordinary illness, but pain and suffering are so often downplayed and ignored. Though it is a minor surgery, I must summon every ounce of strength to survive it.
Sometimes I wonder: why is a person’s life nothing but resistance? Or perhaps my brain has filtered and preserved only the painful memories, as fuel to kindle the will to keep going.
A blog should not become a tedious outlet for venting, so I will spare it a specific example.
Is it the indifference of being abandoned? Or the despair of walking down the street with an open wound? Is it the countless arguments—family members clashing with the nurses’ station until the hospital wants to throw me out?
From the perspective of communication, many people are pre-logical; they communicate through emotion. I explain the reimbursement plan, and the reply I get is: “I have money—don’t insult me with your reimbursement talk.” How does one deal with such a person? I honestly don’t know either.
Acute appendicitis—not exactly trivial, not exactly grave.
At first I chose conservative treatment. There was someone very kind who stayed by my side throughout. On the back seat of an electric scooter in winter, the wind grazing my cheeks was not cold. I exhaled a puff of grey-white breath; the bright moon hung mercilessly high in the sky. And so I gazed upward, watching clouds drift across the night, on my way to the IV drip.
The doctor was a trendy young man—every other day his perm looked different, making his already sparse hair seem even thinner. And that iPhone 17 Pro Max in his hand. Sitting in the ER really is a form of torment.
By now I have long lost that kind of freedom. Every step I take must pass through a thousandfold tangle of hesitation before I decide which piece to move on the board.
Can you imagine being forced to conceal your medical history and allergies? Because my father believes that admitting to having allergies is an affront to his dignity. But isn’t hiding these things gambling with your life? To speak is death; to stay silent is also death—so speaking is the wiser choice.
This kind of anguish lingers in the mind, turning into one sleepless night after another, a throbbing abdomen, and ultimately acute appendicitis. I was not in so much pain that I couldn’t breathe, but I endured it for four days. The New Year holiday was a grand house arrest—I could not go out, could not do anything outside the prescribed routine, until I found my freedom.
But then I thought: why am I letting someone else’s attitude override my own health? When did I become so brainwashed?
Yes, I think it is fear. I ask myself: what are you afraid of?
That is enough. The question alone suffices; it does not need an answer.
It seems as though refusing to appease those who wield violence is choosing death. But that is false. At this age, no one can kill me so easily anymore.
Defending one’s right to live is right—isn’t it?
What a melodramatic piece! But welcome to my life.
Tomorrow I check into the hospital, and the thing I’m agonizing over is still so strange. Amid violent quarrels, I am about to temporarily place my life in the hands of another group of people—trained professionals, bound by a system.