Chapter 647: A Glimpse of Privilege: Visiting Song Dingxian

After waiting about seven or eight minutes, a middle-aged man in a gray work uniform and black cloth shoes with white soles hurried over.

He walked at a relaxed pace but his eyes were sharp as a hawk’s.

“Kid, are you the one who wants to see Mr. Song?”

His piercing gaze went straight to Zhou Can inside the car.

“Yes, I asked to meet Mr. Song. Here are my credentials.”

Zhou Can stepped out and handed over his ID politely for inspection.

After carefully checking the ID and comparing it to Zhou Can, the man handed it back.

“Hop in. I’ll show you the way.”

Without another word, the man walked around the car and got into the front passenger seat.

The two sentries stood as straight as spears, saluting Zhou Can’s car and letting it through.

For the first time, Zhou Can truly felt the weight of power and privilege.

Even the villas on Jiangxin Island had tight security and eight-figure price tags, but compared to this place, they felt completely different.

He couldn’t quite explain it—all he knew was that as he drove closer, a sense of awe settled over him, an intangible pressure.

The landscaping in this residential community was even better than a park, with very few buildings scattered among the greenery.

Alongside the main road, cobblestone side paths wound through the area, and he could see red and golden koi darting in the ponds. Even the water beneath an arched bridge looked like it was fed by a natural spring.

He wondered where the flowing water could be coming from.

To be so clear, it couldn’t be ordinary river water—especially with today’s pollution problems.

Many unscrupulous businesses cut costs by secretly building hidden pipes to dump their waste.

With the window down, Zhou Can could feel the fresh, clean air throughout the community.

He felt like he was surrounded by nature itself. His mood lightened just being here.

“May I ask your name?”

Despite his own high status and decent family background, Zhou Can remained calm in front of the middle-aged man.

“You can call me Mr. Bian. I’m the housekeeper for Mr. Song’s family.”

“Uncle Bian, do you personally look after Mr. Song Dingxian?”

The man looked about fifty, so calling him ‘Uncle’ felt right.

“I’m mainly responsible for him, though there are several people who help care for Mr. Song.”

“How is Mr. Song’s health lately? I mean, has his condition gotten worse since the paralysis?”

“That’s the house up ahead. You can park outside. Only family cars are allowed inside.”

Uncle Bian didn’t answer Zhou Can’s question.

Instead, he pointed to a Chinese-style building just ahead.

It was only two stories tall, with gracefully curved eaves and even guardian beast statues on the ridgeline—a symbol for warding off evil.

Zhou Can parked by the curb and the two of them got out.

Inside the front door, a sturdy middle-aged man pulled out a metal detector.

“It’s our policy—anyone entering must be checked. No knives, guns or other dangerous items allowed. Please understand.”

“No problem.”

Zhou Can spread his arms and let the man inspect him.

After sweeping him with the detector, the man also gave him a quick, professional pat-down.

Once finished, the man gave Zhou Can a long look.

“Didn’t expect you were trained. You can go in.”

He gestured toward the house.

His tone toward Zhou Can shifted, showing a bit more respect.

Anyone with a bit of fight in them is obvious the moment you touch their physique.

A martial artist’s muscles are naturally firmer and develop a reflex. If attacked, their body tenses or reacts on instinct. Years of training for self-defense and Sanda become ingrained in every muscle.

Some true masters train these reflexes down to the very bone.

Hearing the security guard’s comment, Uncle Bian looked at Zhou Can in mild surprise.

But he didn’t say anything more.

“Please follow me.”

Uncle Bian led Zhou Can into the courtyard, where every detail seemed carefully designed for peace and beauty.

Every blade of grass, every tree, the pavilion, the rock garden, even the decorative wall by the entrance—and the garage—showed deep attention to detail.

Inside the main hall, Zhou Can noticed several housekeepers.

There were young maids in their twenties, older ones in their fifties, and a few male servants—all in black robes, pants and cloth slippers.

The little touches in a home like this were on an entirely different level.

Zhou Can couldn’t help but marvel.

The housekeeper led Zhou Can to a door.

“Please wait here. I’ll let Mr. Song know you’re here.”

When the door opened, Zhou Can caught a glimpse inside—it was huge, at least sixty square meters, as big as a luxury living room.

A bed stood in the center, flanked by medical equipment.

On the west side he even spotted advanced machines: ECMO, critical-care ultrasound, hemopurifiers…

It was basically a fully-equipped miniature ICU.

If that wasn’t enough, two middle-aged people in white coats stood by the bedside.

They were clearly experienced medical staff.

Standing in the doorway, Zhou Can could only think one thing—this was next-level.

Seriously impressive.

The cost of those machines alone was terrifying. Routine maintenance wasn’t cheap, either—and then you needed at least two professionals on duty at all times.

Most families couldn’t bear expenses like these.

Uncle Bian soon returned.

“You can go inside now.”

Zhou Can walked in. Both medical staff were older—the man looked nearly fifty, the nurse at least in her early forties.

In medicine, experience counts—especially when caring for someone with severe paralysis.

They barely glanced at Zhou Can, each focused on their duties with utmost professionalism.

The man monitored the respirator, while the woman kept an eye on the IV fluids and checked the patient regularly.

Because the patient’s case was unique, his IV wasn’t placed in the regular arm or hand veins, but by a deep vein in his neck.

The risks were obvious.

Some medication for critical patients can be harsh and require long-term infusions; using small peripheral veins can cause phlebitis.

If medicine leaks, it can cause severe local tissue death.

But there’s no need to worry. Deep central lines are handled by highly experienced nurses; an intern wouldn’t dare try. Any issue, and the nurse will rush to handle it.

Think of it as a more advanced way to give IV fluids.

Zhou Can looked at the patient on the bed, hooked up to a respirator. Thankfully, it was noninvasive ventilation.

Based on his own critical care experience, invasive ventilation needs strict sterility, and over time deadly complications can creep in.

Pneumonia is the most common.

It’s almost inevitable.

The longer someone is on invasive ventilation, the more likely complications like infections pop up.

No matter how many fancy steroids or antibiotics you use, you can’t completely prevent it.

The patient was a gaunt man, his true age impossible to guess.

He looked to be around sixty.

Despite years of illness and being bedridden, his demeanor was gentle and friendly.

He didn’t have the threatening look some people expect.

For this level of paralysis, bedsores, muscle atrophy and eventually organ failure usually set in. But this man was surprisingly well off.

It had been around ten years since Dr. Xu’s accident.

When Zhou Can first started at Tuyu Hospital as a trainee, Dr. Xu had already been in this state for years.

Now Zhou Can was an attending physician and one of the hospital’s rising stars.

So by his estimate, the patient had been bedridden at least a decade.

For someone paralyzed that long to still have decent muscle and skin tone was remarkable.

It took daily massages and stretching—every two or three hours, like clockwork.

All done by hand, all by professionals.

Ten years of daily care—one nurse couldn’t possibly do all that alone. There was simply too much work for one person.

And even regular massages weren’t enough.

Nutrition had to be managed, too.

Now that the patient needed a respirator just to breathe, eating on his own was out of the question.

Forget the price of the nutrition solutions—their composition alone was a test for doctors and nurses.

It took someone with at least deputy chief nurse level and nutrition training to barely handle it.

Massage, stretching, nutrition—all those issues solved, and the man’s vital signs still stable. That alone was a colossal achievement.

Ten years of keeping this patient alive meant an unthinkable drain on staff, supplies and money.

Back then, Zhou Can had wondered why Dr. Xu would donate nearly his entire salary each month to help the victims’ families. Year after year, the recipients never showed a word of thanks.

It always seemed unfair.

Now he finally understood—even that salary was just a drop in the bucket.

It probably barely covered the cost of a care worker.

He guessed it took at least four nurses, taking shifts around the clock for massages and stretching.

At six thousand yuan a month per person, that’s twenty-four thousand altogether.

Specialist nurses earned more, and with mandatory insurance, room and board, the cost could double.

To be blunt—

Given the patient’s state, is it really worth spending so much money, effort and manpower to keep him alive?

Even if the victim’s family could afford it, for the patient, living was pure agony.

Every minute and every second felt like an endless torment.

“Mr. Song, my name is Zhou Can. I’m a doctor from Tuyu Hospital—I came today especially to check on you.”

Zhou Can spoke gently.

“Mmm…mmm…”

The patient made a few muffled sounds.

Zhou Can felt a flash of relief.

If he could make any sound at all, his nerves were in much better shape than expected.

Before arriving, Zhou Can had worried the man might be in a vegetative state.

But being able to understand and respond, even with muffled noises, meant the patient was fully conscious. His hearing and language were intact.

His speech was so muddled partly because of the respirator, partly from not talking for years and the resulting decline.

If you left someone stranded on an island for ten years, even if they survived, they’d lose the ability to speak properly.

They’d only manage a few garbled syllables.

“After your accident, many of our medical staff at the hospital kept worrying about you and searching for new treatments. It’s been ten years, but there’s been huge progress in medical technology and neurology. May I examine you?”

Zhou Can asked the patient’s permission.

“Mmm…mmm…”

The patient tried to nod his approval, but his body wouldn’t move.

So he blinked to show his agreement.

“Uncle Bian, I’m going to start Mr. Song’s checkup now.”

Zhou Can asked for the housekeeper’s consent.

“Go ahead, but make sure Mr. Song’s safety comes first,” Uncle Bian agreed.

“Just be careful not to disrupt his vital signs during the exam,” added the male doctor.

Zhou Can nodded, then began carefully checking the patient. Apart from underpants, the patient wore nothing—probably to preserve some privacy and dignity.

He gently lifted Mr. Song’s left hand.

He quietly checked its weight, skin elasticity, temperature, muscle and fat thickness, even the pulse.

“Mr. Song, if you can feel me touch your fingertips, please blink.”

Zhou Can instructed.

Mr. Song blinked to show he understood.

Zhou Can touched his index finger. No reaction. With firmer pressure, Mr. Song finally blinked at him.

So his hand nerves still worked.

He checked both arms, then other parts of the body.

Starting from the base of the neck and back of the head, the patient’s nerves weakened lower down. By his legs, nearly all sensation was gone.

Given Mr. Song’s status, Zhou Can didn’t dare try needle tests.

He’d seen lots of cases where nerve functions weakened the further down the body.

There were countless reasons.

Before coming, Zhou Can had even pulled the case file and studied the original surgery records.

It all went back to the brain tumor removal.

Dr. Xu had explained that his hand slipped during surgery, cutting a brain nerve by mistake.

The patient’s eyes moved and could see and hear, and his hands, though immobile, retained sensation.

Anatomically, the brain’s nerves are the main hub, sending signals down from head to toe.

The core is the brainstem, which runs through the pons, medulla, and cervical spine.

The spinal nerves are the main highway.

The brachial plexus controls hand sensation.

Since his hands could feel, the connection from brainstem to brachial plexus must be intact.

His chest nerves checked out, too.

But the lumbar, cauda equina, sacral nerves were no good.

Zhou Can fell silent, deep in thought.

From clinical experience, blood vessels shrink after bleeding, which is why sometimes they disappear when you’re treating trauma.

Nerves also atrophy.

But it’s a lot more complicated than with blood vessels—nutrition, movement, electrical signals, all play a role.