My Special Teacher (Part Final)

After the exhibition, I often called to check on his health and to guide him on how to care for and clean his sacrococcygeal region. He had to be hospitalized once again to treat the ulcer. However, medicine cannot resolve everything perfectly for the patient; since he had already undergone a flap transposition once, performing it a second time was difficult because there was no longer any "tissue bed" available for another flap. The hospital only provided conservative treatment to stabilize the wound before discharging him.

On the 3rd day of Tet in 2010, I went to visit and extend New Year greetings to him and his family. The weather was bitterly cold, accompanied by a biting drizzle, making the atmosphere even more chilling. Upon reaching his doorstep, I was startled and stunned to find the house locked up tight with a padlock on Tet holiday; could it be...

I rang the doorbell for a long time before his father peered out, saying, "Long has gone to the hospital." Then he turned back, intending to close the door. I called out after him, "What happened to him that he had to go to the hospital, uncle? Which hospital is he staying at, uncle?" I am not sure if he recognized me (as I rarely met him at the hospital, and had never met him when visiting their home). Why did he answer so bluntly: "At the Department of Nephrology, Thanh Nhan Hospital!"?

I was very annoyed, but I thought visiting him was the right thing to do. I could not just turn back. I resolved to go to Thanh Nhan Hospital to find him. On the 3rd day of Tet, the hospital was deserted and dreary, quite unlike usual days. Many beds in the departments were empty. I went up to the Department of Nephrology; the entire department was completely deserted, without a single soul in sight. There was only one bed further inside, covered with a bulky cotton blanket. Not seeing him, I walked up to the rooms to check the patient name tags. There was no one named Trinh Long. Where are you, Long? If only I had run into a medical staff member to ask, it would have saved me the trouble.

I walked back down to the Department of Nephrology and approached the pile of blankets. It turned out there was someone lying inside, completely covered up, curled into a fetal position. I looked closely. It was him, truly him. I gasped and called out: "Long." It took three calls for him to slowly open his eyes; his gaze was dim and weary, and his body was emaciated to the bone. His skin was pale and bluish. His beard was overgrown. I could not imagine this was the resilient Long I once knew. I spoke with him. It turned out he had developed renal failure due to recurrent urinary tract infections (caused by indwelling urinary catheters). He was frail, pale, with swollen legs and withered hands. I examined his mucous membranes; they were as pale white as a dead person's eyes.

I said, "Why did you let it get this bad without calling me?"

He replied, "In my condition of chronic, lingering illness, making a call wouldn't solve anything. Ever since the exhibition, I've just been bedridden, sister."

Seeing him haggard, curled up, shriveled, and suffering from severe anemia, I felt deeply heartbroken. While I was scrambling to find the physician on duty, I suddenly remembered that Dr. Minh, who used to work with me at Spaul, was now the director of Thanh Nhan Hospital. I pulled out my phone and called Dr. Minh. Minh asked why I was at the hospital, stating he was currently on executive duty." I was as overjoyed as a drowning person catching a straw. I told Minh that I would come up to see him to make a request.

At the director's office, I told Minh that I was visiting an old patient rather than a family member, and pleaded, "This is a former patient of mine; he has a truly extraordinary fate. I ask you to come down, examine him, and authorize a blood transfusion. If we let this go through the week-long Tet holiday, his condition will severely collapse." Dr. Minh said, "All right, just sit here, it will be taken care of." Impatiently, I repeated myself, making Minh promise to arrange a transfusion for him. Before leaving, I gave him a lucky money red envelope containing a figurine of Buddha that I had brought back from the pagoda, praying that the buddhas and deities would bless him with good health....

Months later, I was stunned to hear the news that he had passed away. My thoughts seemed to pause for a few seconds. I mourned for him—a resilient person with a tragic fate. The funeral had passed a few days ago...

On the 49th day after his passing, Dr. Bui Van Giang (Diagnostic Imaging) and I went to his house to offer incense. Looking at his portrait amidst swirling incense smoke, I could not help choking back tears of deep sympathy. His mother stood to receive our condolences, her eyes swollen from weeping for her son. She said, "Well, it's just the fate of a human life. Passing away so young is heartbreaking, but his passing frees him from suffering and grants him peace, my child."

Then she told me an unexpected story—the story of Long's romance. A few months after the exhibition, a female musician from the South, deeply moved by his willpower, came to visit him. She visited regularly, and eventually, Long and that girl fell in love, my child; the two of them fell deeply in love. On rainy days, when she promised to come but was delayed, Long would write poetry. Those verses were filled with yearning, burning passion, anticipation, and profound nostalgia, just like any other couple in love. Long loved with such intensity that she worried whether a relationship with someone paralyzed like him could go anywhere or would end up incomplete. With her son in that condition and falling for an able-bodied girl, she feared it would ruin the young woman's life. A mother's sensitive heart, having cared for her son through countless months and years, suddenly shattered, not daring to think any further.

She continued, "They loved each other and were so deeply attached, my child. My heart ached for my son, and for that girl as well. Above all, I was overjoyed that Long got to experience and feel true love—a great love, one that he never had nor dared to dream of during all his youth. This love arrived right at the moment Long could no longer paint. It became the driving force for him to continue living resolutely until he had to be rushed to the hospital in acute renal and respiratory failure..."

As she spoke, she burst into bitter tears, "Why must it be that out of a whole lifetime, my son suffered so much, dear God? If only I could die in his place so he could be loved, then my sorrow and grief would be eased..." Regaining her composure after a moment, she led me to the corner of the house. His bed was neatly folded and tucked away in a corner. She wanted to donate this bed to patients at Spaul Hospital who might unfortunately be paralyzed like Long. I thanked her and promised to invite the orthopedic department to come retrieve the bed. Unfortunately, the head of the department was away on a business trip, leading to bureaucratic delays. That bed never made it back to Spaul Hospital and was instead transferred to the rehabilitation hospital.

There is one detail regarding the painting "Life" that I need to add. When my daughter was studying in Pennsylvania (USA), upon passing by the school office, she was surprised to see Long's painting "Life" hanging on the wall.

My daughter asked a teacher, but even the teacher did not know whose painting it was or where it came from. My daughter recounted Long's story to the teacher. The teacher listened attentively and was deeply impressed by Long. However, upon learning that her mother was an anesthesiologist in Vietnam, he remarked, "Your mother must be very skilled, because anesthesiologists in Vietnam—no, in the US, anesthesiologists earn the highest salaries among all professions." Smiling, my daughter replied, "My mother is an anesthesiologist in Vietnam; she is the very doctor who treated this artist, but in Vietnam, anesthesiologists are very poor"...

Long's story followed my daughter to a vast, modern America across the other side of the globe. The story about him that I have shared with you has also stayed with me right up to this day.

Recalling this story brings to mind a "Special Teacher." That is none of other than you, Long. You are my teacher in how to love life!

Thank you to everyone who has read and felt moved by this story!

Please feel free to view more works and self-reflections by Artist Trinh Long: