Hong Kong actress Wu Wenxin passed away after spending 6 million HKD on injections in Thailand, ultimately succumbing to even the cheaper 24,000 HKD treatments in Shenzhen.
She initially had 3 million HKD in cash, and with support from her husband, she had a total of 6 million HKD.
Her first stage II cancer was treated at Queen Mary Hospital in Hong Kong.
Surgery removed the lesions, and targeted therapy brought the cancer under control.
But then came the reversal: after a relapse, a friend took her to a private hospital in Thailand for "autologous immune cell therapy," costing 300,000 HKD per injection, with a three-month course. Her indicators didn't decrease but instead rose, with the doctor citing "individual differences."
A third course was recommended as an "upgraded version," which burned through money even faster and worsened her condition.
By the time she finally reached the University of Hong Kong-Shenzhen Hospital, she only had 80,000 HKD left in her account, unable to afford even the 24,000 HKD per treatment at a secondary-level hospital, which was entirely out-of-pocket. She ultimately succumbed.
Why did she choose that path? Because everything she saw seemed to radiate hope: a luxurious lobby, private bathrooms, photos of celebrities on the walls, and doctors confidently stating, "Over 70% effectiveness, no chemotherapy or radiotherapy required."
Her family flew there specifically to see the process; the procedures were smooth, the service excellent, and the responses quick—it sounded like a shortcut.
But she overlooked a crucial fact—her first experience at a Hong Kong public hospital followed the standard protocol, stabilizing her condition and costing less than a million dollars; that approach, though slower, had traceable evidence at every step.
The calculations were heartbreaking: a single targeted therapy injection costs about HK$50,000 in Hong Kong, while a standard treatment in Shenzhen costs 24,000 RMB. Her 6 million RMB could have covered hundreds of targeted therapy sessions in Hong Kong and over two hundred complete treatments in Shenzhen, plus standard treatment, dual targeted therapy, and immunosuppression—enough to last more than three years.
But she poured her money into "new technologies," and after three rounds, her tumor markers improved, but her body was completely depleted.
The hardest part was returning to Shenzhen. Her family didn't ask about treatment; they asked, "Are there any cheaper options?" The medical team and medication system were the same as in Hong Kong, but the price was only a fraction of what it was in Hong Kong. But it was too late—her white blood cell count was soaring, her platelet count was dangerously low, and even the side effects of basic chemotherapy couldn't be suppressed. On the last consent form, she could barely hold the pen; her name broke into pieces.
Some say this is an "age of information overload": well-meaning recommendations from friends, online success stories, and impressive charts from hospitals—each one a beacon of information. But even beacons can be real or fake. Especially claims like "70% effective"—without detailed stratification, applicable conditions, or comparative data, it's easy to misjudge. Healthcare isn't like ordering food at a restaurant; a beautiful menu doesn't necessarily have evidence behind it; sometimes it's just marketing.
The paradox is that Hong Kong's public hospitals are slow but stable, with transparent fees and detailed project breakdowns; private institutions are fast, but not just in terms of procedures, but also in terms of "upgraded" prices.
You're racing against time, while they're racing against your anxiety. When you look back, they've won your trust and your money, but your health can't afford to lose.
Some ask, shouldn't she also be responsible for her choices? Frankly speaking, adults do bear the consequences of their decisions.
But for families facing illness, every phrase like "may be effective" or "high probability of controlling it" carries ten times the weight of usual statements.
Every promise from a hospital should be backed by equally substantial evidence; otherwise, it's just highly manipulative commercial rhetoric.
Especially with "out-of-pocket full payment" or "overseas treatment," the "evidence of efficacy, applicable population, and fallback options in case of failure" must be clearly explained.
At this point, I just want to remind everyone: when faced with "new technologies" during illness,
the first question isn't about price, but whether it has undergone reliable clinical validation, and whether there's a return to the standard public treatment pathway if it fails.
The second question is whether your stage and mutation site truly offer greater benefits.
The third question is whether your body can withstand the side effects and the hassle of travel.
What seems like a waste of time in seeking verification is often the most life-saving shortcut.
If you only look at the results, it looks like a tragedy of "money burned out and the person died." The real contradiction lies in the question: when "hope" is treated as a business, who is responsible for exaggerated promises?
My stance is clear: treating illness can involve risks, but these risks must be based on evidence, not on rhetoric.
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