I Promise to Walk With You for Half of my Life’s Journey - Chapter 21

The surgery was scheduled for the end of August.

On the night before they departed for Beijing, Cheng Sutong lay on the sofa in An Chuxin’s home. Ever since Cheng Sutong’s mother had passed away, An Chuxin had insisted that the girl move in with her to ensure she was properly cared for.

“Can’t sleep?” An Chuxin asked as she stepped out of the bedroom and sat down beside her.

Cheng Sutong nodded and leaned closer. An Chuxin reached out and pulled her into an embrace, letting the girl rest her head on her shoulder.

“Are you scared?” An Chuxin asked softly.

“Yes,” Cheng Sutong replied.

“I am too,” An Chuxin admitted honestly. “I am afraid the surgery might fail, I am afraid of losing you, and I am afraid that everything is simply too late.”

Cheng Sutong looked up at her. “If the surgery fails, will you blame me?”

“Blame you for what?”

“For giving you hope and then letting you down. For spending all your money on me. For choosing to walk this dead-end path with me when you could have just started over.”

An Chuxin smiled through her tears. It was a gentle, tender expression.

“Cheng Sutong, I am twenty-three years old,” she said, stroking the girl’s hair. “Did you know that on the night you told me the truth, and on the morning I lost my own mother, I had already made all the necessary preparations?”

“What preparations?”

“The preparation to walk with you until the very end,” An Chuxin said, her eyes shining like stars. “Regardless of whether the surgery is a success, and regardless of how much longer you have to live, I will be with you for every second from now on. You will never again lie in a hospital bed counting down the days alone; you will never face the fear of death by yourself. This is my choice. I do not regret it, and I will never blame you.”

Cheng Sutong’s tears fell. She hugged An Chuxin tightly and buried her face in the crook of her neck.

The housing fund loan was approved for 80,000 yuan. When Cheng Sutong’s classmates learned of her situation, they quietly organized a donation and raised 37,400 yuan. The money was placed in an unsigned kraft paper envelope on An Chuxin’s desk. Cheng Xia contributed his entire life savings of 100,000 yuan and took a six-month salary advance from his factory. An Chuxin covered the remaining balance.

The night before their departure, An Chuxin helped Cheng Sutong pack. Most of their belongings were boxed up and stored, so they only took two suitcases to Beijing. While organizing books on the study floor, Cheng Sutong accidentally shook an old photo album, and a savings book fell out. Inside was a note written in An Chuxin’s mother’s trembling handwriting:

“Xiao Xin, the password is your birthday. Mom has nothing else to leave you. Take this money and live a good life.”

Balance: 60,000 yuan

An Chuxin held the savings book and stood in the study for a long time. Outside, the sky turned from black to gray and then to white. By the time the morning light filtered in, the tear stains on her face had already dried. She wondered if her mother was watching over her.

They rented a tiny studio apartment near the hospital for 4,000 yuan a month, paying three months of rent plus a deposit upfront. The room was only large enough for a bed, a table, and a simple wardrobe, but the window faced south, letting in beautiful sunlight every afternoon.

Every morning at 6:00 AM, An Chuxin went to the hospital to wait in line for registration, pay fees, and collect test results. Cheng Sutong’s medical records were passed among specialists.

“Left ventricular hypoplasia, pulmonary hypertension, and look at this position,” an old professor said while pointing at the CT scan. “The surgical difficulty is immense.”

An Chuxin sat outside the consultation room and remembered Cheng Sutong’s sleep-talking from the night before: “Sister An, I dreamed I suddenly flew up. I flew so high, and all of you grew further and further away.” If the surgery failed, that might be her final flight.

The pre-operative stage required a series of interventional treatments, each carrying its own risks. Cheng Sutong’s blood vessels were too thin, which made punctures difficult. Her heart function was so poor that even the preparations could trigger failure. Every day felt like walking on the edge of a knife.

Cheng Xia took half a month off work to come to Beijing, where he slept on a folding bed in the living area. The space was cramped for three people, but no one complained. They formed a silent understanding: Cheng Xia was responsible for the cooking, An Chuxin managed the medical affairs, and Cheng Sutong was responsible for trying her best to stay alive.

One evening, Cheng Xia made chicken soup. The three of them gathered around a small tea table to eat while dull commercials played on the television.

“Dad,” Cheng Sutong said suddenly, “if my surgery fails.”

“Eat your dinner,” Cheng Xia interrupted as he placed a chicken leg in her bowl.

“I am serious,” Cheng Sutong said, putting down her chopsticks. “If I do not make it through, please do not be too sad. And Teacher An, you should not be either.”

“Cheng Sutong,” An Chuxin looked up, her eyes bloodshot. “If you dare say another word, I will go and cancel the surgery right now.”

Cheng Sutong was stunned into silence.

“We have spent so much money, incurred so much debt, sat on a train for over ten hours, and rented this broken apartment just to hear you say these things,” An Chuxin’s voice trembled. “We did it so you could live. Do you understand?”

Silence filled the room. Cheng Xia sighed. “Tongtong, your dad is not well-educated, but I know one truth: a person needs something to live for. You are the reason Teacher An and I keep going. You have to give us something to look forward to.”

Cheng Sutong’s tears fell into her bowl, and she nodded vigorously. An Chuxin looked at her with red eyes and reached under the table to gently squeeze Cheng Sutong’s hand.

At 10:00 PM the night before the surgery, Sutong wrote a diary entry titled “Chasing the Light.” She folded it, sealed it in an envelope, and gave it to An Chuxin. She told her that if the surgery failed, An Chuxin should open it alone; however, if it succeeded, they would read it together in the future.

At 5:00 AM, Cheng Sutong was wheeled into the operating room. The doors closed, and the red “In Surgery” light flickered on. An Chuxin and Cheng Xia sat on the hallway bench and began their long wait. Time stretched infinitely, and every second felt like a century. Nurses occasionally came out with updates: “Extracorporeal circulation established,” “Repair has begun,” or “Condition stable.” Every time the door opened, their hearts leaped into their throats.

By 3:00 PM, the red light was still on. Ten hours had passed. Cheng Xia could no longer sit still and began pacing the corridor.

“Teacher An, go get something to eat. I will keep watch here,” Cheng Xia said.

An Chuxin shook her head. “I am not hungry.”

“You cannot do this. Tongtong will need you to take care of her when she comes out.”

That sentence convinced her. She stumbled as she stood up, and Cheng Xia caught her. “I will go downstairs and buy some porridge,” he said. “You stay seated.”

After he left, An Chuxin sat back down. She took out her phone and scrolled through her photos. They were all of Cheng Sutong: smiling, crying, sleeping, and reading. The most recent one was taken yesterday. Cheng Sutong sat by the window in her hospital gown with the sun on her face, flashing a peace sign at the camera.

Stay alive, An Chuxin prayed silently.

At 5:17 PM, the doors finally opened. The chief surgeon walked out. He had not removed his mask yet, but there was a hint of a smile in his eyes. “The surgery was a success.”

An Chuxin’s legs gave out, and she nearly collapsed to the floor. She leaned against the wall as tears poured down her face.

“But she is not out of the danger zone yet,” the doctor added. “She needs to be monitored in the ICU for at least seventy-two hours. During this time, any infection or complication could occur.”

“Can I see her?” An Chuxin interrupted, her voice choked with emotion.

“Yes, but only through the glass.”

Outside the ICU window, An Chuxin saw Cheng Sutong. She was lying on the bed, covered in tubes and very pale, but her chest was rising and falling steadily. That repaired heart was working hard to beat. She was still alive.

An Chuxin pressed her forehead against the cold glass and wept. Cheng Xia stood beside her. This man, who had been silent his whole life, also had red eyes. He patted An Chuxin’s shoulder in a clumsy but powerful gesture.

“Teacher An,” he said hoarsely, “thank you.”

An Chuxin simply shook her head. She watched the person inside the glass, the person she had risked everything to save, and said in her heart: Welcome back, Cheng Sutong. Welcome back to our world.

The days following the surgery were a different kind of ordeal. Infections, rejection reactions, and heart recovery were hurdles that were potentially fatal. Cheng Sutong stayed in the ICU for seven days. After being moved to a general ward, she suffered a severe case of arrhythmia that took three hours of emergency treatment to stabilize.

During those three months, An Chuxin almost never slept through the night. She learned how to read the monitors, how to change dressings, how to coax Cheng Sutong into taking bitter medicine, and how to offer her own hand for Cheng Sutong to bite when the pain became unbearable. She never complained once.

Cheng Xia stayed in Beijing for half a month before he had to return to the factory. Before leaving, he handed An Chuxin an envelope containing 5,000 yuan.

“Buy some nutrients for Tongtong,” he paused, then added, “and get something for yourself. You have lost too much weight.”

An Chuxin took the envelope and thanked him. At the ward door, he turned back. “Teacher An, when Tongtong is better, bring her home for a meal.”

An Chuxin nodded firmly.

Cheng Sutong survived. Though she grew breathless after just a few steps, and though she had to take a handful of pills every day, and even though the long scar on her chest would stay with her forever, she was alive.

Eventually, she was able to get out of bed. An Chuxin pushed her in a wheelchair for a check-up and met the attending physician in the hallway.

“Recovery is going better than expected,” the doctor said while flipping through the chart. “But she still needs six months of observation. There should be no overexertion, no intense emotions, regular follow-ups, and consistent rehabilitation.”

Back in the ward, Cheng Sutong stared out the window. “Chuxin,” she said suddenly.

An Chuxin was peeling an apple, and her hand paused. “Yes?”

“Can I still go back to school?”

“Yes, but you will need to take a leave of absence for six months.”

Cheng Sutong murmured, “Then I will not take the college entrance exam until 2020.”

“That does not matter,” An Chuxin said as she cut the apple into small pieces. “Whenever you are ready, you can take it.”

Cheng Sutong turned to look at her. “Chuxin, when I am better, when I get into university, and when I grow up, will you be with me? Please?”

The paring knife slipped from An Chuxin’s hand and hit the floor with a sharp clang. The ward fell silent. An Chuxin leaned down to pick up the knife and went to the bathroom to wash it. She stayed inside for a long time. When she finally emerged, her eyes were red, but her expression was calm. She sat back down and resumed peeling the apple.

“Cheng Sutong,” she began, “you are seventeen. I am your teacher. Even if the surgery was successful, the space between us is significant.”

“I know,” Cheng Sutong interrupted. “I know it cannot be now. I am talking about the future, when I am twenty, when I graduate from university, and when I am no longer your student.”

She reached out and carefully tugged at the corner of An Chuxin’s clothes as if she were afraid of being rejected.

“Sister An, I do not need you to say yes right now. I just need you to give me hope. Give me the motivation to recover, to live well, and to grow up.”

An Chuxin’s hand trembled. “Cheng Sutong,” she said as her tears fell onto their joined hands, “do you know how difficult this path is?”

“I know.”

“Do you know how many people will oppose us?”

“I know.”

“Do you know,” An Chuxin choked up, “do you know that I might ruin your future?”

“My future was saved by you. Without you, I would not have a future at all.”

An Chuxin broke into a sob. She leaned forward and hugged Cheng Sutong tightly.

“Fine. I will wait for you to grow up. I will wait until you can run and jump, until you get into university, and until the day you are truly independent. I will wait for you.”

The afternoon sun was pleasant. An Chuxin pushed the wheelchair and took Cheng Sutong to the hospital’s small garden. The magnolias were in bloom, and large blossoms hung from the branches like white doves.

“Chuxin,” Cheng Sutong called out suddenly. It was the first time since the surgery she had called her by her name.

“Yes?”

“Look at that flower,” Cheng Sutong pointed to a magnolia at the very top of the tree. “It is blooming so high up.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Sometimes I think,” Cheng Sutong said softly, “if I had not met you, and if I had faced all of this alone, I probably would have given up a long time ago.”

An Chuxin knelt in front of her and held her hand. “There are no ifs. You met me, and I found you. That is the reality.”

“Chuxin, when I am better, I want to do three things.”

“Tell me.”

“First, I want to go back to school and take the college entrance exam. It might be a year late, but I want to try.”

“Okay.”

“Second, I want to have a cat. I have wanted one since I was little, but my dad would not let me. He said cat hair was bad for my heart.”

“You can have one now.”

“Third,” Cheng Sutong’s eyes sparkled, “I want to go to many places with you. I want to see the Cangshan Mountains and Erhai Lake. I want to see the grand deserts and ancient temples. I want to see the mountain alleys of Chongqing and the sea of clouds in Sichuan. I want to see the moon over ancient Chang’an.”

“I promise. Every single thing, I promise you.”

A breeze blew, and magnolia petals drifted down, landing on their shoulders, their hair, and their joined hands.

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