by Andrew Kwong
Mama’s regular mail carried her unfailing hopes and wishes, as well as her motherly concerns about what I was eating, whether I had warm clothes to wear, had enough rest and, now, was driving safely. They helped ease my homesickness and kept my spirit up.
Med IV was a phenomenal time for me, as it was the start of three fascinating clinical years at St Vincent’s Hospital in Darlinghurst. The abolition of university tuition fees by the Whitlam government on 1 January 1974 took a great load off my shoulders. Now I could even afford a VW Fastback, a coupe-style car slightly larger than the Beetle. With it I was able to zip around between medical school lectures and hospital tutorials, as well as my weekend and evening jobs.
St Vinnie’s, as we called it, was managed by the Sisters of Charity, a Catholic order of nuns, who devoted their lives to caring for the sick and destitute. The modest but elegant sandstone building then rose among old terraced houses, many of which were run down and in need of repair or rebuilding. Situated a short distance from Kings Cross, Sydney’s red-light district, St Vincent’s was, and still is, regarded as a beacon of hope and help for many unfortunate people.
By staying back in the evenings to hang around the Casualty Department, or ED in today’s terms, we medical students gained a huge amount of experience and skills in areas such as resuscitation and acute medical care related to heart attacks and other organ failures; management of traumatic injuries, such as stab and gunshot wounds; treatment of drug overdoses; and, most interestingly to us wide-eyed male students, caring for practitioners of the oldest profession on earth, often when they had nowhere else to go. There at St Vinnie’s we experienced firsthand the true miseries faced by many members of our society.
One day, I approached one of the nuns who worked in the Casualty Department and said, ‘Sister Bernadette, none of your patients seem to feel pain when you give them an injection. Can you show me how you do it?’
Sister Bernadette, a dainty nun in a pale blue habit shifted from her statue-like pose in the corner of the casualty room. ‘It’s easy,’ she said softly, and then she explained her methods to me. Soon I was offering to help do injections and blood tests, and had also picked up other practical skills, such as dressing and repairing wounds, plastering fractures and reducing dislocated joints, and I began to feel like I was useful to the Casualty Department.
The other exciting side of St Vinnie’s was its recognised successes in medical research and innovation. I am proud to recall my modest role in the hospital’s attempts to create an artificial pancreas, or the insulin pump, as it was also known, led by Dr Lesley Campbell. When the hospital offered to pay ninety-five dollars for six blood samples over three days to support the research, we students were all too happy to help. It took me only a split second to work out that fee was the equivalent of nineteen weeks’ rent. Despite the fact that the kind-hearted Szalays did not raise my rent until I graduated and I could eat at the hospital’s subsidised canteen, with the increasing demands of the senior years I had less time to work in the restaurant and meeting my payments for the house and the car was becoming challenging. Giving blood eased my financial strains, but the vein near my right elbow thrombosed and has never recovered. Still, I was pleased to learn recently that my humble contribution has finally borne fruit, after forty-four years or so, and insulin pumps are now widely used. Not as instant a result as sperm donation for ten dollars a time – an offer I politely declined.
Nothing, though, was more electrifying than to witness the pioneering work of a team of amazing cardiac surgeons at St Vinnie’s, notably Dr Harry Windsor, Dr Mark Shanahan and Dr Victor Chang, who had recently returned from studying heart transplant techniques at the Mayo Clinic in the United States. It was inspiring to see the new hope they offered their patients, even though rejection of the new heart routinely took its toll. Through these pioneers’ quiet and unassuming manners and their fascinating tutorials, we learnt dedication, humility and perseverance.
My world had now opened wide and I greedily immersed myself in the abundant opportunities for learning and development, feeling ever so fortunate to be witnessing cutting-edge innovations at firsthand. I couldn’t get enough of it all. It left little time for other activities, except our weekly gathering of fellow students and other university friends for a game of soccer, and after that, a tasty Chinese meal at Coogee.
Every so often, an aerogramme would arrive from Mama. ‘Oh, my son, it’s been such a long time since I last heard from you and I hope you are fine and studying hard,’ she would write, expressing her yearning for her son who was so far away and alone in a foreign country. In one letter around this time she told me about Weng’s work on the flood-prone plain of the delta. She’d had to learn how to build a small hut to house herself, and how to develop untamed land for growing food. ‘There was a good harvest this season and she was given a fifteen yuan bonus,’ Mama wrote. ‘She bought a big bag of lychees and we had a feast. But she always resents going back to the country after her monthly weekend off. How I worry about her: no education, sulking a lot and spending the weekend sleeping . . .’
In a subsequent letter Mama told me how delighted she was when Ying was finally assigned a job at the new lightbulb factory in town by the side of the Wonder River, and she later took great pleasure in reporting that Ying was now engaged to Hao-ming – such a relief after the years of worry and unhappiness since she and Ho-bun had separated during their fateful attempt to escape. Mama also told me that Yiu-hoi had taught himself how to repair electric tools and radios. He had also taught himself to play violin beautifully, and had been offered a place in Shiqi’s budding orchestra.
I was so immersed in my studies that time flew by. Soon I heard that Ying had married Hao-ming and, later, that they had had a son, Kuo-feng. The news made me very happy and I wondered if perhaps the tides were now changing for all of us.
While waiting for the Med VI marks – our final exam results – I again took on a relief nursing job at the Repatriation General Hospital, Concord, which diverted my attention from worrying about the outcome. The job also enabled me to save up in case I’d failed the tough exams and had to repeat another year. I had my evening meals at the Prince of Wales Hospital canteen, close to the university, usually after a game of squash with friends. My social group came from many countries and studied many courses, and throughout the six-year medical program I enjoyed the great diversity of people at the university and liked to mix with them all. Other overseas students preferred to keep company with students of their own nationality, no doubt because it made them feel more at ease and secure in a foreign land.
One of the reasons I played squash was because, a few months earlier, I’d met a pretty young gweilo lady at the courts. Each time I played, she seemed to be there. She dazzled me with her warm smile and large blue eyes.
‘Hi, my name is Andrew,’ I said to her one day after gathering the courage to introduce myself. ‘Enjoying the games?’
‘I’m Sheree,’ she said, gracing me with a big smile and holding out her hand to shake mine. What a crystal-clear voice!
We soon realised we were neighbours in Kensington and, just like that, we became good friends. So much so that after the last exam, when my classmates decided to have one last dinner together at a nearby restaurant, I decided to invite Sheree and was elated when she accepted.
It was a very happy evening at first. My classmates were stunned when I introduced my new friend, and I heard quiet murmurs ebb around the room. I knew how surprised they all were that the bookworm and hard worker in their class should be going out with such an attractive young lady. But I also suspected they were happy for me. One of my classmates handed out drinks to us and winked at me, then went away laughing with another guy.
I took a sip, maybe two, of Ben Ean Moselle, a very popular sweet wine at the time. Soon I had a banging headache, which I’d never suffered from before, and blurred vision. ‘Sorry, Sheree, please talk to my friends,’ I said, excusing myself, and I staggered a
way to lie down at the back of the restaurant for the rest of the evening while the party went on. Fortunately, later in the evening the headache eased and I was able to deliver Sheree safely home to her parents.
I was so embarrassed about being such a cheap drunk that I didn’t even tell Mama and Baba about the amazing girl I’d met. But I did return to the squash courts soon after to apologise.
‘Don’t worry about it, Andrew. Let’s have a game,’ said Sheree, her happy disposition encouraging me to enter the court. I got the feeling she was interested in me – an overseas student all alone in this part of the world – and certainly we got along very well.
Over the next few weeks, we shared some memorable times together. She met more of my friends and I met her immediate family, who lived, together with their ageing grandmother in Day Avenue, just around the corner from my home at the Szalays’ house. I visited several times for dinner and appreciated the warmth and the fact that the three generations lived under one roof. I wished it would be the same for my family one day.
On a Friday afternoon towards the end of November 1976, three days before the final exam results were due to come out, I invited Sheree to have dinner with me at the hospital canteen. As I mentioned, I was being careful with my finances in case I didn’t pass the final exam and had to repeat a year. Sheree’s curiosity about many things was one of her numerous qualities I was secretly tallying, as was her ready acceptance of hospital and university canteen foods.
When we looked at the menu, Sheree decided to try the oxtail soup on offer. It was not a regular item at the canteen and was a bit more expensive than the usual fare. But it looked rather delicious, was something I had previously yearned to try, and was certainly not part of Sheree’s traditional Australian diet at home. I was just thrilled to share this new experience with her.
We had barely started our meal when Doug Lee, a junior medical student, stopped by. ‘The results are out,’ he announced, eyeing my companion with surprise and appreciation.
‘No, Doug, Monday is the day,’ I said, slightly baffled.
‘Yes, they’re out.’
‘They can’t be.’ I sat up and looked at him.
‘I saw them,’ Doug said, without revealing any more details. I looked at my dinner date, who was half-puzzled and half-excited as well. I didn’t want to interrupt our romantic meal, but my curiosity soon got the better of me. I jumped up and headed for the door, with Sheree following close by. We ran all the way to the Wallace Wurth Medical School building, ascended the front steps and halted in the foyer, out of breath. Only a few classmates were about.
‘Yes! I passed! And so did Robert, and my other friends.’ I turned to Sheree and sprang into the air. ‘I’ve got my wings – now I can fly!’
Sheree hugged me so firmly I could feel her heart racing with mine, in chorus, in rhythm. Then she kissed me.
‘Congratulations Andrew – Dr Andrew!’
My vision turned misty and she wiped away my tears.
‘Let’s go and ring your parents,’ she said.
CHAPTER 35
I’d decided not to burden Sheree with the details of my past, but she had learnt that Baba lived in Hong Kong and Mama in Shiqi, and had gained some understanding of the issues that had torn our family apart. The decision I’d overheard my parents make in the quiet of the night back in Shiqi more than twenty years earlier – to send their son away for the benefit of the family – now echoed in my subconsciousness.
I must have seemed a little subdued in the days after I had told my father about my achievement in the graduation examination, for Sheree said to me on several occasions, ‘You should go home and tell your parents and family in person about your success.’ How I appreciated her compassion, empathy and, now, love.
Baba was more than eager for me to return to Hong Kong for a visit. During our phone calls, he kept telling me not to worry about the cost of the trip. ‘As an intern, you’ll begin to earn a proper wage,’ he said. ‘So, my son, do come home.’
In early December 1976, I set off for Hong Kong. The nine-and-half-hour trip on a jumbo jet (without a refuelling stop) was bliss, though this time I didn’t sleep all the way, as I was so excited about so many things. For one, I was relieved that Mama and Baba might now start to feel that a heavy veil – the one that fell on us when Baba was sentenced – was being lifted. I longed to see Mama’s smile that I had missed so much, and feel Baba’s strong arms around me again. I hoped I might even have a chance to tell them about the beautiful and amazing woman I had fallen in love with.
At Kai Tak Airport, Baba was waiting for me. He couldn’t take his eyes off me, and shed tears of joy and delight. He laughed heartily as he gave me a big, long hug. We went to his small rented room in Mong Kok, a busy suburb of Kowloon, then without delay he took me to thank his friends and relatives for their assistance and good wishes over the years, especially his cousin who had been my financial guarantor.
The next day, he took me back to the Diamond Hill Shanghai tailor who had made my first suit and ordered two more using the best materials available. Exuding the glow of a proud parent, Baba didn’t even bother to bargain. The good tailor nearly cried, not for the extra money he’d make, but with gladness for me. ‘What a pleasure it is,’ he kept saying, ‘to dress successful people from the shantytown.’
‘Our children are all attending universities now,’ said the delighted noodle-stall owners in Grand View Road as they served Baba and me a delicious lunch. ‘And there are plenty of opportunities here in Hong Kong if you work hard,’ they said with pride in their voices. I devoured my much-missed genuine Diamond Hill Spicy and Noodles, which had since become more famous after a burgeoning number of influential people had discovered this gem of a shantytown.
‘It’s to do with the movie studio up the road from us,’ Baba explained, referring to the hilltop establishment where Bruce Lee was now making his popular kung fu films, ‘and other actors and singers who come from right here in Diamond Hill, like the Hui brothers. With their patronage, the area has become gentrified, and the restaurants on the main street now offer a variety of authentic northern-style cuisines we could only dream about in the past.’ Baba very much enjoyed filling me in on all the happenings in the colony since my departure.
After lunch, Baba and I went to an exclusive department store in Hong Kong. As we entered, he announced to the sales assistants, ‘Here’s the young doctor. He needs two of your best ties.’
While I was in Hong Kong, I received letters from Mama and Ying. ‘The whole of Shiqi is delighted by your achievement, my son. We are all very proud of you,’ Mama wrote. Even Weng sent a short letter of congratulations: ‘Well done my big brother, and how I’ve missed you.’
Baba noticed I was frowning and obviously missing Mama and my sisters. ‘Things are a lot better back home, Ah-mun,’ he said. ‘Everyone says China is relaxing its grip on the expatriates like us, and some escapees have gone back to China and left again without any problems. Now that Mao is dead, Deng Xiaoping is in charge and things are rapidly changing, for the better. Perhaps you should go home and see your Mama.
‘But as for me,’ he continued, staring at his Camel cigarette, ‘I wouldn’t go back to Shiqi, even if the way was lined with gold.’ It was clear he couldn’t erase the memories of his persecutors.
*
In the middle of the northern winter, in early January 1977, Baba accompanied me to Macau, and from there I proceeded to the Chinese border.
‘I’ll wait for you here, Ah-mun,’ he said before we parted, but not until he reminded me once more, ‘Don’t stay at home for more than two nights, or you might give them an excuse to detain you. You can’t trust them, even though Mao is dead.’
I was uneasy and fearful as I went through the border inspection under the scrutiny of the solemn Chinese border guards, yet I also felt a pang of familiarity and even fondness when I saw the large red flags adorned with five golden stars that fluttered in the warm sea breeze. Overridi
ng all these sensations, however, was my growing excitement at the prospect of soon seeing my long-missed Mama, sisters, cousins and childhood friends. It lifted me high.
I’d brought a range of tempting food items, including tins of coffee grains and Eagle Brand condensed milk, as well as some new clothes for everyone in my family, fishing lines for my cousins, and a few toys for Ying’s toddler son, Kuo-feng. And I hadn’t forgotten the Camel cigarettes for Mama and Eighth Uncle – and perhaps also for the District Head if it might help oil the wheels for Mama’s application to leave – or those arrowroot biscuits everyone adored. I’d even brought a camera with me, but the Chinese Customs officers noted it as a ‘luxurious item’, which meant it had to be taken out of China again or I’d face a severe penalty.
A large, modern, comfortable bus waited to take me and other passengers to Shiqi; its speed amazed me as we zipped through the countryside, which had changed little, and by noon I was stepping out of the bus into my waiting family’s open arms in a new bus station at the same location on the west side of the town, albeit a lot larger.
It broke my heart to see how much Mama had aged, and seemed to have shrunk – I now rose head and shoulders above her, the exact opposite of fourteen years earlier. And standing by the side of her husband, Hao-ming, whom I met for the first time that day, Ying did not seem as tall as I remembered her being – in fact, Weng had overtaken her. Little Kuo-feng stared at the uncle he had never met before with a puzzled look.
Eighth Uncle was still the tallest member of the family, and he beamed at me. Yiu-hoi’s eyes shone with joy that day too; he threw his strong arms around me and wouldn’t let me go, and he was so choked that his speech was incomprehensible. I was delighted to see Sixth Aunt and Yiu-wei there too, wiping tears of happiness from their faces.