A diversity of life experiences makes a great doctor.

In 2009, the country selected its first ever group of 30 National Medical Masters. Their average age was 85 years old, and Qiu Pern was the eldest at the time, aged 96.

The life of Mr. Qiu Pern is a microcosm of the fate of traditional Chinese medicine over the past century. He participated in almost every major event in the history of TCM, and in his later years, he became a staunch defender of the dignity and honor of TCM.

His passing not only signifies the loss of a highly respected doctor in the TCM community but also marks the disappearance of a cultural symbol—the scholar-doctor— who may now only exist in historical memory.

In his later years, Qiu’s approach to health preservation revolved around poetry and smoking.

Mr. Qiu was not only a great clinical expert in TCM but also an authority on TCM health preservation theories. He rarely fell ill. When people asked him for advice on staying healthy, he would earnestly reply: "Being magnanimous is the key to health preservation."

In his later years, he enjoyed chatting, playing chess, writing poetry, and smoking. Among these, smoking seemed contradictory to health preservation.

He had been a long-term smoker, reportedly having smoked for as long as he had practiced medicine—about seventy years. Even some of the newer cigarette factories in China didn't have as long a history as his smoking habit.

His nicotine addiction was significant; two packs a day were common, and when he was under pressure from deadlines or deep thought, he would exceed that amount.

He once humorously told us that if you accumulated all the money he spent on cigarettes over such a long period, it would roughly total up to about 1.5 million yuan.

Despite this, his body remained very healthy. In his own words, he was "three-nothing": no coughing, no phlegm, and no shortness of breath. This seemed to contradict the theory of quitting smoking. Many people found it strange, but he would laughingly explain his "small circulation smoking theory." According to him, he only let the smoke pass through his throat briefly before exhaling immediately, never swallowing it. This was called "small circulation." The idea was that although cigarettes are toxic, he made them merely appear without truly affecting him, akin to ancient sexual techniques where one retains energy without expending it.

However, recent studies suggest that oral mucosa can absorb cigarette components. How did Mr. Qiu explain this?

He smiled and said: severe smoking leads to severe discomfort, light smoking causes mild discomfort. Mild discomfort is nothing to fear.

But it seems like the clockwork of life began to loosen since the publication of "Scattered Ink on Human Studies." At the beginning of 2009, he told us that originally he was "three-nothing," but now he has phlegm. His body was sending him a signal to quit smoking: there are still books to write, don't overload.

At ninety-seven, he still wanted to write books. One morning, he decided to quit smoking.

Smoking "veterans" know that quitting smoking is an extremely tormenting process, often compared to heartbreak, so many people try repeatedly but always relapse, usually without any resolution.

However, Mr. Qiu followed through with his decision. On the day he announced his intention to quit, he didn't smoke a single cigarette, and thereafter, he never smoked again.

Regarding this, he childishly took pride: most people fail repeatedly when trying to quit smoking, but I quit effortlessly. Could it be that heaven has indeed granted me a long life?

But if guests offered him a cigarette, he would accept it, though he would mostly just smell it at the nose level, much like a migratory bird returning to its wintering place for satisfaction. Most of the time, he would even hold it upside down, with the filter facing outwards. It turns out that this was his way of entertaining guests; he feared that if he himself didn't smoke, others might feel uncomfortable smoking, so he pretended to smoke.

Speaking of poetry, his poetic reputation was not only renowned in the medical field but also widely praised by literary historians. Cheng Mensnow once highly praised Mr. Qiu's poetic talent with the lines "Ancient writings bury silk robes, fleeting verses move stars."

He and the late grand painter Tang Yun had a deep friendship, but their acquaintance began through the power of "poetry," somewhat reminiscent of the saying "no conflict, no friendship."

Tang Yun was skilled in painting, calligraphy, poetry, and art appraisal, and was admired by artists worldwide. However, he was also known for his arrogance and free-spirited nature. People seeking his paintings or calligraphy would be met with varying responses depending on his mood, regardless of their status. Even his family members dared not easily ask.

Qiu Pern deeply admired Tang Yun's calligraphy. With his wide social circle, asking someone else to request a painting should have been successful. But Qiu Pern had his own pride and didn't want to resort to begging through intermediaries, which wouldn't be the conduct of a gentleman. One day, Qiu Pern was out and happened to pass by Tang Yun's home, "Happy Village," and decided to visit directly.

Tang Yun happened to be at home, but upon seeing the unexpected visitor, he was completely unfriendly. Sitting high on his chair, he coldly asked, "Who are you, and what do you want at my house?" His arrogant attitude was evident.

Qiu Pern confidently replied, "I have a poem that I'd like you to write." Tang Yun ignored him and simply said, "Let me see the poem."

The tone implied that if it wasn't good, he would dismiss it outright.

But Tang Yun, being an expert, read the poem several times, suddenly changed his expression, stood up, invited the "unexpected guest" Qiu Pern to sit down, and instructed the maid to offer cigarettes and tea, bringing out food and inviting him to stay for dinner. He said, "Your work is excellent, and I shall certainly comply with your request." They talked happily about poetry and art, becoming close friends.

In his later years, Qiu lived in a "humble abode," the biggest regret being its distance from the city center. Though he had many friends, they usually left late in the evening, leaving him often feeling the loneliness of "casually knocking chess pieces while lamp flowers fall." Sometimes unable to bear the loneliness, he would call us over to play chess. Speaking of his chess skills, there's a story about him playing against "Commander Hu."

Xiangqi Grandmaster Hu Ronghua is known in the chess world as "Commander Hu." One day, he paid homage to the revered Qiu Pern. Qiu Pern, over ninety years old, was clear-minded and sharp-witted, with a sharp chess style, particularly excelling in endgames. He had previously played with Yangzhou master Dou Guozhu, who happened to be one of Hu Ronghua's teachers. When Qiu Pern got into the spirit, he couldn't help but set up the Chu River and build the Han Border. As he maneuvered his chariots and horses and launched his cannons and soldiers, Commander Hu praised Qiu Pern's chess skills. Hu said, "Mr. Qiu, you are also a national champion." He added, "You are the champion of your age group, not just a national champion, but also a world champion." Upon hearing this, Qiu Pern couldn't help but burst into laughter. If chess competitions were categorized by age groups like weight classes in weightlifting or boxing, hosting an "Elder Cup," perhaps winning a championship for Qiu Pern in his nineties would be as easy as taking candy from a baby.

A grandmaster of the medical field and a dominant force in the chess world, their gathering and witty conversation became a famous tale in both the medical and chess communities, showcasing a glimpse of Qiu Pern's carefree life.

The Final Days of the Master

Qiu Pern was universally recognized as a towering figure in the medical field. Patients who came to him were often those who had seen countless doctors without success or had complex and difficult-to-treat conditions. Yet, under Qiu Pern's skillful hands, miraculous effects were often achieved.

As we mentioned, his physical condition had always been robust, earning him the nickname "slender as plum blossoms, hard as iron." However, his greatest regret in his later years was being surrounded by various social engagements. In a poem written for his student Wang Qingqi, he admitted to being burdened by "empty fame."

One group after another, one car after another—we personally witnessed crowds of people constantly surrounding the master, ranging from high-ranking officials to local dignitaries, infiltrating his "humble abode" through various societal channels. Some indeed had illnesses, but more people were not seriously ill—according to Qiu Pern's complaint: "People who come to 'save' themselves are healthier than me"—seeking prefaces, calligraphy, poems, descendants, longevity, official positions, wealth, inscriptions, pulse readings—desires, ambitions, admiration, curiosity, climbing the ladder, even "entertaining masters, consuming national treasures"...all kinds of mixed motives were present. Qiu Pern was soft-hearted, especially in his later years, being kind and talkative. Those seeking favors often exploited the characteristic of "treating a ninety-year-old man like a child," flattering and praising him endlessly. At his age, he knew everything except how to say "no," resulting in endless handshakes and greetings and frequent banquets...

Poor Qiu Pern, faced with lavish feasts, had nowhere to place his chopsticks. He originally ate "simple and little," and now he could only look at the food like a Bodhisattva.

Qiu Pern detested this situation, especially requests for official positions or wealth, but felt powerless and helpless: "People are afraid of meeting." He told us that sometimes Chinese people can't escape the character "qing" (sentiment). Sentiments passed on, like mountains pressing down, turned his "humble abode" into a besieged city. He became a "rare bird"—but when he saw familiar faces pleading with him, he couldn't harden his heart...

To avoid the crowd, someone summarized his later years with one word: "escape"—escaping from Tianyao New Village to a "resort," from the "resort" to "Sha Gen Lang" (west suburban outer ring), then from "Sha Gen Lang" to Hua Chao's "Chen Jia Jiao"...

Being chased by crowds like this, it was impossible for his health not to be affected at all. Fortunately, he was adept at preserving his health, and apart from "nourishing the spirit entirely," his secret was "eating less."

It sounds unbelievable, but he and his nanny only spent 400 yuan per month on groceries. He had a rather peculiar habit, supposedly passed down from the Taoist patriarch Chen Tuan: he loved to eat breakfast while sitting cross-legged on his bed. The nanny would bring him a cup of milk and oatmeal (or congee), a slice of bread, and a serving of peanut butter (or meat floss). After eating breakfast, he would get up and wash up.

Lunch was simple: one meat dish, one vegetable, and one soup. If a meal wasn't finished, it would be reheated and eaten at the next meal. Dinner was usually a small bowl of congee. If he felt hungry at midnight, he would eat some cookies appropriately.

He didn't abstain from certain foods, eating whatever was available. Sometimes the dishes prepared by his nanny might not suit his taste or weren't soft enough, but he didn't complain and ate them anyway. There was no special preference for beverages; tea, yogurt, cola, Sprite were all fine. He didn't drink alcohol, and it was said that in his youth, he often indulged in drinking and composing poetry, blowing the flute until dawn. However, once he drank excessively—"flower wine" (a self-deprecating term for peanuts and wine)—consuming eight ounces of liquor alone, he permanently damaged his liver and thus quit drinking.

When we sought advice on health preservation from Mr. Qiu, he often answered with "hungry when full, full when hungry," meaning not to overeat nor starve oneself, eating until seven-tenths full was sufficient. He once also summarized a wonderful method for mental health preservation, called "One Flower Four Leaves Soup": one flower refers to the flower of health and longevity; four leaves are: one being open-minded, two being carefree, three being tolerant, and four being honest. This prescription was widely circulated after being reported by the media.

Because of his emphasis on sentiment, he ultimately succumbed to "social obligations"—

On the twenty-eighth day of the twelfth lunar month in early 2010, a good friend visited him before the Spring Festival. Normally, at ninety-seven years old, he would stop at the third-floor stairwell entrance when seeing guests off, but this time he escorted the guest all the way to the ground floor. Facing north, a sudden gust of cold wind hit him, causing him to inhale sharply. He returned home and immediately started coughing, followed by a high fever requiring hospitalization...

During his second hospitalization, knowing he wouldn't recover, he wrote in April: "I disagree with further surgery, I resist! Let nature take its course."

On May 1st, he struggled to write: "...this time I won't make it. A machine has been used for ninety-seven years...just a pile of scrap metal, please don't attempt resuscitation..."

From falling ill to passing away, this legendary elder remained fully conscious throughout, never lapsing into a coma. Perhaps until death, he couldn't let go of his mission.

He couldn't let go of the land and people he loved so dearly.