我從無錫回廣州的飛機上，我在飛機上給你寫了這封信。我10歲那年有一天傍晚，我得知我父親得了癌癥，從那以后我夜夜從睡夢中驚醒。我怕他突然會離我而去。手術那天，我前一天向學校請了假，當天一大早我從江北跑到江南。我步行了50分鐘跑去了醫院，我去告訴醫生，父親當天手術肯定要輸血，我可以為我父親輸血。醫生說當天父親要輸1000CC血液，不用小孩子輸血。那天清晨正好有位30歲的女人來賣血，她的血給了我的父親。手術從早晨做到了下午，現在我才明白當年的醫生實際根本沒有把握做如此大的手術。當年醫院的何院長也算是個十足的惡人，后來我聽說他與他老婆一同死在養老院了。惡人就正如樹上的爛果子，不必我動手，他始終會爛在樹上。也許當年我們也沒有什么好處給到他們這幫人，醫院的醫生和護士對我們也非常冷漠。我常常一個人在醫院哭著跑上跑下。手術那天我與父親的一些好朋友一直在手術室外等待。那10個小時的時光讓我終生難忘。父親在手術前為我買了手表，鋼筆，毛毯，書桌，臺燈以及我長大后要穿的衣服，還有一雙粉紅色的塑料涼鞋。父親是怕他突然離我而去，往后余生沒人會為我買這些東西。因為醫院的這些事情，我發誓長大后要到誰也不認識我的地方去工作，我今生今世才不要回到中國水電八局。我死都要死在外面。這就是當年中國基層醫院的現狀。你只能眼睜睜地看著你深愛的人馬上就要離開你，你卻根本無能為力，醫生護士也無能為力。他們也許壓根就沒能力救人。我是怕冷的，我是怕臺風的，我是怕聽不到你的聲音的，我是怕行走在街上看不見你的身影的，我是怕脫了高跟鞋在黑夜里找不到開關，我是怕伸出手來觸摸不到你的心痛，我是怕冼盡鉛華只剩下最后的荒涼！2004年我第一次出國，我乘坐的飛機是一路追著太陽來到了柏林。2018年我用父親留給我的錢創辦了仁醫醫療。我們現在與186位世界著名的醫生一同工作，關鍵我們在一起很開心，很特別。2025年的圣誕節馬上就要來了。家人閑坐，燈火可親。

I’m writing this letter to you on the flight back to Guangzhou from Wuxi. When I was 10, one evening, I learned that my father was diagnosed with cancer. From that moment on, I woke up from nightmares every night, terrified that he might leave me suddenly. For his surgery, I asked for a leave from school the day before. Early in the morning of the day for operation, I ran all the way from Jiangbei to Jiangnan, trudging 50 minutes on foot to get to the hospital. I told the doctors that my father would need a blood transfusion, and that I could give him my blood. The doctor said he would need 1000cc that day, and they wouldn’t take blood from a child. That morning, a 30-year-old woman came to sell her blood, and her blood saved my father. The surgery lasted from morning until afternoon. Only now do I understand that the doctors back then had absolutely no confidence in performing such a major operation. The hospital director at that time, Director He, was a truly wicked man. I later heard that he and his wife died together in a nursing home. A wicked man, like a rotten fruit on a tree—whether or not you touch him, he will eventually rot away. Perhaps we had nothing to offer them back then. The doctors and nurses were indifferent to us. I often ran through the hospital crying alone. On the day of the surgery, I waited outside the operating room for 10 long hours with some of my father’s closest friends. Those hours are etched into my memory forever. Before the surgery, my father bought me a watch, a fountain pen, a blanket, a desk, a lamp, clothes I would wear when I grew older, and a pair of pink plastic sandals. He feared he might leave me suddenly, and no one would ever buy those things for me again. Because of everything that happened in that hospital, I swore that when I grew up, I would go somewhere no one knew me. I would never return to the Sinohydro Engineering Bureau 8. If I had to die, I would rather die far away. That was the reality of primary care hospitals in China at that time. You could only watch helplessly as your beloved one was about to pass away, with nothing you could do about it, and neither could the doctors or nurses. Perhaps they never had the ability to save anyone. I am afraid of the cold; I am afraid of typhoons; I am afraid of not hearing your voice; I am afraid of walking down the street and not seeing your silhouette; I am afraid of taking off my high heels and not finding the light switch in the dark; I am afraid of reaching out and not being able to touch your pain; I am afraid that when all the brilliance fades, only desolation will remain. In 2004, I went abroad for the first time. The plane I took chased the sun all the way to Berlin. In 2018, with the money my father left me, I founded Gloryren. Today, we work together with 186 world-renowned doctors. Most importantly, we are genuinely happy together—it feels special. Christmas of 2025 is just around the corner. May we gather with our loved ones, sitting comfortably by the warm glow of the lights, cherishing the simple joy of togetherness.