A spoonful of sugar
I wake up early, stretching my arms out and squeezing my eyes shut as my mouth opens itself in a luxurious yawn. Suddenly, the faint bitter taste of a thick scent in the air hits my tongue and the yawn ends abruptly, jolting me to unwanted unconsciousness in a hurry. Still not quite certain, I sniff the air cautiously.
No doubt about it. Mum's taking Chinese medicine again.
My first encounter with traditional Chinese medicine occurred when I first moved back to Taiwan. While visiting my cousins in central Taiwan, I noticed some plastic containers full of a powdery substance somewhat resembling brown sugar in color. "What's this?" I asked my cousin Lily. "Oh, that's just the zhong-yiao I take for colds," she replied. Curious, I unscrewed the lid. A pungent odor similar to that of white pepper arose from the depths, stinging my eyes. My curiosity quite satisfied by now, I quickly replaced the cap and ran outside to play.
The next time Chinese medicine and I rubbed shoulders was in November 2001. At that time I'd just arrived home from an exhausting three months in the States, with a cold just waiting to happen. At the time, SARS hadn't been discovered yet, so Mom packed Benj and a coughing, wheezing me on a plane bound to Xiamen, China with her... while she went on the church's missions trip, we two would be headed for the doctor's.
But not the friendly, family doctor type with a stethoscope and white coat; oh, no. First we took a bus 40 minutes across the bustling city, noting the poverty of the people even downtown as we passed. Then we got off the bus near the harbor mouth and trekked down some obscure alleys before finally reaching the doctor's office. Since there was another half an hour before the office opened, we had to stand outside the tiny gate and wait in the chilly breeze. During that time two people coughed and spit phlegm on the sidewalk by my feet, and one man decided to take a leak against a pillar. "Hmm..." I thought.
Finally, the doors opened. With a rusty creak, the old metal gate swung open. A wizened old woman stood there, crossly ordered us to "Hurry up and get in," and then disappeared into the darkness before our eyes. Gulping a quick breath of fresh air, I bravely followed her into a cramped, dark, low hallway full of who-knows-what. As she stomped up the creaky stairs, I didn't dare touch the railing as I looked at the mildewy, dripping walls around me.
Thankfully, the doctor's office was much cleaner, just very old. The old man grinned happily at us like a butcher smiles at a doomed animal. "Come to Daddy, my chickies!" (All right; to be entirely honest... perhaps it was more something along the lines of "Sit down, please.") My mother explained to us the Chinese medical check-up method: two fingers on the pulse inside the wrist could tell you a person's condition in five minutes. Yes. I also was highly skeptical. All the more so after he diagnosed both Benj and me (with many clucks of tongue) and then shuffled off into his tiny pharmacy off to the side of the room to concoct our powders of bane and doom.
While we watched in horror and foreboding, he hummed cheerily as he pulled out yellowed containers filled with unmentionables (some yet attempting escape at this final hour, might I add) and pounded them to bits with his ancient mortar and pestle. He filled squares of wax paper generously with a heaping tablespoonful of powder each, then packaged everything up into small zippered plastic bags. Benjamin and I each had about a pound's worth of powder sorted in these little paper packets, a month's worth each. With the affable smile of a sadist, he suggested that we each take a dose before we left his office. Both rather loath to follow his instructions, we were about to demur when our mother forced us to obey. Ahh!
Benjamin and I played rock-scissors-paper to see who would have to go first. He lost. As he opened his baggie with distaste, the doctor poured him a plastic cup full of warm water - the norm in China and Taiwan, where apparently having cold water is against national health laws. Trying to be brave, I began putting a good face on the matter. How bad could one package of greeny browny powder be? I told myself that I was tough and could take anything. Just as I was thinking this, Benj began coughing, snorting powder that he'd choked on. Ahh. My brother on drugs.
I thought to myself, "I can do better than that! He's just a little boy..." As I opened my bag with the bravado of a first-born, the doctor winked at me, grinning affably. With the look of one sharing a delightful secret, he leaned forward towards me and whispered, "Ni duh bi jiao ku [Yours is more bitter]." Wonderful. Just wonderful. Still, just how bad could it get? Undoing the paper and folding the corner so the powder would fall neatly, I took a gulp of water into my mouth and poured the packet's contents on top of the water.
I have never been in such agony before or since. The noxious fumes rose to the roof of my mouth immediately as the powders landed with a soft plop in the liquid. A cloud of powder adhered to the lining of my nose, causing me to desire intensely to sneeze. However, I refrained, knowing that the moment I closed my mouth to do so, I would force some of the powder-pregnant water up my long-suffering nose as well. Knowing full well how ridiculous I looked to Benj, who was now at leisure to laugh, I pinched my nose shut and gulped down the huge swallow of water. While my eyes were shut for a brief moment, I could have sworn I heard a long, low chuckle. (Mommy says it was just the pressure in my ears, but I am sure it was the evil escaping out of the doctor)
Needless to say, the next three months were not happy ones for Benj and me. The first two weeks after our visit, we had to take our medicine every 3 hours, without fail. Even though we both have never been picky eaters, we lost all appetite for a few days. Mom even had to bribe us - US! Teenagers! to take our medicine by buying us large quantities of sweet candy to be imbibed after our tribulation. To be honest, there were a few times I flushed my medicine down the toilet, firmly convinced that even cancer would be preferable to this slow death by asphyxiation and lung clogging. I am convinced this would have been the death of me if kept up all my life. People speak of the wisdom of the race of Confucius; I am not surprised he's dead.
To this day I cannot see any benefit this extreme and ancient treatment has wrought upon my person. Calvin's dad might argue that it would build character in one; I can only say that in my case, it has only developed in me a very wry sense of humor. Which isn't exactly the cure my mother had hoped to effect, I'm certain; planning to calm me down instead, if anything.
As I crawl out of bed in a very low frame of mind due to the noisome and overpowering smell of Mother's new herbal brew cooking in a special earthen pot, I begin to think of the strangest things. As if the scent is an evil enchantment warping my mind, I begin to envision the Chinese doctor's possible facial expression at this moment. "If I were he, what would I be thinking right now?", I idly contemplate. Unconsciously, my face mirrors my thoughts as I begin laughing my head off.
---The author is an American-born Chinese girl who often thinks, says, and writes ridiculously nonsensical things. She is currently not on any medication, whether Eastern or Western, for which she is deeply and humbly grateful.
Please note: this story is not meant to be taken seriously or internally, as it is only intended as medicine in the Proverbs 17:22 way.
No doubt about it. Mum's taking Chinese medicine again.
My first encounter with traditional Chinese medicine occurred when I first moved back to Taiwan. While visiting my cousins in central Taiwan, I noticed some plastic containers full of a powdery substance somewhat resembling brown sugar in color. "What's this?" I asked my cousin Lily. "Oh, that's just the zhong-yiao I take for colds," she replied. Curious, I unscrewed the lid. A pungent odor similar to that of white pepper arose from the depths, stinging my eyes. My curiosity quite satisfied by now, I quickly replaced the cap and ran outside to play.
The next time Chinese medicine and I rubbed shoulders was in November 2001. At that time I'd just arrived home from an exhausting three months in the States, with a cold just waiting to happen. At the time, SARS hadn't been discovered yet, so Mom packed Benj and a coughing, wheezing me on a plane bound to Xiamen, China with her... while she went on the church's missions trip, we two would be headed for the doctor's.
But not the friendly, family doctor type with a stethoscope and white coat; oh, no. First we took a bus 40 minutes across the bustling city, noting the poverty of the people even downtown as we passed. Then we got off the bus near the harbor mouth and trekked down some obscure alleys before finally reaching the doctor's office. Since there was another half an hour before the office opened, we had to stand outside the tiny gate and wait in the chilly breeze. During that time two people coughed and spit phlegm on the sidewalk by my feet, and one man decided to take a leak against a pillar. "Hmm..." I thought.
Finally, the doors opened. With a rusty creak, the old metal gate swung open. A wizened old woman stood there, crossly ordered us to "Hurry up and get in," and then disappeared into the darkness before our eyes. Gulping a quick breath of fresh air, I bravely followed her into a cramped, dark, low hallway full of who-knows-what. As she stomped up the creaky stairs, I didn't dare touch the railing as I looked at the mildewy, dripping walls around me.
Thankfully, the doctor's office was much cleaner, just very old. The old man grinned happily at us like a butcher smiles at a doomed animal. "Come to Daddy, my chickies!" (All right; to be entirely honest... perhaps it was more something along the lines of "Sit down, please.") My mother explained to us the Chinese medical check-up method: two fingers on the pulse inside the wrist could tell you a person's condition in five minutes. Yes. I also was highly skeptical. All the more so after he diagnosed both Benj and me (with many clucks of tongue) and then shuffled off into his tiny pharmacy off to the side of the room to concoct our powders of bane and doom.
While we watched in horror and foreboding, he hummed cheerily as he pulled out yellowed containers filled with unmentionables (some yet attempting escape at this final hour, might I add) and pounded them to bits with his ancient mortar and pestle. He filled squares of wax paper generously with a heaping tablespoonful of powder each, then packaged everything up into small zippered plastic bags. Benjamin and I each had about a pound's worth of powder sorted in these little paper packets, a month's worth each. With the affable smile of a sadist, he suggested that we each take a dose before we left his office. Both rather loath to follow his instructions, we were about to demur when our mother forced us to obey. Ahh!
Benjamin and I played rock-scissors-paper to see who would have to go first. He lost. As he opened his baggie with distaste, the doctor poured him a plastic cup full of warm water - the norm in China and Taiwan, where apparently having cold water is against national health laws. Trying to be brave, I began putting a good face on the matter. How bad could one package of greeny browny powder be? I told myself that I was tough and could take anything. Just as I was thinking this, Benj began coughing, snorting powder that he'd choked on. Ahh. My brother on drugs.
I thought to myself, "I can do better than that! He's just a little boy..." As I opened my bag with the bravado of a first-born, the doctor winked at me, grinning affably. With the look of one sharing a delightful secret, he leaned forward towards me and whispered, "Ni duh bi jiao ku [Yours is more bitter]." Wonderful. Just wonderful. Still, just how bad could it get? Undoing the paper and folding the corner so the powder would fall neatly, I took a gulp of water into my mouth and poured the packet's contents on top of the water.
I have never been in such agony before or since. The noxious fumes rose to the roof of my mouth immediately as the powders landed with a soft plop in the liquid. A cloud of powder adhered to the lining of my nose, causing me to desire intensely to sneeze. However, I refrained, knowing that the moment I closed my mouth to do so, I would force some of the powder-pregnant water up my long-suffering nose as well. Knowing full well how ridiculous I looked to Benj, who was now at leisure to laugh, I pinched my nose shut and gulped down the huge swallow of water. While my eyes were shut for a brief moment, I could have sworn I heard a long, low chuckle. (Mommy says it was just the pressure in my ears, but I am sure it was the evil escaping out of the doctor)
Needless to say, the next three months were not happy ones for Benj and me. The first two weeks after our visit, we had to take our medicine every 3 hours, without fail. Even though we both have never been picky eaters, we lost all appetite for a few days. Mom even had to bribe us - US! Teenagers! to take our medicine by buying us large quantities of sweet candy to be imbibed after our tribulation. To be honest, there were a few times I flushed my medicine down the toilet, firmly convinced that even cancer would be preferable to this slow death by asphyxiation and lung clogging. I am convinced this would have been the death of me if kept up all my life. People speak of the wisdom of the race of Confucius; I am not surprised he's dead.
To this day I cannot see any benefit this extreme and ancient treatment has wrought upon my person. Calvin's dad might argue that it would build character in one; I can only say that in my case, it has only developed in me a very wry sense of humor. Which isn't exactly the cure my mother had hoped to effect, I'm certain; planning to calm me down instead, if anything.
As I crawl out of bed in a very low frame of mind due to the noisome and overpowering smell of Mother's new herbal brew cooking in a special earthen pot, I begin to think of the strangest things. As if the scent is an evil enchantment warping my mind, I begin to envision the Chinese doctor's possible facial expression at this moment. "If I were he, what would I be thinking right now?", I idly contemplate. Unconsciously, my face mirrors my thoughts as I begin laughing my head off.
---The author is an American-born Chinese girl who often thinks, says, and writes ridiculously nonsensical things. She is currently not on any medication, whether Eastern or Western, for which she is deeply and humbly grateful.
Please note: this story is not meant to be taken seriously or internally, as it is only intended as medicine in the Proverbs 17:22 way.