Chinese Medicine, Up Close & Personal

Natural or artificial?
An art that’s been practiced and perfected for millennia
versus a system that just emerged in the past couple centuries?
In sync with the body or working against it?

When it comes to methods of medical treatment, which would you trust? While Western medicine undoubtedly has its merits and has worked wonders, the concepts underlying Traditional Chinese Medicine holds more appeal for me. Chinese medicine has intrigued me all along, inspiring me to try acupuncture treatment on my incurable knees back in the U.S. after 3 orthopedic doctors in the Western tradition ran out of ideas for un-invasive cures. All along, since I arrived in China this past August, I’ve been interested to learn more. No opportunities arose. Until, rather unexpectedly, today.

It’s always slightly flustered me when I see a small cut or bruise somewhere on my body that I don’t remember cutting or bumping. So when two horrendously huge and uncomfortably itchy blisters appeared on my upper thigh for no apparent reason I can remember, I was more than slightly flustered. Rather flustered, you could say. And slightly concerned, too. It’s been over a month now since those two unsightly blisters appeared and they still haven’t gone away. In fact, they’ve long since popped and ripped off, leaving two even more unsightly sores in their place. It itched incredibly, but didn’t hurt, so I thought, “I’ll just wait it out until they heal…”

No such luck. Now, (not to alarm anyone) over a month later, one of the sores cracked open. Puss and pain ensued. “I guess it’s about time I mention this to my host family…” I thought. My host dad, who I casually asked for a Band-Aid, asked to have a look and seemed a bit alarmed and arranged to take me to the local public hospital the next day.

The Jiangsu Province Hospital for Chinese Medicine, conveniently located less than a kilometer from my current home, is a huge and happening facility that combines Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM) with ultra-modern technology (and, as far as I could tell, hygienic standards too). One of the best hospitals in the region, according to my host family. Xiao Kong, my host mom, and I set out together from our home and arrived within a few minutes. After pushing past a bustling crowd of people selling and buying refreshments outside, she and I entered.

Apart from the initial sensation of being impressed by how modern the facility looked, the first thing that made me take notice was the smell. Not unpleasant. But not exactly pleasant either. Knowing that there are countless curious natural compounds used in the herbal component of TCM (extracted from anything from an array of plants to animals—or parts thereof—that would be considered rather disgusting in the West, such as seahorses, shark fins, bear bile, etc.), I figured the aroma must have been an amalgamation of their pungent smells.

I was so glad I had Xiao Kong to accompany me: if not, I’d never have been able to figure out which one of the multiple desks on the first floor at which to register, and I’d certainly would have had difficulties figuring out which one of the multiple departments on the upper floors was the one I needed to visit. Finding the small room that housed “General Surgery” (not what I thought the doctor would prescribe) wasn’t an easy task, even for a local like Xiao Kong.

Once we found the general General Surgery Department tucked away on the top floor, we were shuffled around from room to room seeing different doctors dressed in white and blue jackets, filling out different forms. Finally, all the preliminary business was out of the way, and Xiao Kong went to pay on my behalf (around $8 for an initial visit, a week’s-worth of treatments, and medicine to boot) while I waited in line to see what the doctor had in store for me and this welt on my leg.

People with injuries of various degrees of seriousness (from the invisible-under-clothes like mine to the glaringly obvious like a man missing the features on half of his face due to scars) waited together. It wasn’t the most courteous of lines: when queuing up in China, it does no good to wait your turn, or your turn will never come. No, like my grandmother taught me, you’ve got to elbow your way to the front of the line without thinking twice about manners. People were pushing through the door into the room where others were undressing to unveil their wounds and undergoing treatment.

After losing my spot in the manner-less line a few times, Xiao Kong returned and helped me be more aggressive: she’s about as polite and mild-mannered as me, but at least is used to how things are done in her country. Soon, it was my turn to sit in front of a doctor and her desk filled with shelves covered with mystery jars and tins and boxes. In order to see my wound, I had to pull my pants down, and in order to keep the line moving along, I had to do so quickly and in front of a dozen or so other people pushing to get a prime spot in line.

Compared to the man with a half-featureless face, the welt on my leg was nothing. A mere flesh wound, as the Pythons would say. And the doctor seemed to treat it as such. She took one look at the welt on my thigh and dived after it with a pair of tweezers. The hardened cap of flesh that formed over one of the former blisters was pulled off in a flash, but the other was a bit more stubborn. The doctor picked and pulled at that scab with no mercy for at least a couple minutes (which seemed significantly longer).

One last painful pluck of the tweezers and the scab was off. Blood and tears began to flow and I felt closer to fainting than I ever recall feeling in my life. But the worst was over with. In the blink of an eye (much faster than it took to pull off the scabs in the first place) nurses dressed my wounds with gauze, tape, and cotton balls soaked in yellow liquid. Before I knew it, I was limping down the stairs and back out onto the street, Xiao Kong a little indignant and apologetic that my first experience with Chinese medicine had to be so traumatic.