I was shocked to hear that Dr. Wu Ming-hsien, former superintendent of National Taiwan University Hospital, had suddenly collapsed and arrived at the hospital without a heartbeat. He is currently undergoing resuscitation.
When I saw this news, I was stunned for a long time. How could it be him? I just remembered writing an article praising this junior colleague for daring to speak frankly to the government…
In recent years, I've heard of several doctor friends who have suddenly passed away or fallen ill. What's shocking is often not the illness itself, but that everything seemed so normal beforehand.
Just a few days ago, he was seeing patients. Just a few days ago, he was in a meeting. Just a few days ago, he was chatting and laughing in group chats. There were no obvious discomforts, no special warning signs, and he was even planning his trip for next month. Then one day, he suddenly collapsed.
As doctors, we care for the health of others every day, but we often forget that we are also made of flesh and blood. We always tell patients, "Rest more, drink more water, don't overwork." But many doctors themselves can't remember the last time they drank enough water. The best doctor is often the worst patient.
This is not a joke, but a daily reality. To care for patients, doctors are on high alert for extended periods, their bodies stretched to the limit like rubber bands. With prolonged exhaustion, one slowly becomes accustomed to it. With prolonged busyness, one may not even realize they are overdrawing their energy. We think we can still manage. In reality, we've simply become accustomed to holding on.
After more than thirty years of practicing medicine, I've gradually come to understand that the real danger isn't occasional fatigue, but rather the silent, relentless devouring of life by work. It first takes away your time, then your sleep, then your interests, friends, family, and even the ability to be alone. Finally, you realize that you too are slowly consuming yourself—unconsciously, cloaked in a sense of responsibility.
I used to always think I had plenty of time. People I wanted to see, I'd make plans for later. Places I wanted to go, I'd go later. The life I wanted to live, I'd consider after retirement.
But over the years, witnessing too many lives abruptly ended and saying goodbye to too many familiar friends, I've begun to have a different feeling about time. Days evaporate quietly, one by one, year by year, like a frog being slowly boiled in water. By the time you realize it, it's already too late.
So now, I'm starting to learn to slow down. Sometimes I just brew a cup of tea and sit by the window, lost in thought. Sometimes I go for a walk on the beach, watching the tides rise and fall. I try to attend gatherings with friends... Sometimes I do nothing at all, just feeling the warmth of the sun on my skin.
I've also started to rethink what "enough" means. The world is actually a dazzling playground, and wealth is just the tokens for the rides. You can't ride every ride. No matter how many tokens you have, you can't take the whole playground with you.
Those who leave suddenly often leave behind considerable assets. Yet, no amount of wealth can buy them even one more day. Enough is enough.
At this age, I've started to pay special attention to subtle things. Fallen leaves in autumn. The gradually decaying old trees. The familiar iron gates of shops. Sometimes, even when the sun is shining brightly outside, a chill suddenly creeps into my heart.
That's not pessimism. It's finally realizing that everything has its limits. Including ourselves. Waking up every morning, seeing myself in the mirror, and knowing that I can still breathe, walk, love, and be loved—that's already wonderful. Absolutely wonderful.
May we all remain curious and moved in the river of life, swimming joyfully until our very last moment, forgetting that death is approaching.
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