Chapter 2

Chapter 2

Grandma stayed in Hangzhou.

Actually, if you don’t count the intense pain caused by the metastasis, my days of treatment in the hospital weren’t too bitter.

There was a charity kitchen near the hospital where you could use the pots and pans just by paying a few yuan for the gas.

Grandma would wake up every morning before six and scour every corner of the Hangzhou wet markets.

Even though she didn’t speak the local dialect, she always managed to buy the freshest crucian carp. She would use just a pinch of salt to stew a thick, milky-white crucian carp and tofu soup for me.

But many memories beyond the food were tinged with pain.

Radiotherapy was, of course, very difficult to endure. My skin, which I had been reluctant to let tan even in the summer, was scorched as soon as the radiotherapy began.

Losing my hair was also quite distressing. You all know how it is-during exam season in female college dorms, the most common wail you hear is, “I’m losing my hair again!”

Looking back now, I really was just humble-bragging back then.

Back then, it only fell out a few strands at a time; now, it was falling out in clumps.

On the pillow, on the sheets, on the floor tiles-it was a shocking sight, nothing but my hair everywhere.

Before my condition got so bad that it hindered my ability to walk, I found a barbershop nearby and told the barber I wanted to shave my head.

I remember long ago, when I went from long hair to a short bob, the stylist cautiously asked if I had just gone through a breakup.

But now, when I said I wanted to shave my head, the barber didn’t even bat an eye. He calmly pointed to the price list-

Head shave: twenty-five yuan.

Perhaps he had seen it all before. After all, it was an old shop that had been open for over a decade right next to the hospital.

Thinking about it that way was both funny and heartbreaking.

I closed my eyes when the razor scraped off the first lock of hair.

When I opened them again, my head was shiny enough to reflect light.

I stood up and looked at myself in the mirror: a bald head.

At that moment, I mostly just felt a sense of novelty; there wasn’t even time for sorrow.

But when I turned around and saw Grandma crouching on the floor, picking up my fallen hair, I suddenly felt a sharp stab in my chest.

“Such beautiful hair,” she murmured, carefully gathering every single strand into her arms.

The barber said nothing. He turned and went into the back room, returning with a ribbon which he handed to Grandma. “Once she gets through this stretch, your girl’s hair will surely grow that long again.”

Grandma kept her head lowered and gave a heavy nod.

The bundle of hair she held in her hand, tied with a ribbon into a bow, was clearly black, yet it seemed to reflect light-a brightness that made my eyes sting.

During the early stages of treatment, I was actually in a pretty good state.

That was because I didn’t really feel much pain, aside from the doctor showing me the scans and saying, “This part, this part, and this part aren’t looking good.”

But those cancer cells only existed on the scans; I had no obvious physical perception of them.

I even had enough energy to touch up the photos I had on hand, finish up with my clients, and collect the final payments to earn a bit more for my medical bills.

But later on, I couldn’t do it anymore.

In the later stages, my pain receptors became incredibly sensitive.

I spent almost every moment waiting for the doctor to give me analgesics, because only when the painkillers kicked in did I feel like a human being.

A person with dignity, a clear mind, and all five senses intact.

Rather than a ghost submerged in an ocean of pain, unable to breathe, yet unable to die.

The painkillers were very effective, but unfortunately, they couldn’t be administered too often.

When I wasn’t on analgesics, I truly felt like I could die from the sheer pain.

It was the kind of pain that clouded my consciousness; I didn’t even have the strength to say a single word.

However, tears would flow uncontrollably, streaming from the corners of my eyes until they soaked the pillowcase.

Fortunately, I was covered in cold sweat, so they probably couldn’t distinguish whether the moisture on my face was sweat or tears.

I used to be so delicate. When I had period cramps, I would always whimper and moan, saying, “I can’t take it, it hurts so much, I’m skipping class.”

Only now did I realize that when pain reaches its extreme, your thoughts cannot focus.

For instance, I can’t quite remember if, when I was breaking down from the pain, I actually spoke those six words: “I can’t go on living.”

One night I woke up, and the ward clock pointed to 3:15 AM.

In the dead silence, my mind was a complete blank.

But the second I saw Grandma curled up on the army cot, I suddenly realized that I probably had said those six words.

*I can’t go on living.*

Why did I think of it so suddenly?

Because I remembered that during the time when my consciousness was blurred and my thoughts were scattered, Grandma seemed to have held me and cried.

Such a strong old woman, an old woman who never showed a hint of suffering in front of me, had actually held me and cried.