TYSUF – Chapter 50 The Southern Goose Returns Home (3)

The brief words painted a picture of a brutal past.

Shen Xi felt her chest tighten slightly.

Fifth Master merely smiled, weakly saying, “Loyal bones rest beneath green hills… Sister-in-law, don’t be sad.”

Before one dies, such words seem bold and carefree; but after death, they are laced with sorrow, inch by inch.

She gently stroked his short hair.

They were about the same age, but she always looked at him as if he were her own younger brother. From the moment he woke up, he had been smiling. The joy of reunion sparkled in his eyes. And he said there was no need to wrap his corpse in horsehide and return home? Who wouldn’t want to die surrounded by loved ones?

“Back when my family was still whole, I had a younger brother, just your age,” she said softly. “When I see you, I think of him. Now that you’re back, both your third brother and I can feel at ease. You still have a fever, speak less and try to sleep.”

She instructed the nurse to stay by the operating room and went to the hallway to get some air.

Twenty minutes later, three surgical specialists from Renji Hospital arrived. The five doctors conducted a joint consultation, but heated debates soon erupted in the operating room next door.

Fu Tonglin’s current condition was on the brink of death. The IV medication Shen Xi administered was already the best available in the country. Two of Duan Menghe’s doctors suggested increasing the dosage, disregarding the side effects, and trying to save his life.

Another doctor held an opposing view: if the dosage increased, the side effects would be unimaginable—it could very well become a death sentence.

“He’ll be dead in two days without intervention—what’s the point in fearing a death sentence?” Duan Menghe stood firm.

“What if, instead of relying on medication, we perform an amputation? Why don’t we try that?” Shen Xi proposed.

Amputation? There were no orthopedic specialists here, no outpatient facilities, let alone a specialized hospital.

People distrusted Western medicine’s orthopedics, in part because of the lack of X-ray machines. Patients coming to Western clinics received limited treatment, often less helpful than what they could get from a traditional Chinese bone-setting doctor. In a non-war situation, a major operation like amputation was extremely hard for the average citizen to accept. That was the current reality—perhaps it would change in the future, but not with a whim tonight.

“Dr. Shen, I feel the need to remind you,” one of the doctors said, “none of us in this room has any clinical experience in this area. I heard from Dr. Duan that you’re planning to set up an orthopedics department at your hospital, but that’s still just a concept. We’re all just getting started.”

“Besides, the patient has been infected for a long time, is severely anemic, weak, and has poor heart and lung function,” another added. “The most likely outcome is—he’ll die on the operating table.”

Only one doctor remained neutral and supported Shen Xi.

After all, looking at Fu Tonglin’s condition, whether they amputated or not, the chances of survival were slim either way.

“Gentlemen, we have five surgeons here—are we worse than field medics? On the battlefield, amputations are not uncommon.”

“Field medics are pioneers,” someone retorted. “They handle hundreds of cases a day—their clinical experience far exceeds ours.”

“But there are Western hospitals in China that have performed amputations—in Hangzhou, for example. There are doctors there who can do it.”

“Even if there are such doctors in the country, none of them are among the five of us here,” Duan Menghe pointed out, not out of false modesty, but stating a fact. “The best doctors this patient can get tonight are us five.”

When someone’s life hangs by a thread, where could they possibly find a surgeon experienced in amputation?

Even if someone experienced were available, it didn’t guarantee they could handle such a fragile patient.

And being able to complete the operation didn’t mean they could prevent postoperative infection—especially when the patient had poor wound healing.

Duan Menghe tried to persuade Shen Xi: “The patient’s blood sugar is very high, which makes wound healing difficult and increases the risk of infection after surgery.”

“But we don’t have any miracle drugs right now,” Shen Xi countered. “Using what we have now is basically the same as letting him die. It’s like we, as doctors, are doing nothing—just sitting and praying for divine intervention? Hoping the patient can fight off the infection? At least with amputation, there’s a sliver of hope. Every surgery carries risk.”

The debate reached its end. Only two paths remained. Now it was just a matter of choice.

Everyone looked to Shen Xi. She was the lead physician.

“I’ll go talk with the family,” she said. “Dr. Duan, please prepare for surgery. If the family agrees to the amputation, I want us to start immediately. If they choose medication, I’ll come back and we can discuss the next treatment steps.” Duan Menghe nodded in agreement.

Shen Xi walked away quickly.

The hallway was empty, her footsteps echoing in the stillness.

The office door was ajar, and light from inside spilled through the crack, casting a triangular beam on the floor.

She paused in front of the door, took a breath to steady herself, then slowly pushed it open.

Four people were waiting by the door.

He stood alone by the window, a white cigarette between his fingers. The ash at the tip had yet to fall. On the gray windowsill lay a linen handkerchief he always carried with him. On it was a metal cigarette case, covered in black burn marks on the image of a blonde woman from repeatedly stubbed-out cigarettes.

Cigarette butts and ash had already formed a small pile.

As soon as Shen Xi appeared, the others quietly stepped away.

Fu Tongwen extinguished his cigarette and waited for her to speak.

“I’ve already done a minor debridement surgery,” she began as briefly as she could. “But the situation is not optimistic. Three surgeons from Renji are also here. After our consultation, we have two options. One is conservative drug treatment. But to be honest, we don’t have any specific medication for this. The drugs we do have have considerable side effects, though there have been cases of patients surviving on them—in Renji.”

He looked at her steadily.

“The other option is riskier: amputation. But it carries great danger.”

“What’s the doctors’ recommendation?” he asked. “Put simply—which one can save his life?”

“My recommendation is amputation. Although it’s risky, there’s still a fighting chance. If we delay until tomorrow or the day after, I’m afraid there won’t be much hope.”

He didn’t hesitate. “Then amputate.”

“But there’s one thing you need to know,” she said frankly. “We don’t have an orthopedics department here. The doctors waiting in the operating room right now have no experience with amputation surgery. Tonglin’s physical condition is extremely poor—he may not survive the procedure,” she told him honestly. “But I trained in orthopedics in the U.S., and all five of us are experienced surgeons. I’m confident I can handle this operation.”

If it had been a typical patient’s family, they would definitely have rejected such a risky procedure.

Even now, in Shanghai—the Chinese city most influenced by Western culture—major Western surgeries were rarely accepted by ordinary people, unless the illness was beyond treatment.

The lightbulb in the room shone more brightly than ever, so bright it hurt to keep one’s eyes open.

Shen Xi met his gaze. Just a few swings of the clock’s pendulum, two ticking seconds on the pocket watch, yet time seemed to stretch infinitely.

Shen Xi wanted to say, I will help you save this brother, but it felt too sentimental. She feared that the next possible bad news might shatter his fragile emotional defense. It was like being back on the train platform in the heat of day, the scorching sun baking the ground, heatwaves rising off the soil, making people dizzy. He was drenched in sweat, his shirt soaked through, yet he still stood there recounting bits and pieces of Fourth Master’s past.

She didn’t want… Little Fifth Master to become just another name among the living, a soul among the dead.

“I accept your suggestion.” He had made his decision.

“The surgery will take a long time. I’ll be there the whole time afterward,” Shen Xi said quickly. “Take care of yourself. You don’t have to stay in the hospital all the time.”

“Alright.” He didn’t say anything unnecessary—he didn’t want to delay her even for a second.

Shen Xi returned to the operating room on the second floor.

The attending and anesthesiologists who had gone back to rest were all gathered again. No one wanted to miss this amputation surgery, especially since doctors from both Rénjì and this hospital were involved. Although Duan Menghe had initially opposed the surgical plan during their debate, once the patient’s family had made their decision, he didn’t insist further and immediately began making preparations.

Common surgical tools like tourniquets were manageable, but they didn’t have the specialized saws or blades required for amputation.

Everyone was stumped.

“Borrow a carpenter’s saw and sterilize it,” Shen Xi suggested to one of the residents. “On the battlefield, surgeons often have to improvise. Go ask the nearby traditional medicine shops, bone-setting clinics, orthopedic centers—any place you can think of. They might have what we need.”

Six residents received their tasks and left. In the end, what they brought into the operating room was indeed a carpenter’s saw.

Shen Xi had never used such a thing before and was worried she might not have the strength. Back when she studied in the U.S., her professor had even mentioned cases of amputation saws getting stuck in the bone. She assigned the task to the two doctors from Rénjì, explaining the procedure and potential problems.

Shen Xi served as the lead surgeon, with the two Rénjì doctors assisting, and Duan Menghe and another doctor stationed on either side.

Anesthesia and blood transfusion preparations were complete.

With the tourniquet secured, she held the scalpel and, under everyone’s watchful gaze, made the incision through the skin and subcutaneous tissue… then severed blood vessels and nerves, flipped the skin flap—

Inside the operating room, time had no measure.

The sound of the bone being sawed echoed like it was cutting through each doctor present. The two doctors who had no experience in orthopedics managed, under Shen Xi’s theoretical guidance, to saw through the femur. When the diseased limb was finally detached, Duan Menghe took the lead in clapping, thanking the doctors for their cooperation in completing the hospital’s first successful amputation surgery.

After severing the limb, Shen Xi proceeded with suturing.

By the time the surgery was completed, it was well into the latter half of the night. The first danger Duan Menghe had feared had been overcome—Fu Tonglin hadn’t died on the operating table. Shen Xi immediately asked a nurse to go to her office and notify Fu Tongwen that the surgery had been a success.

She accompanied Fu Tonglin to the ward, keeping an eye on any bleeding from the wound.

Normally, residents would take over patient care during shift changes, but no one else there knew how to deal with the complications that could arise after an amputation. So she stayed at his bedside, not moving an inch.

At first it was heavy bleeding, then a hematoma. For 48 hours after surgery, she hadn’t closed her eyes even once and hadn’t left Fu Tonglin’s bedside for even a moment. Two residents stayed with her. Though young and strong, they couldn’t stay awake for long and would rest occasionally. She and another doctor took turns chatting softly to keep each other awake—talking about their experiences studying medicine, switching shifts when one of them dozed off.

Only she stayed awake, like a wind-up doll.

At the 72-hour mark, they entered the period with the highest risk of post-op infection.

In the past, this was the stage Shen Xi feared most—the one she was most helpless against. All available medications were being used; beyond that, it was up to fate. The man in the hospital bed was still mentally foggy, unaware that he’d had a limb amputated, mumbling that his right foot hurt…

She gently comforted him, using her palm to wipe the sweat from his hairline.

Someone approached from behind—it was Duan Menghe.

She hadn’t seen him since the operation and assumed other patients needed his attention.

“Fu Tongwen’s father…” Duan Menghe paused for a moment before continuing, “passed away this morning.”

Shen Xi thought she had misheard.

Her mind went blank. She instinctively looked at the man on the bed, but the face that appeared in her thoughts was Fu Tongwen’s.

How could this be…

One disaster followed another. Her younger brother was still in critical condition, and now the chronically ill father had passed away.

“He’s already left the hospital to make arrangements at the residence. He asked me to tell you. Don’t worry if you can’t reach him for now,” Duan Menghe said. “Once Fu Tonglin’s condition stabilizes, he’ll return to the hospital.”

“Alright… thank you.”

Duan Menghe stared at her for a moment, as if he had a lot he wanted to say, but in the end only said, “I’ll be staying in the hospital dorm for the next few days. You can come find me anytime.”

The ward fell quiet again. Shen Xi looked out the window—bright daylight.

The Fu family had declined, but it had once been a prominent clan. The funeral would surely be elaborate. And now that Fu Tongwen’s influence was at its peak, many people would take this opportunity to forge connections. He would undoubtedly be very busy. Shen Xi had no experience in such matters, but she had experienced the grief of losing a father. She worried for his health but didn’t know what to do.

Fortunately, heaven had mercy. On the third night after the surgery, the man on the hospital bed finally regained consciousness.

Shen Xi had prepared herself to offer psychological support, but his reaction to learning about the amputation was completely unexpected. He stared at his missing limb for a full minute—then accepted it. What had he thought during that minute? Shen Xi couldn’t guess.

A military officer who had seen countless comrades torn apart on the battlefield had long grown used to losing parts of the body. He even gave her a pale smile and said, “It was you, Sister-in-law, who saved my life.”

Then he added, “I’d like to see Third Brother, is that alright?”

Shen Xi hesitated for a moment, then smiled. “You’re still in the high-risk period for infection. Give it another seven days.”

Let him wait a bit longer—he had just escaped a brush with death. Once he was safely through the danger period, she would tell him about his father’s passing.

Fu Tonglin seemed to accept it calmly. Later that night, after Shen Xi had rotated out and returned to the ward at 3 a.m., she found him staring into space with reddened eyes. When she entered, he turned his head toward the window. He was trying to pretend he’d been looking at the night, but from his bed’s position, all he could see was the tightly drawn curtain.

“Trying to look at the moon?” Shen Xi asked gently, and with a soft swoosh, opened the curtain for him.

Fu Tonglin gave a low “mm,” grateful that she had given him a way to hide his emotions.

On the tenth day after surgery, the danger of infection had passed.

Shen Xi handed over Fu Tonglin’s care to the residents, took a hot shower, borrowed a fan from the doctor next door, and meant to nap briefly on the sofa while waiting for Fu Tongwen. But the moment her head hit the soft cushion, she fell into a deep sleep.

She woke up from the heat, a sweat stain marking the bronze-colored sofa fabric where her wrist had rested.

“I checked on Tonglin already. There’s nothing urgent today—go ahead and sleep a bit more,” came Fu Tongwen’s voice.

A mere two-hour nap hadn’t relieved her exhaustion—instead, it left her feeling uncomfortable inside and out.

She found the pillow behind her neck annoying and removed it, turning to lie sideways on the sofa. The blur before her eyes became clear—Fu Tongwen was sitting in her office chair, facing the sofa, smiling at her.

Sunlight poured over the vines on the window sill, their green leaves so bright they looked pale. Shen Xi liked how the vines crowded the window and never let anyone trim them. This summer, they had grown wildly, with tangled branches and leaves blocking the light—there had never been a moment of full daylight inside the room.

From her position on the sofa, she saw him against a backdrop of lush green—a natural oil painting.

His smile was like the first blush of dawn, and she felt as if she were dreaming.

“My throat’s sore,” she said softly. “Can you have someone from Internal Medicine bring me a bottle of throat medicine? Just say it’s the one Dr. Shen usually uses.”

Fu Tongwen did as she asked and returned to sit in the same spot.

“Your father—”

He gently interrupted her. “It was a kind of release—for both him and me.”

The pocket watch rolled silently in his palm. The day his father died, he’d felt nothing during daylight. But that night, sitting alone in bed, the empty room pressing in, he couldn’t sleep. He watched the time tick by, minute by minute. Near the end, the old man had forgotten all grudges about his son usurping the family estate. He just held his hand and called him “Tongwen, Tongwen”—a dying man yearning for home.

In the Fu family, only Fu Tongwen’s word counted. In the end, it was the father begging the son—wanting to return to his homeland, to die in peace, to have all his children together for the last farewell.

Fu Tongwen, as always, didn’t want to talk about it.

But the death of a father was no small matter. Shen Xi felt she should say something. However, his refusal to speak was so firm that she gave up. Several days had already passed—the hardest moments were over. Today, he even had a trace of a smile. She wasn’t good with words; better not to force it. Better to quietly be by his side.

She shifted from lying down to leaning against the armrest and noticed that Fu Tongwen hadn’t changed his clothes. His white shirt sleeves showed no mourning band. “You didn’t wear mourning clothes? Not even a black armband?”

Whether by old customs or government-simplified etiquette, this seemed inappropriate.

“I should have,” he said after a long silence, as if the question had struck him. “Years ago, I observed full mourning for someone for three years as a son would. I can’t do it again now.”