The Art of Pain (True Story)

5. Disowned in China

[Tianjin Binhai International Airport, September 2014]

It was 7.30am. My mother and I had just alighted at Tianjin Binhai International Airport from our six-hour Scoot flight. After retrieving our luggages, we took a breather at terminal one's KFC. 

Stepping into a foreign country with the cooling weather was surreal for me. It marked my first departure from tropical Singapore in seven years, a refreshing change indeed.

"Hello! You must be Daphne. My name is Zixia, Doctor Wang's sister." A Chinese lady with short curly hair spoke to us in Mandarin. She sported a black coat, jeans, and vibrant red sneakers. 

After a brief introduction, Zixia kindly assisted us in getting a trolley for our luggages and hailing a cab. The forty-minute ride whisked us away to Nankai district, where our hotel and hospital were located. 

Zixia had booked a hotel for us, Rujia Hotel, diagonally across a roundabout from Tianjin First Central Hospital. While its exterior appeared yellowish and aged, the rooms proved to be quite decent. 

Once we settled into our triple-bed room, Zixia boiled water to sterilize the toilet. Meanwhile, I unpacked my luggage, ensuring to set aside two days' worth of manual dialysate bags. I had to do four dialysis exchanges throughout the day.

After we had refreshed up, we quickly made our way to the hospital at noon. I had to register at the counter before seeing a kidney specialist at the outpatient clinic. What shocked me was the lack of a queue system. The locals entered into the doctor's room at will, a stark contrast to Singapore's strict rules. 

I found myself discussing my issues with the kidney specialist alongside four patients standing around me. I presented my latest medical report that I had brought over from Singapore. 

Unfortunately, the specialist couldn't understand my English report and spoke in very profound Mandarin terms that I couldn't understand either. Zixia came to the rescue, translating my report into Mandarin for him. He keyed some lines into his computer and called it a day. 

Next, we rode the lift to Doctor Cui's office on the eighth floor for our first meeting. En route, my mother reminded me of Doctor Wang's advice - to portray ourselves as Chinese locals.  Though reluctant, I knew I had to play along with the charade. 

As we knocked and entered the room, we saw two doctors clad in pristine white coats - one behind a desk engrossed in his laptop, the other sat on a nearby sofa.

"You must be Daphne. I am Doctor Cui." The doctor stood up from the sofa and shook our hands. With a gesture, he directed us to the sofa, shifting himself to a chair nearby. 

"By the way," Doctor Cui looked at the other doctor across the room, "He is Doctor Huang, a kidney transplant surgeon. I invited him to join our discussion." 

Doctor Huang had a huge frame, furrowed brows, and exuded an air of solemnity. He invited me to take a seat before his desk. 

There, he delved into a thorough interrogation about the causes of my kidney failure and the intricacies of my peritoneal dialysis process. Thankfully, I had memorised some important Chinese medical terms and communicated fairly well with him. 

As Doctor Huang began filling out a registration form for my organ transplantation, he inquired about my nationality. Panic seized me.

"I'm from Fujian." I hastily fibbed, turning around to seek confirmation from my mother. She echoed "Fujian" with an awkward laugh. 

Doctor Huang further probed into my home address in China. My mother lied that I was staying in my relative's house, while nudging Zixia's arm for a concoctive response.