Country Driving [85]
On the seventh day Wei Jia began to bleed from his gums. That morning the doctors gave him a bone-marrow test for leukemia, and finally they decided that he needed a transfusion. Wei Ziqi telephoned me and asked to borrow nearly a thousand dollars. In China, there is no national health insurance, and city residents usually rely on their work units for coverage. Most farmers are completely on their own, which is one reason they tend to be so careful with their savings—a rural person has to be prepared to pay cash for a medical emergency. And hospitals tend to mistreat peasants as a result. Doctors are wary of getting stuck with an unpaid bill, so they always demand money up front. It wasn’t until 2009 that the central government began to take steps toward establishing some form of universal health care, although it’s still unclear how comprehensive such coverage will be.
At the time of Wei Jia’s illness, only private insurance would cover a family in the countryside. Unlike most farmers, the Weis had purchased a policy for their son. It had been offered when he entered kindergarten, and the Weis had been smart enough to buy it; now the majority of his treatment would be covered. But the hospital wouldn’t wait for reimbursement: they demanded cash now. In such situations, families usually raise money from relatives, which might take days to organize.
Mimi was preparing to leave for a work trip to Europe, so I went alone to the hospital. Wei Jia slept fitfully; his mother told me the doctors had drugged him. Dried blood had caked around his mouth—his gums were still oozing. Accompanied by Wei Ziqi, I introduced myself to the physician on duty. Her name was Dr. Zhao, and she sat in an office with another physician and three nurses. I asked if the transfusion was critical.
“Who is this?” she said sharply to Wei Ziqi. “Why is he here? Why is he asking questions?”
“He’s a writer,” Wei Ziqi said proudly.
“I’m a friend, as I just explained,” I said quickly. “I was the one who brought the boy to the hospital. I have some simple questions about what we should do.”
“This isn’t his affair!” Dr. Zhao said to Wei Ziqi. “You’re the parent, and you have responsibility. He has nothing to do with it.”
“I care about the child,” I said. “I’ve been trying to help them since he got sick. I just want us to make the right decision.”
“The decision has already been made!” With that, the woman turned her back on me. For a moment I stood in silence. In China, I was accustomed to people being more patient with me; in general they’re inclined to grant a sort of exaggerated respect to any foreigner who speaks the language. Usually this deference makes life easier, and like any long-term foreign resident I learned to play it to my advantage. But I had no illusions about what it really meant. At the root of that respect is insecurity: deep down, many Chinese, especially educated people, are slightly ashamed of the way their country might appear to an outsider. Dr. Zhao didn’t see me as a person who cared for a sick child; in her eyes I was simply a foreigner who distrusted her competence.
And she was clearly annoyed by Wei Ziqi’s faith in my judgment. Together we brought out the city woman’s worst instincts, from both sides of the spectrum: she responded to the peasant with arrogance and the foreigner with insecurity. I turned to the other women in the room. “Who can I talk to about this?” I said, but they ignored me. I repeated the question: silence. One of the nurses whispered a joke that I couldn’t hear; the others laughed. I felt my face turn red, and that was when my patience ended—I wasn’t going to listen