The Rhythm of Life

The hospital corridors are always plastered with thank-you letters and commendation banners.

To her, the hospital isn't merely a building—it's more like a city that never sleeps. The corridor lights glow in perpetually cool white, like washed-out moonlight, evenly spilling across walls and floors. To outsiders, light might feel cold, but she says, “These sounds, these lights, they actually give me peace of mind.” The lights are never alone, accompanying the lights are the steady beeps of monitors and the low hum of ventilators—a symphony of life and machinery.

She speaks of the operating room, likening it to a stage where actors share only brief lines, communicating through precise movements and silent glances. ECMO intubation, open-heart surgery, each procedure is a battle for life. Yet her description remains calm: " When performing ECMO, my mind focuses solely on the steps and rhythm, it's like dancing with the team." Listening, I sensed the effortlessness in her words, yet imagined the sweat-soaked face beneath her mask. It was a different kind of dance, one where focus and composure were exchanged for the gift of life.

She also spoke of the ward. Machines, tubes, rumpled sheets, and the scent of disinfectant filled the space. She moved from bed to bed, bending to examine, fingers lightly touching tubing, ears straining for faint mechanical sounds. “The hardest part isn't the surgery,” she said, “it's facing the families' eyes.” She paused, as if recalling those gazes. “They crave a definite answer, but most of the time, these lives aren't something we can save by giving a percentage. All I can say is, we'll do our best.” I remember her voice was soft when she said that. Behind that softness lay the helplessness of unfulfillable promises, and the commitment to do everything possible.

Her life rarely allowed for a proper lunch. She  laughed once, saying, “Sometimes eating feels like it's evolved out of existence.” I could picture her picking up her chopsticks, only to be summoned by an urgent phone call before she could swallow a single bite. She said it with a playful tone, but I knew it masked countless races against time.

Even at night, the hospital never truly slept. She placed her phone beside her pillow like an alarm ready to sound at any moment. She told me, “Doctors don't really have off-hours.” That statement stunned me, more profound than any siren could be.

Her life wasn't carved by the clock, but guided by the patient's heartbeat. Day and night, to her, were merely different shades of light. I once asked if she ever felt exhausted. She shook her head, dismissing it with a casual, “I'm used to it.” No complaint, no pride. She recounted those scenes matter-of-factly, as if it were just an ordinary job. But I could hear it in her voice; her calmness was a hardened resolve, tempered by countless emergency calls.

From left to right: Doctor Shilei, Me, Assistant Dean of the hospital

Throughout our fifteen-minute conversation, she used only ordinary words: “checking machines,” “repeating procedures,” “explaining conditions.” Yet within those words, I saw another kind of weight: those cold numbers gain warmth because someone watches over them; that endless rushing gains hope because someone persists. 

Her day wasn't a linear timeline but a chain of fragments. The light in the operating room, the gaze in the ward, chopsticks set down at the dinner table, the phone screen glowing in the dead of night. Piece by piece, she wove these fragments together into her life, and that life bore the name “doctor.” 

As I chronicled her day, I realized that behind those white corridors and cold instruments lies a passageway guarded by every medical worker with their very lives at stake.

Broad compassion, pursuit of excellence. 

Dear Ruijin Hospital, I have returned once more to the place where I was born, not only to thank them, but to tell their story.