Midnight. Occasional drops of rain hit the window with a pattering sound which echoes through the lonely hospital room. There is no other sound except that of my heavy breathing and the rustle of the sheets as I toss and turn in the high hospital bed. Cancer soon will take my life as it did my mother's 11 years ago when I was only 9. But I have won. I have wop the battle against cancer and made my life meaningful. For the past year, which I have spent bedridden in this room, I have seen many fresh flowers wither and die, just as will the lovely bouquet on the table beside my bed. Flowers have served as the sun dial of my life. Soon I, too, shall wither away. Until then I call hold up my head and say to myself and to other victims of incurable diseases that life is worth living, no matter how short it may be. I hope I proved that tonight in realizing my dream of devoting my last breath to the battle against cancer.
I told the reporters that a dedicated actress has no life off the stage. My neglect of health may have been a disappointment to those who love me. I hope my devotion to opera and my determination to make my life meaningful in the face of death will make up for my failure to seek a few more days or weeks of existence.
I had doubts this evening while preparing to go on stage. What if I should be unable to complete the performance? I dressed at 6:30 and looked out the window. It was raining. "I shall not let the weather stop me," I said to myself. At 7 o'clock I was helped into an ambulance for the drive to the theater. They put me in the front seat. Turning my head, I could see behind me an oxygen tank, stretcher and a first aid kit. "Oh God! Don't let me need them," I thought. Applause from theater people and bystanders welcomed me. In the dressing room, I sat down in front of the make-up table. My hands were trembling. I took a pair of earrings from my make-up case and laid them on the table. It had taken me two weeks to string the tiny heads. I coughed and found my mouth full of blood. My teacher, who was helping with the make-up, and a classmate hurried to my side. Teacher burst into tears as she wiped blood off the dressing table. My classmate started to cry and I couldn't help joining them. Tears were mingled with face powder as I continued making up.
An hour later I was on stage. Applause and the murmur of comment reminded me the audience was there to see me as well as the opera. But after two lines of singing, I began to fade into the personality I was portraying. Occasionally I had to cough but contained the spasms sufficiently to conceal them from the audience. I was to die in my last scene. Apparently I acted the part well enough. Many people stood up, fearing I had fainted. Relieved, the audience burst into applause as I arose. As I limped off stage, I thought: "I have won. I have won my fight against sickness. "
The battle began in June of 1971 when my right leg began to ache. I thought it was rheumatism. In July the weather was hot and it did not rain but the cloudy weather seemed to contribute to numbing pain in my right leg. I went to several doctors and tried herb medicines but the pain persisted. I was happy on August 24, my 20th birthday, because my leg didn't hurt too much. My father gave me a big birthday cake and teachers and classmates came to my house for dinner. I did the cooking myself. My painting teacher, Ma Sho-hua, painted a picture afterward as we all watched. I had the painting framed and hung it in my room.
The doctors had not yet discovered that I had cancer. I was happy. When the weather became colder, the pain grew worse and finally almost unbearable. I was sent to the Air Force General Hospital. Waiting at home for the X-ray results was boring and I went bowling. Bending to put on my bowling shoes, I felt a sharp pain in my right leg and fell. I had to use all my strength to stand up. A young man ran up to me and extended his hand in a gesture of help. I shook my head as if to say I wanted to stand on my own feet. That was my last time bowling. X-rays showed a mass near my right ankle bone. Further tests confirmed the diagnosis of bone cancer.
My father took me to the Air Force Hospital. I was given the private room which has become my home. On December 8, the chief surgeon handed me an operation permission slip. It specified the amputation of my right leg. Some of my friends started to cry. I wanted to say something but had no courage. I knew if I opened my mouth I would break into sobs. My friends left one by one. I put my face against the window and stared out. I was only 20. Why should heaven be so cruel? With one leg, I would not be able to swim. I would not be able to run and jump. What meaning was left in life? But not to amputate was to risk my life. I wanted to live. Tears came, finally. Then I stopped feeling sorry for myself, wiped the tears away and signed the operation permission. The nurse beside me began to cry and I joined her. They came for me early the next morning. As they put me on a cart and pushed me along the corridors to surgery, I wanted to get up and shout, "Stop the operation!" But I kept my senses and faced the inevitable.
I woke with the feeling of pain in my right leg. I started to feel for it but found only a pillow. Those first days after the amputation were hard. I wasn't happy to see all my friends. I resented their good health. Besides, they could walk. Watching the other patients became my favorite pastime. I found they were happy and not afraid of their illnesses. They didn't bow down but fought back with their will to live. An old man in the next room was partly paralyzed but optimistic and full of confidence that he would live a long time. His great love for life contrasted with my own pessimism and melancholia. I was young. I had never experienced the process of aging. Why should I hate life so much? I could have an artificial leg. Then I would be almost normal. The old man helped teach me to live again. The smile returned to my face.
On New Year's eve, I watched the rain. The year before I had been too happy to sleep. Now I could only lie in bed quietly, almost motionless. My leg had healed quickly. After a few more infra red treatments I could be fitted for an artificial leg. I felt less sad when I thought of walking again. Plans for the future filled my mind. I would go see my friends and thank them for their sympathy. I would see my elders and continue working at the radio station to help my father pay the debts he had incurred for my medical expenses. Then I could save money to help those afflicted with illness. Money, I had come to realize, is the only practical gift for the sick. It can help them get well again. I had no fear that fate could be so cruel as to bring me more pain.
After the New Year holidays, my body began to ache again. I was sent to the Veterans General Hospital for further examinations and given more drugs, but the pain did not go away. I went south to Pingtung to see a Chinese physician in whose skills I put high hopes. I was looking for a miracle but he couldn't produce one. I came to realize that the miracle, if any, would have to be mine. Perhaps an artificial leg would help me stand up against the fates. I went to the prosthetics shop. The manager warned me the leg wouldn't be cheap. I nodded my determination to go ahead and he took the measurements. The hours seemed like days as I waited. The leg was heavy and awkward. I was happy, though. The thought of being able to walk again excited me. I picked the leg up and threaded the binding through the supports. I did not succeed in attaching the leg to my stump the first time. I tried again, then a third time and a fourth, until I was dizzy from the exertion. I tried again the next morning after my daily injections. The bright morning gave me the strength and energy to fit the artificial leg successfully. For the first time in six months I could stand without a crutch. Tears came to my eyes but I tried to smile. I thought I could start walking then and there but found that was not to be. I fell and could not get up. The nurse came soon and helped me. She taught me to use a cane and practice step by step. "After a while," she said, "you will not need the cane any more." As I practiced I said to myself: "With so much practice on stage and in balancing, walking on one leg should not be so difficult." In a week it was not. Excitement and pride showed in my voice as I telephoned a friend and asked her to go for a walk. We bade the nurse good-bye. I needed shoes. Walking into a shop, I asked to try on a pair I saw in the window. The left shoe was first. When the clerk asked me to try on the other shoe, I told her my right leg was artificial. She was embarrassed but replied with candor: "I'm sorry, but I couldn't tell the difference." This made me greatly happy I could walk without too much of a limp. Then I realized how tired I was. We returned to the hospital.
June was rainy. I sat in my room and watched the steady downpour, disappointed because I could not walk outdoors. I sat in the wheelchair to paint. Suddenly I started to cough. I tried to lie down but the coughing continued. I had to spit. I sat up and saw the red staining the sheets. It was blood. I shook my head and waited until the nurse came to give me my shots.
On May 16 of this year, my doctor grimly told me: "Cancer has moved into your chest and is beginning to spread. The cobalt 60 treatment is ineffective." This was my death sentence at the age of 20.
Doctors and nurses at the Air Force Hospital thought I would sleep away my life. But I wanted to live. The hospital bed, the cane, the wheelchair, my artificial leg and the eight daily shots of anti-cancer drugs gave me the will to keep going. Drugs caused my hair to fall out and I had the locks it had taken me five years to grow cut off. My friend Wang Ling told me that the Tapeng Drama School was establishing an alumni association and that a public performance was to be held. This made me deeply happy. For a year I had suffered many blows but had endured them without fear. Although I had not been trained in the discipline of Peiping opera from childhood, my love for it was not less than those who had. Sometimes when my pain was less, I went to Tapeng to practice singing. When I stayed at the hospital, I painted. I had become good enough at walking to have confidence in my ability to join in the performance. So I went to Tapeng to tell my teacher of my wish to participate. Everyone advised against it, fearing I might not be strong enough. I cried this would be my one chance to show what I had learned in four years. My insistence finally broke through all opposition and I was accepted as a member of the cast. On the bus taking me back to my hospital room, the words echoed and re-echoed through my mind: "I shall sing! "
On July 19, Meng Lin-ping of the Min Chu Wan Pao telephoned, asking if I would tell my story. I accepted in order to tell others facing death not to despair. After the story appeared, I became a celebrity. Many wanted to comfort me. Some urged medicines on me. Press, TV and radio sought more interviews. This and strenuous rehearsals took their toll. My chest pain grew worse. The opera was to be Two Beauties of the Red Chamber, a play with which I was familiar. I was cast in the role of a weak girl without much time on stage. I did not particularly like the part because the character's personality was completely opposite to mine. My physical condition left me with no choice; other roles would be too arduous.
Except on rainy days, I went to Tapeng for rehearsals. Sometimes I found it hard to summon enough breath to sing. Prolonged effort caused pain and brought the blood into my mouth. My body ached all over from shots and from the muscular control involved in walking on my artificial leg. When I couldn't go out, I practiced abed, helped by a tape recorder or teachers who came to the hospital and corrected my faults.
On the evening before the performance, I lay quietly on the bed staring at my mother's portrait. With eyes wet, I called her name and asked her to help give me the strength to fight a winning battle against cancer and death. The next morning I woke up with sharp pains in my chest. The nurse came in to give me my shots and saw my pale face. She asked how I felt. I smiled weakly and said to myself: "No matter what happens, I will perform tonight." The day passed with many words of comfort and encouragement from friends and relatives.
I stood up for the two hours of the performance and didn't need to use the oxygen. I coughed a little and was given a shot and some medicine by mouth. I spat up blood only once. My fellow-players gave me both physical and moral support. I could feel their hands shake as they helped me stand and play out my last role. I made it to the end and took a curtain call to thank the capacity crowd. In the audience I could see Vice President C. K. Yen, Air Force Commander Chen Yi-fan, Minister Without Portfolio Chou Shu-kai, Cultural Bureau Director Wang Hung-chun, my painting teacher, Ma Shou-hua, and father.
The big night was over but life went on. Many drugs had been presented to me since my story first appeared in the papers. I gave them away. Proceeds from the performance were divided into two portions: one for the Tapeng Alumni Association and the other for cancer research. This was according to my wish.
As I lay in my hospital bed, I remembered a sentence I had written in my diary. "If a man struggles on his own to live, the vast world will be his." I had marked the sentence in red and made it my motto. Although I did not have the ambition to make this vast world my own, I possessed sufficient confidence to fill my own little world with happiness. My world was small and filled with the daily routine of reading, taking medicine and receiving injections, rehearsing, dreaming, crying silently and meeting with good friends. This was all I had in my little world but it was sufficient and I was still undefeated.
My life has been simple. When my mother died, I was left with only father, who had to work from morning to night. One evening he did not come home until very late. I contained my hunger and sat on the porch, eyes glued to the gate. At last I heard a car stop. Father burst through the gate and hell me tightly. He asked me if I had eaten. I shook my head. He took me in his arms and gave me dinner. My eyes were filled with tears. Father arranged for someone to take care of me. Then, at 14, I had a stepmother. I learned to be quiet and to bear the loneliness of difficulties. I went often to my mother's grave and, kneeling there told her of my sorrows.
I first saw a Chinese opera one summer during my elementary school years. I went with my uncle to see the younger Tapeng students perform. I was greatly impressed by their professionalism. After that, I went to the opera with uncle and father every week-end. After graduation from elementary school, father took me to the Tapeng Drama School for a visit. I was further impressed. I took the entrance examination for junior high school and was admitted to one of the better schools but could not get Tapeng out of my mind. I decided on an operatic career and was admitted to Tapeng in 1965 at the age of 14. That required special permission. I was too old to be just starting.
I had to work extra hard because my class mates had begun their study of opera at 6 or 7. Mother's spirit seemed always to encourage me. I never despaired. I was determined to prove that I was as good or better than my classmates. When I lost my balance in the mincing stage gait and fell, I stood up and tried again until I could control my muscles and master this way of walking. I was looked upon as the healthiest and strongest member of my class. I never seemed to fall sick and didn't catch cold when the others did. I was nurse and foster mother to many of my classmates. Nothing came hard for me. I loved to swim and play ball, but also enjoyed the cultural pursuits of music, calligraphy, painting and literature. To me, Peiping opera is the perfect combination of classical music, dance and poetry. It is a form of artistic expression which must be constantly recreated by the performing artists. Life is short but creative arts last forever.