Yu Hua: Boy in the Twilight: Stories of the Hidden China

When I was eight, the vigorous surgeon happened to get a day off from his usual hectic schedule. He enjoyed the luxury of sleeping all morning at home, and in the afternoon he went for a long walk with his sons and played with them on the beach for hours. On the way home he let one ride on his shoulders and carried the other in his arms. By the time they had finished dinner it was already dark, and he, his wife, and their two children sat underneath the parasol tree that stood outside their door. At that hour the moonlight shone down, casting the leaves’ mottled shadows over us, and a cool breeze rustled.

The surgeon lay on a makeshift bamboo lounge chair, his wife sat in an adjacent rattan chair, and my brother and I sat next to each other on a bench. We listened as our father explained how everyone had an appendix in their belly and how every day he had to remove, at the very least, twenty or so appendixes. His fastest time was just fifteen minutes — fifteen minutes to perform the operation and cut off the appendix. We asked him what he did with it afterward.

“Afterward …” my father waved his hand dismissively. “Afterward we throw it away.”

“Why’s that?”

“An appendix isn’t worth a fart,” he answered.

Then he had a question for us. “What are the lungs for?”

“For breathing in,” my brother replied.

“What else?”

My brother thought for a moment: “And breathing out.”

“And the tummy? What’s the tummy for?”

“The tummy? The tummy digests things you have eaten.” Again it was my brother who answered.

“And the heart?”

This time I beat him to it. “The heart beats, thump thump!”

My father glanced at me. “That’s true, you’re both right. The lungs, the stomach, the heart, as well as the duodenum, the colon, the large intestine, the rectum, and whatnot — they all have their various functions. It’s just the appendix, the appendix at the end of the cecum … Do you know what the appendix is good for?”

My brother had the answer ready. “The appendix isn’t worth a fart.”

My father laughed and our mother, sitting next to him, laughed too. “That’s right,” my father continued, “the appendix isn’t good for anything. When you breathe, when you digest your meals, when you’re sleeping, none of these activities involves the appendix in the slightest. Even when you eat so much that you burp or have a tummyache and give a fart, this doesn’t have anything to do with your appendix either.”

My brother and I tittered when we heard our father talking about burping and farting. Then he sat up. “But if the appendix gets inflamed,” he told us gravely, “the tummy will ache more and more, and if the appendix is perforated it will cause peritonitis, and that can be fatal. Fatal, you understand what that means?”

My brother nodded. “It’ll kill you.”

I gasped when I heard that. Seeing my reaction, my father patted me on the head. “Actually, removal of the appendix is a minor procedure,” he said. “So long as there’s no perforation, there’s no danger … There was a British surgeon …”

As my father spoke, he lay back in his chair. We knew he was going to tell a story. He closed his eyes and gave a contented yawn, then turned to face us. He said that one day the British surgeon arrived on a little island. This little island had no hospital and no doctor and not even a medical kit, but his appendix became inflamed and he lay underneath a palm tree, racked with pain for a whole morning. He knew if there was any further delay in operating, his appendix would perforate …

“And what happens if the appendix perforates?” My father propped himself up.

“He’ll be a goner,” my brother said.

“It will turn into peritonitis, and then he’ll be a goner,” my father corrected him.

“The British surgeon had no choice but to operate on himself,” he went on. “He had two natives hold up a big mirror and, looking at himself in the mirror, in this particular spot …”

My father pointed at the right side of his stomach. “In this very spot he made an incision in the skin, pushed the fat aside, put his hand in, searched for the cecum — you need to find that first before you can find the appendix …”

A British surgeon operating on himself: this incredible story left us spellbound. We looked at our father, our eyes gleaming, and asked him if he could operate on himself too, just like the British surgeon.

“That depends on the situation,” he said. “If I was on that little island and my appendix was inflamed, to save my own life I would operate on myself too.”

Father’s reply made the blood flow hot in our veins. We had always thought him to be the strongest, most capable man in the world, and his answer further confirmed us in this belief. It also gave us the confidence to brag to the other boys. “Our Dad operates on himself,” I would say. “The two of us hold up a big mirror,” my brother would add, pointing at me.

That’s how the next couple of months passed. In the autumn of that year, our father’s appendix became inflamed. It was a Sunday morning. Our mother was about to go off to the factory to put in some overtime when our father returned from the night shift. He came in the door just as she was leaving. “I didn’t get any sleep at all last night,” he said. “There was a head injury, two fractures, and a penicillin toxicosis. I’m so worn out, my body’s aching.”

Patting his chest, he lay down on his bed to sleep. My brother and I were in the other room. We put the table on top of the chairs, and then put the chairs on top of the table; three or four hours passed as we moved the furniture around this way and that. When we heard our father groaning in his room, we went over and put our ears to the door. After a moment we realized he was calling our names, so we pushed the door open and went in. We found him curled up like a shrimp, looking at us with clenched teeth. “My appendix …,” he said. “Ahhh! … it’s killing me … acute appendicitis. Hurry up and go to the hospital. Ask for Dr. Chen … or Dr. Wang would do … quickly, go …”

My brother grabbed me by the hand and we went downstairs, out the door, and along the alley. Now I realized what was happening. Father’s appendix was inflamed, and we were going to the hospital to fetch Dr. Chen or Dr. Wang. Once we’d found them, what would they do?

When I thought of Father’s appendix all inflamed, my heart pounded. I thought to myself: So, at last, Father’s appendix is inflamed. Now he can operate on himself, and my brother and I can hold up the big mirror.

My brother stopped when we reached the end of the alley. “We can’t go and fetch Dr. Chen, nor Dr. Wang either.”

“Why not?” I said.

“Well, look, if we find them, they’ll do an operation.”

I nodded. “Don’t you want to see Dad operate on himself?” my brother asked.

“Yes, that is what I want,” I said.

“So we can’t look for Dr. Chen or Dr. Wang. We’ll go to the operating theater and nab a surgical kit. As for the big mirror, we have one of those at home …”

I was so happy I shouted. “Yes! This way we can let Dad do the operation himself.”

When we got to the hospital, practically all the staff was having lunch in the cafeteria and there was just one nurse in the operating theater. My brother told me to chat her up, so I went over and called her Auntie and asked her how she could possibly be so pretty. As she smiled and simpered, my brother stole a surgical kit.

Then we went back home. Father heard us come in. “Dr. Chen, Dr. Chen! Is that you, Dr. Wang?” he called in a low voice.

We went into his room. Father’s forehead was bathed in sweat. The pain was getting to him. He could see there was no Dr. Chen, and no Dr. Wang either, just his two sons, my brother and me. “What about Dr. Chen? Why isn’t Dr. Chen here?” he asked hoarsely.