Roommates

March in Yantai was much colder than I remembered. The hospital in my hometown, the place where I was born, felt both familiar and strange. From elementary school through middle school, I must have passed this hospital thousands of times. I can't remember when I last went inside.

At the entrance, a loudspeaker sat on the ground blasting a recorded message on repeat: All items must be removed for security screening! A guard with a metal detector gave each person two perfunctory taps. People still tried to slip through quickly and avoid the hassle.

The place was packed, people coming and going shoulder to shoulder. The sharp smell of alcohol from my childhood memories was gone. The marble floors were covered in deep scuff marks. Faces wrapped in thick winter jackets, different skin tones, different ages, different emotions, streamed past my ears like a video on fast-forward.

There were over a dozen elevators going up but still not enough. A young local man complained bitterly: “These outsiders have no manners.”

The hospital had expanded several times and now occupied three connected buildings. It was easy to get lost. Both sides of the hallways in the inpatient ward my dad was in were lined with beds. Family members sleeping overnight laid down blankets and mattresses in the elevator lobby. Nurses would occasionally scold them: You can't set up beds here!

Dad spent a week in the hallway before finally getting a room. First in cardiology, then hematology. He was moved several times, cycling through different roommates.

**

One was a farmer in his seventies who had spent decades growing apple trees. His wife was hospitalized too, so only his younger sister could occasionally come stay with him. He had six children, two of them actually his younger brother’s. After his brother died young, he raised them.

A nurse came in and said the doctor wanted him to go to ophthalmology, handing him a slip. Since his sister wasn't there, I walked with him, afraid he'd get lost.

Only standing close to him in the elevator did I realize one of his eyes was almost entirely clouded over, barely any black visible. His accent was so thick I sometimes couldn't understand him. From what I gathered, he used to work in a factory in the city before losing his job and becoming a farmer.

"These doctors just like messing with people. I'm clearly here for my heart," he said. "This eye's been like that for a long time. Nothing wrong with it."

**

Another roommate was a man in his nineties with a blood disorder. His legs hurt so badly he could barely sit or stand. He had eight children who took turns staying with him. That day his daughter was there. The doctor came in and said they could try a new medication. It's expensive, eight thousand yuan, though insurance might cover some.

The old man couldn’t hear very well. After the doctor left, he asked what medicine it was and how much it cost.

“Only two hundred,” his daughter brushed him off.

That afternoon the medicine arrived. It was delivered by a young courier with an insulated backpack. The courier needed a medical insurance QR code scanned to release the package. The daughter couldn't figure out the insurance app on WeChat, so she asked my mother and me for help. The task involved navigating a long list of complicated steps on a tiny phone screen.

One step required taking a photo of the old man for facial recognition while he's lying in bed. It kept failing until we realized he needed to blink. “Dad, blink your eyes,” the daughter shouted. The old man didn’t really understand. “You have to blink!”

**

The final roommate was a young man, probably in his twenties. The nurses always seemed especially gentle with him.

His mother was at his bedside every day, though at first glance you wouldn't guess they were mother and son. She had deeply tanned skin, sun weathered creases on her cheeks, and a heavy accent. He was pale-skinned and spoke standard Mandarin.

"He got where he is all on his own — none of it came from us," his mother told us proudly. At first he occasionally had the energy to chat. He argued heatedly with the ward's janitor about how the Iran war would unfold. He said when the time came, he'd enlist too: "China's military will have robots by then!"

Gradually he talked less and grew quiet. I could feel the irritation in the few words he did say to his mom.

"We're asking you to stop drawing blood every day! He's got none left and you still keep taking it!" his mother demanded of a nurse. The nurse asked them to sign a liability waiver.

The doctor told my father to be discharged for observation — there weren't enough beds, and if you didn't need to be hospitalized, you shouldn't be.

The day we left, the young man lay with his back to us, watching videos on his phone. His mother warmly said goodbye: "Take care! Goodbye!"

**