A Backpacker of Life

That afternoon, the Health Pavilion was noisier than usual. Built in a traditional Chinese style, with wooden beams and an open-air structure, it stood just outside the main hospital building. Several people sat scattered around, their heads lowered over their phones, scrolling through short videos. The pavilion seemed to offer a small pocket of distance from the hospital itself—a place where patients could sit without quite feeling like patients.

Among them was an old man carrying a black satchel. He sat alone. At first glance, there was something almost traveler-like about him. The black bag hung across his body, and his sparse white hair caught the afternoon light. His face did not immediately suggest someone who had spent the better part of the past year traveling back and forth to a hospital. 

When I approached and asked whether I could sit with him, he simply patted the empty space beside him. He was eighty years old. When I asked him to confirm his age, he corrected himself almost casually: he had just turned eighty that year, though by the traditional way of counting age, he was seventy-nine. I told him that his mental state seemed particularly good. He smiled. Perhaps he had heard that compliment many times. His voice was deep and hoarse. His hearing was not very good either. Several times during our conversation, he leaned toward me and asked, “Say it again?” So I repeated myself, a little louder each time.

He was from Zhangshu, Jiangxi. The name immediately brought up a familiar association: Zhangshu had long been known for its traditional medicine trade. I mentioned the old saying that medicines from Zhangshu were considered especially effective, and he listened quietly before telling me that he had been coming to the hospital since March of the previous year.

He was being treated in the hepatobiliary department. His routine was almost repetitive by then. He would come to the hospital for a course of treatment, stay for around twenty days, receive his treatment, and then return home. After some time, he would come back again. This time, his son had brought him to the hospital but had to leave that day because of other things. The old man would remain by himself for another week or so before returning home. 

“You're staying here by yourself?” I asked.

“My son had something to do today,” he explained. “He went back.”

Quite unusual as it may seem, many elderly patients are in the hospital on their own.

He had first discovered something was wrong after becoming unwell and had gone to Zhangshu People's Hospital for examination. The doctors there diagnosed his condition and recommended that he come here for further treatment. By then, he already understood what was happening to him. “I knew what I had. There’s nothing I could do about it”, he paused. There was something strikingly matter-of-fact about the way he said it.

His doctors had never promised that his illness could be cured. Medication, he understood, could not make the disease disappear. It could only maintain his current condition. Surgery was not an option either. The doctors had described the lesion as something resembling a rotten mass. It was not suitable for surgical removal, so his treatment had remained conservative, including interventional treatment. Most of the time, he did not even need to take many oral medications. When he came to the hospital, he would receive two bottles of intravenous medication and undergo whatever examinations were necessary. There had been some protein in his urine, and one of the medications had caused side effects, so the doctors had prescribed another medication to help his body recover. During this admission, the doctors had also arranged tests to determine whether he might have tuberculosis. 

Yet he did not seem particularly worried about the possibility. He had already reached an understanding with his illness, as he said calmly, “there were things medicine could control, and things it could not.” It was almost as though he had accepted that his illness had become another part of his life—a condition to be managed rather than a battle that had to be won.

“I can still eat,” he smiled again. That answer seemed to please me more than anything else. At his age, with an illness that could not be cured, 能吃是福, being able to eat was already something worth celebrating. 

We talked about death. It came up almost naturally. I told him that everyone eventually had to face birth, aging, illness, and death. But right now, he could still eat on his own, walk around, and take care of his daily needs. If his condition could remain stable, even another year would be something to be grateful for. He nodded, “There’s no way to get around death and illnesses.” Then he added, “But life is getting better. Everyone wants to see more of the world.” It was perhaps the closest he came to expressing fear—not fear of dying itself, but a quiet wish to remain here a little longer. There was still more of the world he wanted to see. And, more importantly, there was still a family waiting for him. He spoke about his children and grandchildren with a quiet pride. His family, he told me, was something of a scholarly family. He had two grandsons and two granddaughters. One grandchild was studying at Jiangxi University of Finance and Economics and would graduate the following year. Another was studying in Shandong. A nephew was pursuing a master's degree in Guangzhou.

As he listed them, his expression seemed to soften. His own illness was only one part of the story. His family had continued moving forward while he traveled back and forth between home and the hospital. “The children and grandchildren are all doing well in their respective paths,” he said proudly. That seemed to be enough. Perhaps this was also part of why he could speak so calmly about his illness. His life had not stopped simply because his body had become ill. His children had their own lives, his grandchildren were growing up, and the younger generation was still studying and building their futures.

Still, the hospital could become unbearable after a while. He told me that staying inside the ward was “太磨人.” It wore a person down. So whenever he finished treatment, he would come downstairs and sit in the Health Pavilion. He did not necessarily come down to socialize. He came down because sitting there felt better than remaining in the ward. The air was different. There were people around. There was space to sit quietly. For a little while, he could simply be an eighty-year-old man sitting outside rather than a patient waiting for another examination or another round of treatment.

He had encountered several people from Zhangshu during his time in the hospital. There was even someone from Huanggang whom he regarded as almost a fellow countryman. But he did not seem particularly eager to make friends. In the shared ward, patients sometimes chatted with one another. They asked where each person was from, what brought them to the hospital, how long they had been receiving treatment. Yet those conversations rarely seemed to go very far for him.

Perhaps that was why, when I sat down beside him that afternoon, he began answering my questions with surprising patience. There was no phone in his hand. Just the black satchel, his white hair, and the peaceful afternoon. But once someone finally sat down beside him, there was suddenly plenty to talk about.

For someone who had spent the previous year moving between home and hospital, perhaps that was what life had gradually become: not a dramatic struggle between life and death, but a collection of small things that could still be done: eating, walking, coming downstairs, sitting outside, waiting for his grandchildren to grow up. And, every once in a while, talking to a stranger who happened to sit down beside him.

The afternoon was still going on around us. People continued to scroll through their phones beneath the wooden roof of the pavilion, and somewhere inside the hospital, another round of treatment was probably beginning. The old man from Zhangshu remained in his seat, his black satchel beside him. He had finished his treatment for the day. And he could sit outside, breathe, eat, and watch the world for a little longer. He would go home in another week. Then, perhaps a few weeks or months later, he would return again. 

For now, though, there was nowhere else he needed to be.