25 April 2020|Residents
The original author, Anqing Deng is a writer based in Beijing who went back to his hometown in Hubei to celebrate Chinese New Year with his family. Living in the countryside of Hubei province during the unexpected lockdown, he wrote about things to be appreciated and to be overcome amid the difficult time. This is the first piece of the three essays about getting medicine for his father during the lockdown.
Original Author Bio
Anqing Deng was born in 1984 and hails from Wuxue in Hubei province. After studying Chinese Literature in college, he lived in several cities and worked in various jobs. His essay collections include Kingdom on Paper, A Soft Distance, and Candies in the Mountain. He is also the author of two short story collections, I’ve Met a Somali Pirate and A Star at the End of the Sky, and a novel, Wanghua Town.
Original Article: https://mp.weixin.qq.com/s/OBnSYmseZ1abPX9kx1qImQ
Original Post Date: 02/10/2020
Translator: Elijah Ash
Editor: Bella_Z
You could always tell whether Father was happy by the way that he ate. When he was in a good mood, he would contentedly smack his lips, lift his head slightly, and chew vigorously. When he was in a bad mood, he would hurriedly toss food into his mouth, as if at any moment someone may come along and snatch the food from his hands. At breakfast that morning, Father was hurriedly gulping down his food. Something was wrong. I gently tapped his hand. “Dad, don’t eat so fast,” I warned. He gave me a quick glance and then began to eat even more quickly.
Mother also took notice of Father’s mood. “What’s the matter?” she asked him.
Father answered quietly: “The insulin is all used up.”
“Well then go buy some more!” Mother said.
Father stopped eating and put down his chopsticks. “And how am I supposed to buy it? The bus stopped running, the roads are barricaded, and the path downtown is all blocked up. Even if I made it there, there’s no telling whether the pharmacy is open.”
“Let’s just head into town and check things out. You can’t stop taking your insulin.”
Hoping that our face masks would offer us some safety, we prepared to ride out in our auto-rickshaw. Mother had set down a bench in the bed of the rickshaw for me to sit on. I had wanted to drive and let Father sit in the back, but Mother did not like the idea: “What do you know about driving? Let your dad do it.”
Father agreed. “You drive like a bat out of hell. Let me do it.”
Having finished his piece, Father took his place at the handlebars. As soon as we began to drive off, Mother began to shout at us. Father stopped the rickshaw, and Mother walked over. She looked to me and said, “It would be better if you didn’t go. People in town are already getting sick. I’ve finished washing dishes. Let me go with your dad.”
I contested, “That’s not a good idea. What if the pharmacy isn’t letting people inside? If we need to call to speak with the pharmacist, I’ll need to take care of it. And if they’ve put up signs somewhere, then Dad won’t be able to read them. What would happen if there’s no one there to help him?”
Mother hesitated and thought things over. Nodding, she agreed, “You’re right. You all be careful, you hear me? Don’t go anywhere near crowded places. If you see another person, keep your distance.”
“I hear you,” I said.
We drove from our settlement’s paved roads right up to the banks of the Yangtze River. The sky was gray and gloomy, and the cold wind put a shiver down my spine. I buried my hands down into my pockets to stay warm. I looked over at Father. Though the cold had turned his ears red, he stayed hunched over in concentration, fixed on his driving. I often complained that he drove too slowly–” I could walk faster than you drive!” I might say. He’d laugh in reply: “Slow and steady’s best.”
One time, as Father drove my mother down the river bank, he lost control of the vehicle. In the confusion of the moment, he stuck out his leg to slow the rickshaw. The vehicle flipped over, injuring both my parents. Luckily, some passersby were able to help get them to the hospital. My parents only told me about the incident much later. When I’m not home, they only share their good news with me, quietly shouldering the bad news on their own.
While I was lost in thought, Father said something that I couldn’t quite hear over the wind’s howls. I asked him to repeat himself. He said, “I am afraid you won’t be heading back to Beijing soon.”
I answered him loudly, “Yeah, our company won’t be opening the office for a while.”
Laughing, he said, “This is the first time in years you’ve stayed at home for this long!”
On reaching Bayi dam, we found that there was no way to drive across. A tall mound of dirt had been piled across the middle of the dam–not even a motor scooter would have been able to drive around it. We took a look around to see if there were any other viable routes, but all of the other roads had been barricaded by wire netting. Our only option would be to park the rickshaw.
Father passed me the car keys and said, “You stay here with the rickshaw. I’ll walk the rest of the way.”
“No,” I said. “You stay here, and I’ll go get your medicine.”
“You don’t know how my medicine works,” he protested. “I’m the only one who knows what to get. You stay here.”
As Father began to walk around the blockage, I called after him: “I’m going with you.”
He turned around to glance at me as he kept moving forward. “It’s not far away. You go ahead and find a spot that will keep you out of the wind. Rest for a bit.” Without waiting for a response, he turned back around and continued to slowly march forward.
.png/:/cr=t:0%25,l:0%25,w:100%25,h:100%25/rs=w:1280 "Father had me stay and watch over the rickshaw. He maneuvered around the mound of dirt by himself and then slowly headed towards town.")
After waiting for two and a half hours, I had nearly been frozen from head to toe by the wind coming off the river. I couldn’t help but start sneezing from the cold. (Luckily, there was no one around to hear, or I would have scared them to death.) Village announcements instructed us to “stay at home and take care,” but how on earth were we to take care? Father’s insulin was used up, we had no way of getting to downtown Wuxue, and even the nearby township was hard to get to.
With so many blocked off streets and towns, obtaining medicine has become quite difficult for those with chronic illnesses, such as my father. Those who need hospital visits to receive treatment face even more hurdles. In times such as these, invisible struggles are felt all around us. Those struggling often have no way of making their voices heard; their only option is to quietly accept their lot.
I walked back and forth along the riverbank, trying to keep from going numb with cold. Eventually, I resorted to stomping my feet and blowing warm air on my hands. Nearly three hours had passed by the time I spotted my father slowly working his way along the road. As soon as I saw his lifeless trudge of a gait, I knew for certain that he had not been able to get his medicine.
As he climbed up to the dam, he quickly began to lose his breath. Plodding through the thick mud, he struggled with each step to keep lifting his legs. I hurried over to him and placed his arm around my shoulders to help him along. By then, his armpits were soaked with sweat. I asked him how things went. He shook his head in response, and said, “All the pharmacies are closed. No one’s answering the phone. The streets are empty. Loudspeakers all around town are blaring about the epidemic.”
.png/:/cr=t:0%25,l:0%25,w:100%25,h:100%25/rs=w:1280 "I’ll never forget the way he walked. The pain of this memory is unending.")
“I’ll think of something,” I told him. “Don’t worry.”
Father gave no answer. He continued to wheeze, still out of breath. I let him sit in the back of the rickshaw this time, and took my place at the handlebars. He did not oppose it.
When we arrived back at the house, Mother hurried out to meet us. As soon as she saw the befallen look on Father’s face, she knew what had happened. Without speaking, she and I helped Father down from the rickshaw and brought him into the house to rest. Later on, I heard that insulin could be purchased from the hospital, though it wouldn’t be covered by my father’s social security. Nonetheless, I breathed a sigh of relief that there was indeed a way to buy the insulin (and we did eventually buy it).
Father protested still as he lay in bed: “No way! We’d have to pay through the nose.”
“It’s not that expensive,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”
Father sighed, “I don’t make money now. I’ve only got you and your brother to help make ends meet.”
“Don’t overthink. Just take good care of your body,” I told him.
Father did not speak another word. In an instant, he was sound asleep, snoring softly.
