On September 6th, I attended a forum hosted by Tzu Chi Singapore: “Struggle: Broken Winged Angels.”

      

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            In my mind, the typical image of a cancer patient is one of furrowed brows, a heart filled with worry, blaming the heavens, and a belly full of helplessness, resentment, and rage, with inexplicable hostility towards others.

     Disease, of course, is painful. The side effects of chemotherapy go beyond hair loss; they include mouth sores, a loss of taste and appetite, vomiting, cracked lips, and bleeding ears. Cancer patients often refuse comfort: “You're not me, how could you understand my pain?”

      They don't need pity; they hold their heads high with pride. But their hearts are filled with a stubborn resentment: “Why is fate so unfair?” Out of all the people in the world, why me?

      

      Talking to Lin Zhongming, you wouldn't feel this sense of tragic destiny. Zhongming hails from Miaoli, a rural county in Taiwan. When I met him, he was two days shy of his 16th birthday. He has a baby face, and his cheerful optimism, his active intelligence, make you forget that he only has one hand, and that he has been battling cancer for seven years.

            When he was in fourth grade, he was diagnosed with a muscle tumor. Every 25 days, he had to undergo chemotherapy. He had to go through 13 rounds of chemotherapy a year, each followed by three weeks of recovery, then a week of relative freedom before facing another round. This cycle continued, each time bringing with it hair loss and torment. After years of chemotherapy with little effect, a 12-kilogram tumor grew on his left arm. In sixth grade, he had to follow his doctor's advice and have his entire left arm amputated.

      

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            Of course, Zhongming had his moments of despair. He too felt angry, thinking,  “How can someone who hasn't been sick understand the frustration and struggle of a patient?” He even thought about giving up.

       Yes, giving up on life. He considered stopping chemotherapy, ending this battle that seemed to stretch on endlessly.

     In his hospital bed, he was sternly reprimanded by a volunteer. He hadn't fulfilled his promise. He had vowed to become a volunteer after he recovered, to help those in need.

      So, he persevered.

      Zhongming is now in his second year of high school, studying business in a regular school. He loves computers and playing basketball, shooting hoops with his remaining hand. He has learned to tie his shoes, ride a bicycle, and even cook for his elderly grandmother, all with one hand. When he's in the hospital for chemotherapy, if he's not confined to his bed by weakness, he'll be restless, making new friends in the neighboring rooms, making them laugh.

      He has the confidence to silence those who doubt him, knowing they can't say to him, “You're not me, how could you understand my pain?”

      When other patients say,  “You're not me, how could you understand my pain?” Zhongming replies, “You're not me, how could you understand my joy (in helping others)?” 

       I thought, “How can we, who haven't been sick, understand the tenacious will and vitality that a patient can possess? How can we understand the infinite possibilities that life can hold?”

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      Hair grows back after it falls out, but an arm that's been amputated won't grow back. Looking at Zhongming's missing left shoulder, what are his thoughts?

        “You have to lose something to gain something.” he says.

        This simple sentence made me think long and hard all night.