National Doctor: When You Perfect a Skill

The last day of August was a Saturday—a non-surgery day, nor the day before surgeries. Zhou Yanqing completed his meticulous patient care tasks early in the morning following the ward rounds led by attending physician Tian Zeguang.

He glanced sideways and noticed that his junior, Fan Ziwei, had yet to return from changing dressings. Another junior, Zhao Gui—nicknamed "Big Muscle Zhao"—was painstakingly revising medical records word by word. Occasionally, Zhao Gui cast a hopeful glance at Zhou Yanqing.

Curious, Zhou asked, "Zhao Gui, why do you keep looking at me?"

Scratching his right ear, causing the muscles in his arm to bulge, Zhao hesitated before mumbling like a mosquito, "Senior Zhou, could you help review my medical records?"

As a standard training resident with no dedicated mentor or senior to guide him, Zhao was left to grope his way through clinical practice.

Hearing this, Zhou chuckled. "Fan Ziwei and Wang Chun avoid me like the plague and won't let me review their records anymore. Yet here you are, volunteering?"

Zhao nodded vigorously.

Zhou, who had been about to browse short videos on his phone, put it away and picked up his mouse. "I'll review it for you," he explained, "but keep in mind this is off the cuff—I haven't done a literature review. We can discuss it further later. For now, we'll do a surface-level review."

"Thank you, Senior Zhou," Zhao said, overjoyed.

Without further ado, Zhou began his review, a slight ripple of emotion stirring within him.

Zhou knew that while he would ultimately become a surgeon, Zhao, as a resident with only a bachelor's degree, might end up at a county hospital. In the clinical world, most doctors prioritize technical skills. Only a select few—those who hit the ceiling of their technical abilities—seek breakthroughs in theoretical knowledge through academic research.

Zhao sought improvement but lacked a mentor or senior for guidance. He could only humbly seek help from Zhou on the fringes.

"Writing medical records is a process of reorganizing and reviewing clinical knowledge," Zhou advised. "When you write, don't just think about the 'standard three sets' of templates for pre-op and post-op."

He elaborated on understanding the rationale behind pre-operative checks, the surgical indications revealed by those checks, and the nuances of post-operative medication choices. Zhou emphasized thinking critically rather than following templates mechanically.

10:32 AM.

As Zhou led Fan Ziwei and Zhao Gui to the training room, he paused. "Ziwei, Zhao, the things I've shared with you—pass them on to the new juniors when they arrive tomorrow. Guide them step by step into patient care and record writing."

"After all," Zhou continued, "new juniors usually spend about a month acclimating to the hospital atmosphere."

Fan Ziwei raised his hand and interrupted bitterly, "Senior, you're mistaken. It takes at least a year for new juniors to get acclimated!"

Fan, a professional master's student, had once imagined that entering graduate school at Hengda University would make him shine, find a wealthy bride, and achieve the pinnacle of life. Reality, however, had left him dazed, especially in the grueling field of hand surgery. After a year, he still wasn't allowed to suture surgical incisions.

Fan's only taste of success came after mastering basic clay suturing, which earned him a single opportunity to suture real skin. Since then, nothing.

Zhao Gui nodded in agreement.

Zhou understood their frustrations. He, too, had gone through the same struggles. When Fan arrived, Zhou had already mastered full-layer suturing and had moved on to surgical skin sutures.

"High standards produce high quality," Zhou said. "Remember Senior Huang Yuandong? After graduating with a master's degree, he completed half-layer sutures on an orange peel and outperformed the attending physician at a county hospital."

"Really?" Fan's eyes lit up with hope.

"Absolutely," Zhou affirmed. "Their trauma surgeries mostly involve fractures, so they don't focus on refining suturing techniques."

"That's why technical skills—the bread and butter of our profession—are worth striving for."

Zhou glanced at his task tracker: only a few hundred incisions left to complete his goal of 10,000.

At the supply counter, Zhou called out, "Teacher, give me forty sheets of clay tablets!"

He scanned his phone's QR code.

"Sixty yuan!" the staff replied.

"Alipay," Zhou nodded.

"Payment declined."

"What?" Zhou checked his balance and found his credit maxed out. Embarrassed, he hesitated.

Fan, ever perceptive, quickly scanned his own code. "Senior, I've got it. Teacher, I'll also take twenty orange peels."

Zhao, a step behind, ordered thirty peels.

Back in the training room, Zhou reflected on the costs of his practice materials. A clay tablet cost 1.5 yuan and was recyclable, but practicing high-standard incisions required replacing the tablet after about ten uses.

For 10,000 incisions, Zhou estimated he would need over 1,000 tablets, costing more than 1,500 yuan. Combined with other materials like tofu, gelatin, sutures, and needles, his weekly expenses exceeded 2,000 yuan.

Still, Zhou believed that if the practice paid off, the expense was worth it.

He sent his father a message asking for money and immersed himself in practicing incisions.

Nine hours later, with breaks only for meals and the restroom, Zhou finally achieved the milestone of "Skill Born of Practice." His final incision complete, Zhou stood up, both elated and nauseated by the repetitive task. He distributed the remaining clay tablets to Zhao and Fan before rushing out of the training room.

After ten grueling days of completing 10,000 incisions, Zhou felt everything had been worthwhile as he admired the effects of his new achievement badge.