青柳診所手記47

轉眼就是深秋季節了，我常常會坐在診所的窗前，痴痴地看着那些層層疊疊的深紅與淺黃。

有個病人到我們診所來，他一見到我們就說：“其實我來的主要目的就是跟你們聊聊，因為我知道你們跟我一樣，會注意到空中那些飄舞的紅葉。”

今天診所只開半天門，還差五分鐘就要關門了，一個婦女卻匆匆忙忙奔了進來。大師兄已經在清潔了，他看了看我，無奈地笑一笑。

其實也算不上什麼急診，不過是一個急性面癱而已。做完治療之後她說已經好了百分之八九十了。我舒了一口氣。這天是很重要的一天，我要去公墓拜訪去世的父親。他剛剛過生日，頭幾天太忙了，沒有抽得出時間去拜訪，今天無論如何得去看看了。

坐地鐵時天氣還好，可一出地鐵站就碰上了瓢盆大雨。有相當長的一段路要走，我們只帶着一把小小的傘，不一會兒，就已經淋得夠嗆的了。我的鞋子也不防雨，我一邊走，一邊聽到腳趾頭下面發出咯吱咯吱的聲音。

這個雨中的場景讓我記起多年前的一幕。我那時才不過6歲的樣子，弟弟想跟我分吃我手中的地瓜干。我弄不斷它，就把廚房裡切菜的刀拿了過來，一刀砍下去，結果我左手的食指也隨之掉在了切菜板上，立刻血流滿地。

父母都不在家中，嚇呆了的弟弟在大聲哭泣。我竟然知道要從抽屜里找出乾淨的紗布，將切斷的指頭用紗布緊緊地纏繞在手上，然後才跑到院子裡大聲哭叫，尋求鄰居的幫助。現在想想，我今天做一名中醫師實在不是一件偶然的事，多年前，我的性格中已經顯現有冷靜堅韌的一面了。

那天父親一回來就背着我去醫院。狂風暴雨，天氣出奇地惡劣。我一邊哭一邊把臉埋在父親的脖子裡，手上的血把他的襯衣都染紅了。隨着一聲震耳欲聾的霹靂聲，天空裂開了一個巨大的洞，雨水便從那個洞裡決堤似的洶湧澎湃出來，落在地上的哪裡哪裡就冒出一個深坑兒。父親給我套了一件雨衣，他自己卻沒有任何防雨的設備。他一步一步走得非常艱難，鞋子有時候深深陷進泥土中，他不得不彎下腰去使勁把它們拔出來。

因為父親，我的左手食指保住了，儘管它現在還有一個很深的刀痕。

而今天，我就用我的左手握着給父親的花，將濕漉漉的它們放在墓地上。

父親一輩子都是一無所有，現在他走了，我清理他的東西，也還不足以一書包的遺物。人走之前有時會有迴光返照的現象。父親也有。他走前一星期前還靠在床上，向我平靜地口述他的家族故事，我坐在他的床前，把它們一個字一個字地鍵入我的電腦里。

“我沒有什麼可留給你們的，就只有發生在我生命中的這些小浪花了，“他抱歉地微笑着說。

有一個朋友告訴我，他的母親迴光返照的那一刻，她把孩子們叫到跟前，交代他們無論如何要去催收某個人多年前曾欠她的一筆債。

這天晚上，回到家中，我在泡腳的時候，心裡忽然想：當一個人生的時候，全心地愛着，全心地度過生命中的每一分鐘，那麼，就算他一無所有，是不是也是個不平凡的人？

        Whispering of Willows 47

It is already half way through autumn. When our clinic is quiet, I sit in front of the window, gazing at the surrounding layers of deep red and light yellow.

A patient came up to us and said, "Actually, the main purpose of my appointment is to chat with you, because I know that you, like me, notice the red leaves flying in the air."

Today, our clinic was only open for half a day. Five minutes before closing, a lady rushed in, asking for our help most earnestly. Dr. Daniel, already doing his routine cleaning, looked at me, giving me a wry smile.

The lady had acute facial paralysis. After the treatment, she said it already felt 80 to 90 percent better. I breathed a sigh of relief as I was ready to leave. It was a very important day. I was going to visit my deceased father at the cemetery. His birthday had just passed, and I was too busy to go visit with him. I knew I must make time today.

The weather was fine when we took the skytrain, but it rained mercilessly as soon as we got out of the station. We were still quite a distance from the cemetery, and we had to go on foot. Sharing a small umbrella, we were soon soaked. My shoes were not rainproof, and I could hear a squishing sound coming from between my toes as I waded through the flooded ground.

This drew my mind back to a scene many years ago. I was only about 6 years old, and my younger brother wanted to share the dried sweet potato I had in my hand. I couldn't break it, so I took out the kitchen knife to cut it. In a flash a large portion of my left index finger fell on the cutting board and immediately blood was running on the counter.

My parents were not at home at the time, and my younger brother was frozen there watching and wailing. I stood still, with a pale face, and fumbled a clean gauze from the drawer, picked up the severed portion of my finger and wrapped the gauze tightly around my hand. Only when this was done, I ran outside, and cried for our neighbour’s help. Thinking about this now, I realize it is not a coincidence that I became a Chinese Medicine practitioner. For all of these years, in extreme circumstances, I had demonstrated the calm and tough side of my character.

As soon as my father came back that day, he piggybacked me to the hospital. It was a stormy day, raining cats and dogs. Burying my face in my father's neck I cried the whole way, and the blood from my hand dyed his shirt red. With a deafening thunderclap, a huge hole opened up in the sky, where torrential rain gushed out and wind whipped the ground, leaving deep holes here and there. I was wearing my father’s raincoat, leaving him without any rainproof gear at all. Every step was a torture; his shoes sometimes sank deeply into the mud, making him need to bend down and pull them out with force.

Thanks to my father, my left index finger was saved, although it still bears a permanent scar.

And today, I held the wet flowers for my father in my left hand to place them neatly on his grave.

My father collected nothing in his life. When he died, I cleaned up his things, realizing that a backpack easily contained all of his belongings. Before a person dies, often people experience so-called Terminal Lucidity. My father also experienced this. A week before he died, he was leaning on his bed, calmly dictating his family story to me, where I sat, keying every word into my computer.

"I have nothing to leave you, “said he apologetically with a smile, “only these wavelets in my river of life, to share with you – events that happened in my life."

Conversely, a friend told me that when his mother was near death, she called all her children over, only to urge them to go collect a debt long owed to her by a friend from many years ago.

When I returned home from the cemetery, soaking my feet in herbal water, suddenly a thought leapt in my mind: When a person lives his life wholeheartedly, loves wholeheartedly, and spends every minute of his life wholeheartedly, then, even if he has accumulated nothing, he is still a rich blessing, isn’t he?