Once that thought entered my mind, everything slowly became clear.
We had already done all the tests that needed to be done. The doctors had already told me everything they could. I wasn't a doctor, but I was a pharmacist. Once we got home, I knew how and when to give her medicine. If we stayed in the hospital, there was nothing more I could do for Pengpeng. I didn't want to make her afraid and cry over and over again. So I made my decision. I was taking her home.
I remember that day was a Friday. It was already close to evening.
It wasn't that the hospital told me, "You can be discharged." I was the one who said I wanted to take Pengpeng home.
As for exactly what procedures we went through that day, I can't remember anymore. Normally, when a family decides to leave the hospital on its own, there would probably be some forms for an against-medical-advice discharge that needed to be signed. More than twenty years have passed. I vaguely remember that I may have signed something like that, but I can't be one hundred percent certain. So I don't want to fill in my memory with a piece of paper I can no longer see clearly.
I only remember my decision. I was taking Pengpeng home.
Back then, I wasn't thinking, "Since there's nothing we can do, then forget it." Not at all.
My thinking was actually very practical. The hospital had already done all the tests it needed to do. Pengpeng's swelling had gone down, and her breathing was more stable than when she had first been brought in.
The next steps were medicine, care, and observation. Those were things I could do.
Since that was the case, then we should go home. Back to a place she knew. She wouldn't have to see so many strangers every day. She wouldn't have to be taken again and again for tests that frightened her. And Mom wouldn't have to step away for a moment and have her cry so hard that a nurse called me back.
Home. At that moment, it was a very simple decision for me.
The hospital prescribed medicine for me to take home. I remember very clearly now that there was a diuretic and a digitalis-type cardiac stimulant. There was one other medicine, too. Three kinds in all.
But what that third medicine was, I truly can't remember now. If I can't remember it, I won't give it a name. It was enough that I knew what it was back then.
Once I had the medicine in my hands, I would naturally read the instructions. How to give it, how many times a day, and what time to give it—I would handle all of that. That was probably one of the things I felt most confident about at the time, as a pharmacist.
I couldn't change the harsh things the doctor had told me. I couldn't control how Pengpeng's heart would change in the future. But at least— I could make sure she took her medicine properly once she was home. I could take good care of her daily life, too.
Those were things I could do.
But there was still one thing we hadn't taken care of when we left Gaoyi that day.
The hospital bill.
Eighteen thousand dollars.
I hadn't paid it in full.
At that time, I couldn't even afford my health insurance premiums. Eighteen thousand dollars was not money I could simply pull out of nowhere.
So when I left the hospital with Pengpeng that day, the hospital bill was still outstanding.
It wasn't that I didn't want to pay it. I genuinely didn't have the money to pay it then.
I have always remembered that bill.
That evening, Fourth Sister brought Sijia to Gaoyi. I began gathering the things Pengpeng had used during her hospital stay.
A child in the hospital always has a lot of belongings. I put this away and packed that up, and the things that had been scattered around the hospital room gradually went back into the bags, one by one.
I no longer remember exactly how many bags we took home that day. But I remember packing. Because we were going home.
Once everything was packed, I carried Pengpeng and held Sijia's hand. Together, we got into a taxi and left Gaoyi.
I can't remember now what we talked about on the way. I don't even remember whether Pengpeng was awake or asleep in the car.
Some scenes lose a piece after so many years. But I know we were on our way home.
Back then, I wasn't sitting in the taxi thinking about life's grand truths. I didn't think it was some especially meaningful journey. I certainly wasn't thinking about saying goodbye.
I was simply taking my daughter home after her hospital stay. That was all.
As far as I understood it, her hospitalization was over. Next, we would go home, give her medicine, let her rest, and take good care of her.
Life still had to go on. The pharmacy still had to open for business. Her father still had to go back to work. And Pengpeng— of course she would continue living with us.
Once we got home, I gave Pengpeng her medicine with all three meals every day. The doctor hadn't specifically told us to limit how much water she drank, so we didn't deliberately restrict it.
The most obvious effect of the diuretic was probably that she started urinating more. Often, I would touch her diaper— then find another huge load.
So I changed it. Not long after I changed it, there might be another one. Then I changed it again.
Pengpeng's body was still relatively weak then, so we weren't thinking that we had to hurry up and train her to sit on a potty or rush her into learning to go without diapers.
That could wait. She needed a diaper now, so we put one on her. When it was wet, Mom changed it.
It was that simple.
Once she began taking her medicine regularly, she didn't swell up the way she had before being hospitalized. Seeing that she wasn't swelling anymore naturally made me feel more at ease.
At least I knew she was taking her medicine properly. The baby was a little more stable, too.
That was enough.
Once she was more stable, we went back to our familiar routine together. When there were no customers in the pharmacy, I would often put Pengpeng on the counter.
She sat there. I did my thing.
Sometimes she would even have the Li Kou Le candy she liked in her hand. She barely had any teeth, but she could still sit there— crunch. Crunch. Crunch.
She ate with complete concentration.
And me? If there were no customers and I had finished everything that needed doing, I would sometimes play online real-player mahjong.
So there was often a very ordinary scene in the pharmacy—one that seems a little funny now.
My daughter sat on the counter, crunching away on her Li Kou Le candy. Her mother sat beside her, playing a little real-player mahjong.
She ate hers. I played mine.
Of course, I was still keeping an eye on her. But life couldn't be gloomy every single day.
There was already more than enough pressure. If my child was doing well at that moment, I didn't want to keep trapping myself in the worst possible scenarios.
That's probably just the kind of person I've always been. If I could think positively, I tried to think positively.
The child was okay. The child was safe.
For me back then, that was the greatest happiness.
Pengpeng had been in the hospital for a while, and the neighbors nearby hadn't seen her for several days. So after she came home, whenever people saw us, they naturally asked, "Hey, is your little sister doing any better?"
I would answer, "Yeah, yeah. She's a little more stable now."
That was all. People showed concern, and I answered.
When they saw Pengpeng appearing in the pharmacy again, they knew the little girl was back.
That evening, her godmother came, too. She hadn't seen Pengpeng for several days.
The moment she saw her, she was so happy she looked ready to fly.
I also told her godmother what had actually happened during the hospital stay. She still needed to know what she needed to know.
But with Pengpeng right there in front of her, her godmother still talked to her and teased her just as she always had.
She asked, "Hey, do you want some Kola fruit snacks?"
The moment Pengpeng heard that, her little head began nodding vigorously.
"Want. Want."
That "want" was very clear.
All right. The little princess had said she wanted some. Then we'd go buy them.
So we really did go buy her some Kola fruit snacks.
Sometimes I would sit beside her playing real-player mahjong, with my coffee sitting nearby.
Pengpeng had always had opinions of her own about Mom's coffee. She didn't need to wait for me to ask whether she wanted a drink.
As soon as she saw the straw there, her little mouth would move toward it and close around it—
slurp.
Completely naturally. So naturally that it was as if the cup of coffee belonged to both of us.
By then, we didn't really set a whole list of rules about what she could and couldn't do. Of course, I still paid attention to anything that might affect her health.
But as long as her body could handle it, whatever she wanted to do, we did with her.
If she wanted to play, she played. If she wanted to sleep, we soothed her to sleep. If she was willing to stand up and walk a few steps, we stayed beside her. If she wanted to eat a little of something she liked, we let her have some.
She was still a child. I wanted her to have a child's life.
When the weather was nice, I would still carry Pengpeng outside for walks. We didn't have any particular destination. I would simply carry her around nearby so she could look at things.
If we happened to pass a temple, I would carry her inside to pray.
What I asked for was always very simple. I hoped the gods would protect her. That she would grow up safe, healthy, and at peace.
While I prayed, Pengpeng looked around from my arms.
She looked left. She looked right. Then left again. Then right again.
She was still that same curious little baby.
I suppose everything in a temple was new to her.
As for what exactly she was looking at— what she was thinking about in that little head of hers— I really didn't know.
I wasn't Pengpeng.
I only knew that Mom was praying very seriously for her safety. And she was looking around very seriously.
When Fourth Sister had time, she would come over to see Pengpeng, too. She knew I had to take care of the pharmacy most days and didn't have much time to prepare food.
More importantly— I had never been much of a cook.
There was really no point denying it.
As I said before, Fourth Sister was very good at taking care of children. Every child she raised grew up fair and chubby.
So after Pengpeng was discharged, whenever Fourth Sister had time to come by, she would sometimes make something especially nutritious for her to eat.
In that respect, Fourth Sister really helped me a lot.
As for me... Here's something I can quietly tell the readers.
If I happened to be the only one there and it was my turn to deal with Pengpeng's meals, the thing I made most often was—
rice porridge.
And once the porridge was cooked?
I got the soy sauce.
Mixed it in.
Done.
Compared with the nutritious meals Fourth Sister prepared, there wasn't much about this mother's cooking that was worth bragging about.
And yet Pengpeng was always an appreciative eater. She happily ate a bowl of soy-sauce-mixed porridge just the same.
So she really was easy to feed. When Fourth Sister came, she ate Fourth Sister's nutritious cooking. When Mom was in charge of the kitchen, she ate Mom's soy-sauce-mixed porridge.
She never complained about me.
Looking back now, I feel like this daughter really went out of her way to make her mother look good.
During that period, I didn't sit beside Pengpeng every day, repeatedly thinking about what the doctor had said: "Her life could be in danger at any time."
No one can live that way. Especially not when the child in front of you can still talk, eat, and nod her little head while saying, "Want. Want," and can still bring her mouth to her mother's coffee straw on her own.
I had too many things to do.
Remember to give her medicine with each meal. When her diaper was a huge load, change it. If she wanted to eat, make her something. When the weather was nice, carry her outside for a walk. If we passed a temple, go inside and pray. When her godmother came, everyone played with her together. When Fourth Sister came, let Pengpeng eat something more respectable than what Mom cooked. If she was willing to walk, I watched her from beside her. When she was tired, I soothed her to sleep.
This was the life we were actually living.
Looking back and writing this part now, of course I know what happened later. But I don't want the person I am now to impose a premonition that never existed on the person I was then.
That Friday evening, when I brought Pengpeng home from Gaoyi, I didn't feel that I was making a decision about "the end."
Later, when I carried her outside for walks, I wasn't saying goodbye to her. When I took her to a temple to pray, what I asked for was still— that she would grow up safe and healthy.
Because that was what I truly believed at the time.
I knew her body was weak. I knew she needed medicine. I also knew the doctor had already told me the worst possibility.
But knowing those things didn't mean that a mother would spend every day waiting for the worst to happen from then on.
I didn't.
I simply continued taking care of her. Continued staying by her side. Continued believing that as long as my child was okay today, today was a good day.
At the time, I thought we had simply gone through a more difficult hospital stay. Now the hospitalization was over.
So— we went home and carried on with our lives.