Beijing Notes 007: The Pandemic Years—Reflections on a Journey of Healing

后山

Beijing’s early summer is lush and vibrant. People rush past, preoccupied and with no time to spare for the Chinese roses blooming along the roadsides. It is hard to imagine what this place looked like during the pandemic six years ago. Were these sprawling avenues completely deserted and empty?

In the blink of an eye, more than five years have quietly slipped by since that global pandemic passed. For society as a whole, it was a long, unforeseen nightmare. For me personally, it was an unforgettable chapter of my life—a time when the agony of injury and illness intertwined with a world in upheaval, bringing a flood of complex emotions to my heart.

The Unheeded Snap

The story begins on an autumn day in 2019, just before Thanksgiving. I was playing tennis outdoors. The movement wasn't particularly intense—just a slight adjustment of my feet—yet my Achilles tendon unexpectedly snapped. I felt a sharp jolt of pain, but I didn't take it seriously. In everyday sports, bumps, bruises, and sprains are par for the course; I had never given them much thought.

Years ago, when I preferred basketball, I had witnessed a friend’s Achilles tendon snap the moment he jumped. He lay on the ground, crying out in agony. That piercing, heart-wrenching pain stayed with me, and I never saw him ride the court again. Yet, when it was my turn to face the same injury, I remained completely oblivious to its severity.

Tennis may be a non-contact sport, but injuries are still a regular occurrence. My arms, legs, and joints all seemed to have taken turns getting hurt. I used to think that only after every part of your body has suffered a setback can you truly appreciate the beauty of sports.

So, after this injury, I went about my business as usual, brushing it off. When I got home, I looked up information online and leaned heavily toward conservative, non-surgical treatment. The thought of surgery seemed too daunting, and I convinced myself this was just a typical, minor sports injury.

Gradually, my ankle swelled, and walking became exceptionally difficult. Looking back, the reason is painfully obvious. The Achilles tendon is like the string of a puppet; once the string snaps, the puppet can no longer move freely. Without the tendon providing leverage and support, my feet could not find any purchase. I could only drag my injured leg along, shuffling and limping with every step.

Chasing the Wind on a Broken Leg

After two or three weeks, the swelling and pain subsided significantly. I even stubbornly tried to return to the tennis court, but my injury ultimately kept me from playing properly, leaving me thoroughly frustrated.

At the time, I was working for a multinational corporation and had a scheduled trip to Paris for an internal meeting. Since I had never been to the UK, I talked it over with my wife, and we decided to visit London together first.

In mid-December, with Christmas just around the corner, I dragged my unhealed leg through the chilly, damp streets of London. Under a steady drizzle and overcast skies, my mind was clouded with worry. No matter how beautiful the scenery along the River Thames was, I had no heart to appreciate it.

After a short stay in London, we hurried to Paris. While I was tied up in business meetings, my wife thoroughly enjoyed a cruise along the Seine. On Christmas Eve, we boarded our flight back, flying straight to Boston. Without even stopping by our house, we caught a connecting flight to California to join our children. The family gathered together, enjoying a warm and peaceful Christmas. After the holiday, we traveled to Seattle to visit our younger son, who lives and works there.

It was late December, right before the New Year. We met up for a casual chat with an old friend who had just returned from Wuhan. During dinner, he mentioned that a new, SARS-like virus had appeared there. At the time, none of us paid it much attention. None of us could have predicted that this virus would later sweep the globe, causing a massive catastrophe, nor did we realize that the pandemic had already begun its silent spread at the end of 2019. After saying our goodbyes, we headed back to our home in New Jersey.

The Diagnosis and the First Surgery

As January 2020 arrived, my leg showed no signs of improvement, and my walking remained sluggish and labored. For eight years since 2012, I had been commuting between New Jersey and Boston for work—driving up to Boston on Sunday evenings and returning home on Friday nights. I had long grown accustomed to this nomadic routine.

The Lunar New Year fell in January that year. To celebrate the spring festival, we invited neighbors and friends over for a small gathering, sharing drinks and catching up on daily life. During the gathering, I mentioned my leg injury, which still hadn't fully recovered after two months. One of our friends, who had been a surgeon in China, examined my ankle carefully. He told me bluntly that the tendon was completely ruptured. If I didn't get surgery to repair it soon, it would never heal properly, and I would be destined to limp for the rest of my life. Hearing this, my heart sank. I had always been healthy and full of vitality; I simply could not accept the idea of spending the rest of my days walking with a limp.

Panicked, I quickly asked for a solution. My friend urged me to see a doctor and get the tendon reattached as soon as possible. As luck would have it, two of my tennis buddies had also ruptured their Achilles tendons around the same time and had successful surgeries at a local orthopedic hospital in Princeton. Both were recovering well, and they enthusiastically recommended their surgeon to me.

Reviewing the doctor's credentials, I felt an immediate sense of reassurance; his child had been in the same graduating class at Princeton University as my son. He was a highly skilled surgeon and reassured me that this type of operation was very common, telling me not to worry.

After making the arrangements, my surgery was scheduled for an afternoon. That day, the doctor had seven consecutive patients, and I was the last one. Looking at diagrams of the surgical procedure naturally filled me with trepidation, but once the anesthesia was administered, I drifted into a deep sleep, completely unaware of the operation.

When I woke up, the surgery had been a success. The doctor instructed me to rest at home, fitted me with a specialized orthopedic boot, and told me to keep my leg elevated to promote blood circulation. He also prescribed strong painkillers. Fortunately, the post-operative pain was manageable, and I never had to touch those pills.

Complications in Isolation

Recovering at home after surgery was excruciatingly tedious. It was the dead of winter in February, and the ground outside was covered in snow and ice. I could only move around cautiously on crutches, keeping all weight off my injured foot. Two weeks later, I went in for my follow-up appointment, only to be told that the wound was not healing well; the removal of the stitches would have to be delayed by another two weeks.

With heavy professional responsibilities, a team to manage, and various laboratory matters to handle, I had no choice but to drag my injured leg, get into my car, and drive four hours to Boston for work on crutches.

Seeing my condition, my colleagues showered me with care and sympathy. Learning about my surgical ordeal filled me with warmth. After enduring another two long weeks, I went back to have the stitches removed. Instead of good news, I received another blow: a piece of skin about five to six centimeters in diameter around the ankle wound had necrotized and sloughed off. Staring at the exposed flesh, a wave of dread washed over me.

By then, the pandemic had erupted in full force, spreading from China to the United States. Lockdowns and stay-at-home orders were being implemented everywhere. Misfortunes never come singly—dealing with an unhealed leg injury while a rampant virus raged outside made seeking medical care incredibly difficult.

My surgeon prescribed a topical antibiotic ointment and referred me to a plastic surgeon to discuss a skin graft. However, given the severity of the pandemic, the doctor told me frankly that it was not the right time for surgery. The survival rate for a skin graft under those conditions would be extremely low. My only option was to clean and care for the wound daily with medication, waiting for it to heal slowly on its own.

For the next few months, I strictly followed the doctor’s orders day after day: cleaning the wound, applying ointment, wrapping it in gauze, and putting on the protective boot to rest. I visited multiple hospitals, but the answer was always the same: patient care was the only remedy; there was no magic cure. I had to marvel at the human body's capacity for self-healing. After enduring those long months, by the height of summer in July, the wound finally began to close and heal.

The Nightmare of Infection

By that time, the pandemic in the United States had spiraled completely out of control. Grim news poured in from all over the country. Nursing homes suffered heavy casualties due to lapses in prevention, and news of friends and relatives catching the virus came one after another. Universities closed down entirely, and my daughter, then a college junior, had to stay home for online classes.

The vibrant life we once knew had been completely paused. Every household shut its doors, and the usual hustle and bustle vanished. My wife was meticulous; she wore full protective gear whenever she went out and disinfected everything repeatedly upon returning. Life at home became stifling and oppressive.

Young and restless, my daughter grew incredibly restless cooped up inside all day. After much pleading, our family decided to go for a hike at nearby Sourland Mountain to clear our heads. Although my wound had largely closed, a tiny fissure remained that hadn't fully knitted together. Before setting out, I carefully protected the wound, proceeding with the utmost caution.

What I didn't anticipate was that the excessive sweating during the hike allowed bacteria to invade my body through that unhealed opening. Within a few days, my injured leg became red, swollen, and inflamed. The nightmare of a bacterial infection had begun.

In a panic, I turned to a doctor friend who prescribed oral antibiotics. It helped initially, but the inflammation flared up again within days. I bounced between specialists, consulting both plastic surgeons and infectious disease experts. I cycled through various strong medications, but the wound would improve only to worsen again, stubbornly refusing to heal.

Deeply discouraged, I went back to my original orthopedic surgeon. After a thorough examination and an MRI, the root cause was finally unmasked: the internal, non-absorbable surgical sutures had become a breeding ground for bacteria. Ordinary medication could not eliminate the infection at its source.

The only solution was a second surgery to remove the residual sutures and completely clear out the infected tissue.

By then it was September, the most dangerous period of the pandemic in the U.S. Yet, I had no choice but to step into the hospital—the one place everyone was desperately trying to avoid.

Due to a severe shortage of medical staff and overcrowded facilities, the doctor specially scheduled my surgery for late at night to minimize the risk of infection.

Midnight Surgery and a Long Winter

At midnight on September 15, under a dark sky, my wife drove me to the hospital. Upon admission, I was screened for COVID-19. Once cleared, I was wheeled onto the operating table at 2:00 AM.

When I woke up around six or seven in the morning, my leg was wrapped in thick gauze, connected to a medical device draining fluid from the wound. Exhausted and starving after the surgery, I waited a long time for breakfast to no avail. Left with no choice, I asked a nurse for help; this minor complaint somehow escalated to the hospital president, and a sumptuous meal was delivered shortly after.

Being naturally optimistic, I adjusted my mindset, firmly believing that once I got through this hurdle, I would be completely cured. Less than twenty-four hours later, after the nurse confirmed everything was stable, I was discharged to recover at home.

Following this second surgery, my care was incredibly meticulous, and the wound healed beautifully. I cleaned the drainage device on schedule every day, and after a long recovery period, the device was removed in October. By late November, the wound that had plagued me for so long was completely healed, and the stubborn bacteria were entirely gone.

As the year drew to a close, the cold deepened, and the pandemic continued to rage. With everyone in quarantine, friends and family could not visit one another. My daughter, acutely aware of the trouble the previous hiking trip had caused me, never brought up the idea of going out again. For most of 2020, I was confined to the house, enduring a cold and lonely existence alongside my leg injury. In the dual crucible of illness and the pandemic, I watched this difficult year come to a quiet, helpless end.

After the Storm

Time flows swiftly, and six years have quietly passed. Today, my leg has fully recovered. My daily walking and exercise are completely unaffected, and if the memory didn't linger in my heart, I would have almost forgotten the pain and suffering I endured back then.

Looking back at that long stretch of time enveloped by the pandemic and injury, there was the physical torment of illness, the helplessness of facing an unpredictable world, and the lonely monotony of quarantine. Yet, there was also the warmth of family solidarity and the quiet certainty of holding onto hope in the darkest of times.

That sudden pandemic and unexpected injury intertwined to forge an unforgettable chapter of my life. Having weathered the storm, I now hold a much deeper appreciation for the simple blessings of peace, health, and the beautiful ordinariness of everyday life.