What is the most difficult hurdle in life, the most insurmountable challenges? In the face of the life- threatening health situation, everything else seems insignificant. Looking back at the past few years, my memories are fragmented, like a dream but the wounds are real.

In 2020, a global pandemic changed the entire world. All the uncertainties impacted everyone, I was no exception. After the pandemic began, my workload increased dramatically, and there was also a staff shortage. My fragile marriage collapsed sooner than expected. The stress was like a volcano ready to erupt. Although I ran and walked to relieve stress, my body reached its limit. It was starting to shut down.

My annual physical checkup in June 2021 was excellent, and my family doctor jokingly told me I was a straight-A student. In early July, after a farewell dinner for my former boss, I vomited the entire meal as soon as I left the restaurant. I suffered from abdominal cramps for several days, and I thought it might be food poisoning. After a few days of rest, my condition did not improve, so the doctor ordered another blood test. My doctor called, urging me to rush to the emergency room without delay. I had severe anemia and needed a blood transfusion immediately. The condition was more serious than I had imagined. I had no clue that I was about to be thrust into a life-and-death struggle—one that would leave me fighting for more than a year to recover.

The CT scan revealed a tumor in my colon, so a colonoscopy was arranged. I vomited out all the prep solutions that I had to drink for the colonoscopy. After a few days of struggling, I had no choice but to undergo a resection surgery.

After the surgery, the surgeon confidently said that the operation was successful. My physical strength drained rapidly, and the vomiting condition did not improve after the operation. The hospital did not take it seriously. It was not until the pain became unbearable that I discovered that the operation had failed. I had to do another surgery. The food was rotten inside my abdomen and I had developed peritonitis. After the operations, my body was swollen and I couldn’t even stand.
My immune system was getting weaker and weaker.As expected, I was infected with COVID-19 during my hospital stay.

I had to be isolated for three weeks. Nobody could hear my voice when I spoke. I called my children, but all I could hear was “Hello, Hello, Hello.” I couldn’t make a sound. I couldn’t even order food or eat by myself. Lying in my isolation bed, I stared at the small window, waiting for someone to open the curtain. I waved for help, and they waved back, then closed it time after time. Looking at the clock ticked away, I felt my life draining. I drifted through one strange dream after another.

After waking up in the rehab, I knew that my friend had advocated for me to be transferred to the ICU. On the second day after being transferred to the ICU , my lungs collapsed. No one thought that I could survive. Peritonitis, sepsis, and lung failure—any one of them could have been fatal. I didn’t know how long I stayed in the ICU, but somehow, I survived.

I saw a photo on my phone. The person in the photo was terribly thin, with unfocused eyesight. It frightened me, so I deleted it. Later, I realized that the person was me- my friend hadn’t even recognized me when I sat in front of them.

Three meals a day were arranged, with a protein shake always slipped in. The hospital was focused on helping me gain weight and regain my strength. I finally got a shower with a covered wound. I looked in the mirror for the first time and didn’t recognize myself. I wobbled unsteadily, like a toddler learning to walk—only with a walker, one hand tugging at my loose, slipping pants.

Alongside physical training, mental exercises became part of my daily routine. Many people who have had COVID-19 struggle with brain fog, so I practiced memorization, read short passages, and worked through simple math problems.

A stubborn bedsore on my tailbone left me struggling to sit or lie down comfortably. One day, after drinking a protein shake, a pink fluid oozed from my wound. The drink had leaked through, and an experienced doctor immediately ordered me to stop eating.

A fistula had formed—from my stomach down to the duodenum—connecting to the wound. I had never even heard of such a thing. I only knew that stomach acid was seeping through the wound, keeping it from healing and leaving it red, swollen, and painfully inflamed.

The doctors and nurses tried every possible method to divert the acid into a drainage bag, but every attempt failed. I was a study case for them. This challenging situation often resulted in more than a dozen people crowding the ward, surrounding me. The pain from dressing changes eventually caught the attention of the rehabilitation doctor, who gently offered to give me a painkiller injection before the next dressing change.

During rehabilitation, my steps became steadier, and I gradually built up the strength to walk longer distances. When the nurse suggested stair-climbing exercises, I thought I might be ready. But even with two nurses supporting me, I couldn’t manage a single step. The realization left me devastated. My progress felt painfully slow, and all I wanted was to go home.

Fluid filled my lungs and had to be urgently drained. My blood pressure dropped to dangerously low levels, and I suffered a severe allergic reaction to the anesthesia. Once again, I found myself in the ICU, my condition rising and falling like a roller coaster. With honest concern in their voices, the doctors told me they had exhausted all available treatments. The doctor recommended transferring me to a larger facility better equipped to handle complex cases like mine.

Transferring to another hospital during the pandemic was difficult, so I narrowed my options to Chicago, Northwestern, or Barnes Jewish Hospital in St. Louis. Finally, I found a bed at Barnes. My children visited me, Sara slipped smiley-faced socks onto my feet and tucked a Teddy bear into my hand. That evening, at 9 p.m. on September 13th, I was taken by ambulance from Champaign and admitted to Barnes before midnight. As the ambulance carried me through the darkness, I was enveloped by fear, uncertainty, and helplessness. My vision gradually blurred in the night.

Dr. Glasgow, a leading expert in intestinal surgery, took charge of my care. Tall and stern, he and his team organized a series of rehabilitation procedures and encouraged me toward recovery. I begged him to remove the fistula as soon as possible. It was too painful. He leaned over and said, “In a year. Do it now, you’ll die. Wait another year.” “A year? I’ve already been in the hospital for two months. Another year? It’s been a long time. What should I do? I wanted to go home. I wished nothing had happened.

A friend told me to confess to my body and say sorry. In that moment, my grief and tears burst out uncontrollably. I apologized for overusing it, for putting too much pressure on it. I eventually went on strike, and this outpouring of emotion alarmed my social worker. Now I had an outlet for my emotions, and I slowly came to terms with the situation.

Friends, neighbors, and family prayed for me, chanted Buddhist scriptures, and sent me energy. I was surrounded by love, which became my driving force to move forward.

One day, the rehabilitation nurse asked, “What else do you want to practice?” I said, “Could I climb stairs?” Before my transfer, I couldn’t even do one. She looked at me confidently and said , “You can do it.” I struggled up the first step, tears streaming with excitement. I did it.

After two weeks at Barnes, I was transferred to Barnes – Jewish Extended Care. Three weeks there were depressing. Due to malnutrition, my hair fell out in clumps, turning from black to a sparse, fine white. It was severely tangled, so I asked the caregiver to trim the tangles. The first time I stepped on the scale, I weighed 82 pounds, about 38 kilograms. No one was able to care for my wound. I kept showing the video to the nurse, but they couldn’t properly bandage the wound, and the nurse often ignored my requests for help.

Insurance in the US is complicated, and even the doctor’s medical report wasn’t filled out, leaving me with huge bills. I kept contacting the doctor and the office staff, but they evaded me. Finally, I decided to go home and find a home care. I had been away from home for over three months.

On October 23rd, I returned home. Sara helped me trim my thinning hair. She secretly told me to look at my daughter’s painting sometime. The gray-blue painting showed a patient lying helplessly on an IV drip. Her worries were captured in the painting, and being home would help us feel less anxious.

Pain was a daily reality —the only difference was whether it’s intense or just a little less. I tried to focus on the small joys around me: the warmth of sunlight, the rhythm of birdsong, the familiar sound of footsteps beside mine. I talked to myself constantly, gently pushing forward, reminding myself to keep going. On good days, when the weather was kind, I went for walks outside. My neighbor always accompanied me.

Ginger came from California to stay with me for a month. I asked her to take me to work, but no one recognized me. I negotiated with my company to allow me to work from home after the end of six short-term disabilities. I was also going through a divorce, and I needed the insurance and income. My job required me to work onsite , and a position opened up, allowing me to fill the position. I was grateful for a way out during this difficult time.

I asked my family doctor for a doctor’s note so that I could work from home. Over video calls, my breath was barely enough to form a complete sentence. She repeatedly confirmed, asking if I really wanted to do this. Her eyes were filled with worry, but she finally agreed to issue the note. I knew I had to do something to distract myself; it would be good for me.

I was on TPN for 10 months, and during the last few months, I made a strong effort to drink as many protein shakes as I could. Even though most of what I drank didn’t reach my small intestine, I hoped that at least some of it would be absorbed. I was determined to meet the surgical criteria and reach the required weight, driven by the hope of returning to a normal life. When I finally did, I felt a mix of emotions—relief, hope, but also fear that the same situation might happen again.

In June 2022, the doctor explained the risks and couldn’t guarantee a full recovery, outlining the worst-case scenario. I felt overwhelmed, but I reminded myself that all I could do was try my best and leave the rest to fate.

The hardest part was behind me, and I held on to that thought as I prepared for whatever came next.

The night before the surgery, Sara accompanied me to Barnes for the final preparations. Because of my allergies to both the disinfectant and the anesthetic, I had to repeatedly remind the doctors and nurses, double-checking everything to ensure my safety. Early the next morning, we walked to the hospital together. When I woke up from the anesthesia, Sara was there. The surgery had gone smoothly. The doctor, visibly exhausted, it had been a difficult operation.

My heart pounded as I nervously pulled back the bed sheets—was the stoma still there? Although I had tried to prepare myself mentally, I still held onto the hope of returning to a normal life. To my relief, the stoma was gone. I started with liquids and gradually began eating, but the process wasn’t easy. The vomiting came and went, and I had to have a nasogastric tube inserted and then removed again. I saw other patients get discharged while I remained behind, unsure of when I would be able to leave. After two weeks, the vomiting finally eased, and I was able to eat normally. Although I still needed to wear a drainage tube for the fluid in my abdomen, I was finally well enough to go home.

After waiting three months, I began active rehabilitation with the help of a therapist, a personal trainer, and the gym. Given the stiffness and weakness in my body, the road to recovery was understandably difficult. When I first approached my trainer, he stood there in shock, barely able to recognize me. He asked what had happened—how I had become a completely different person. Concerned that I might fall apart at any moment, he cautiously guided me through a few gentle exercises.

Progress has been slow, but I continue to believe that with consistent effort each day, I will keep getting stronger.

I had countless moments of collapse, struggling with the complex medical insurance system, the limitations of my body, and the relentless pain. My friends often said they had never heard me talk about giving up, but after my second surgery, I briefly considered it. I thought that if I let go now, I wouldn’t have to face the people or situations I didn’t want to confront anymore. But my doctor’s words echoed in my mind: “Think about your child, think about your child!” I realized that if this was my life’s lesson, giving up now would mean starting all over again, and I had already fought so hard to make it this far.

This sudden event had been overwhelming for my child and an enormous blow to our lives, but I couldn’t let go. Giving up was no longer an option. Surviving itself was a miracle, and recovering to this point was another miracle. From now on, I will cherish every moment, live each day to the fullest, and appreciate the beautiful people and things around me.

Thank you to all my family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues for your unwavering support and love. I truly would not have been able to make it through this journey, let alone recover, without each and every one of you. Your care, encouragement, and presence gave me the strength to keep going when things felt impossible, and for that I am forever grateful.

(Pictures by Xin Xin)

Chinese version:
. 生命的故事