北京时间1月8日，国际四大医学期刊之一的《柳叶刀》（The Lancet）（IF=60.39）发布了2020年威克利·伍连德奖，今年的获奖文章来自南昌大学的二年级医学生韦芊。文章题为《你也有隐秘的角落吗？》Do you also have a hidden corner?
《柳叶刀》发表评论文章称，作为一名将被训练成为医生的年轻人，韦芊回顾了自己在这个特殊的时期所经历的过程和内心的挣扎，这篇文章不仅让每位医疗卫生工作者所作出的牺牲闪耀了光芒，而且还完美体现了中国所有医务人员在开始接受医学教育时所做的誓言的意义。通过这篇文章，我们希望能够激励下一代医疗卫生工作者，并激发对中国医学教育转型和改革的思考。
Do you also have a hidden corner?
Qian Wei
As I write about the hidden corner that has been revealed in myself, 400 days have passed since my father slammed the door in my face. 400 days ago, I declared my undergraduate major on the National College Entrance Examination form; all of my choices were clinical medicine, and not a single one was related to engineering. My father, a robotics engineering expert, was full of despair that his daughter had no interest in following his line of work.
Sept 12, 2019, was the first time I stood opposite the main gate of the Medical College of Nanchang University, in Norman Bethune Square, where the college motto— high morality and medical expertise—was carved out in huge Chinese characters. At 7 AM on that sunny day, looking up at the national flag and holding my right hand in a fist, I took the oath to enter medical school: I will dedicate myself to medicine, be loyal to the people, abide by medical ethics... I was officially a medical student. Without the COVID-19 pandemic, I would have naively thought that the journey to becoming a doctor is not a difficult one. Yet, the past few months have shone a light on a hidden corner in my heart.
On Jan 13, 2020, I went home for the winter holidays. Looking back now, that day was not far from the start of the COVID-19 outbreak. At the time, I was mostly preoccupied with fending off my father’s various tactics to convince me to change my major. I had expected the hard work and exhaustion that come with studying medicine, especially as I was studying for a dual Chinese and English degree. Not long after I started my freshman year, I already felt the burden from my demanding course. But determined to prove to my father that I could succeed against his wishes, I worked hard and made it through my first semester at medical school. I went home thinking that I only had to put up with his nagging for a month at most, before I could escape again. I had not anticipated that the winter break would last for 4 months.
Soon after, Wuhan went into a city-wide lockdown, my neighbourhood was also in lockdown and required permits for entries and exits, the holidays were extended, and a second semester on campus was looking less and less likely. My family had planned to go to Guizhou during Chinese New Year to visit my grandfather, whom I had not seen for many years, but that trip had to be cancelled. On the phone, my grandfather comforted me, saying that it would be just as nice if we visit him next year. None of us could have foreseen the consequences of that decision.
The outbreak spread rapidly. On Chinese New Year’s Eve (Jan 24), many health workers travelled to Wuhan to support the epidemic response. A poetry recitation of Love is a Bridge was added to the annual Spring Festival Gala on TV to inspire solidarity during this time of crisis. After watching the programme, my father suddenly asked me, “Wuhan has a shortage of medical staff; can you medical students help?”
I said, “No, because we do not have the medical licence yet.”
“During this exceptional period, can’t medical students help after some basic training? After all, you are more knowledgeable than ordinary citizens”, my father said.
I could not be bothered to explain further, but thought about the enormous gap between medical students and doctors. If doctors could be trained so quickly, why do I need to study for at least 10 years to become one?
On Feb 12, our residential compound was closed off. The process of entering and leaving became cumbersome, involving disinfection, temperature checks, and the issuance of permits. When the lockdown began, my father’s first reaction was not to rush to buy groceries, but to ask me to volunteer as a community worker in our neighbourhood, helping with temperature checks and disinfection at the entrance of our residential compound. His reason was again—you are a medical student.
I froze for a second. Fear and panic arose in me—for the first time, I saw that hidden corner in myself.
“I’m not going! Being exposed to so many people every day, how high is the probability of getting infected? Do medical students have a stronger immune system than others?”, I retorted.
On Feb 16, news began spreading about a confirmed case in the neighbourhood and a suspected case in the residential compound where we lived. My father asked me again to volunteer as a community worker, telling me that, as a medical student, I should take up this responsibility and not be afraid. I thought, “This is clearly moral coercion! Are medical students not allowed to be afraid? Why should we go to the frontlines? I am a medical student—not a doctor.” I was convinced by a voice from that hidden corner and used online classes as an excuse to put off volunteering. As the days passed, my father kept asking me to volunteer, but he no longer mentioned anything about switching majors.
By March 1, the epidemic was under control in most cities in China. The Ministry of Education allowed medical students to resume classes on campus earlier. I began to doubt myself—“Why are medical students going back to university ahead of other students? Do medical students really have to take on more responsibility than others?”
In the early morning of March 28, we received the unexpected news that my grandfather, who had always been in good health, had passed away at 4 AM. For the past 2 weeks, he had been experiencing symptoms such as ascites and vomiting, but insisted on staying at homebecause he was afraid of getting COVID-19 if he went to the hospital. When he finally sought medical help, he was diagnosed with late-stage pancreatic cancer, and died after only 3 days.
My family bought tickets for the first high-speed train and rushed to Guizhou. No one spoke during the entire journey. My grandfather was buried 2 days later. Infection control measures dictated that only ten people could enter the funeral home and the cemetery. Many relatives and friends could only accompany us to the entrance of the funeral home. No proper funeral could be held; no one wailed in the cemetery. The atmosphere was quiet, restrained, and sad. The burial ceremony was reduced to the bare minimum, and the customs of visiting the grave on the third day and seventh day after burial also had to be cancelled. During the entire process, no one complained about the restrictions. From city dwellers to villagers, the youngest to the oldest, everyone showed compliance and understanding.
On March 31, I insisted on returning home on my own. When I took my oath to enter medical school, I firmly believed that I would become a good doctor. But when the outbreak hit, not only was I unable to make sacrifices for the greater good, but I could not even take care of my own family. If I had paid more attention to my grandparents’ health, perhaps my grandfather’s illness would have been discovered earlier and my father would not have the regret of not being able to visit him at all the year before his passing.
When I arrived home, the TV channels broadcasted the various pandemic response efforts across the country— from doctors and nurses working in the major hospitals to community volunteers scattered across neighbourhoods, many people have made sacrifices. What is in my hidden corner? Why did it stop me from stepping out time and time again?
I had happily walked the 800 m between my dormitory and Norman Bethune Square at medical school. Yet, I had not even taken a single step to walk the 80 m between my home and the entrance of my residential compound. I realised that the cowardice, fear, and panic in my hidden corner are not unique to me. The frontline health workers probably have the same feelings too, but they have learnt to overcome these struggles to fulfil their responsibilities. Yet, although I had taken the same oath as they did, I have not lived it out. The 10 years of medical training is not just about acquiring clinical knowledge, but also about developing this state of mind. Although Dr Yong Tao at Beijing Chaoyang Hospital was attacked and stabbed by an angry patient, he returned to the clinic as soon as he could. Although Dr Nanshan Zhong is already in his eighties, he was one of the first to go to Wuhan at the beginning of the outbreak. Cultivating selfsacrifice and the love for humanity will be a lifelong lesson for me.
Today, the sun is shining, and the warm breeze is the same as ever. Markets and restaurants are bustling again. That corner in me is still there, but life goes on too…
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