Chapter 527: Degrees of Coma and the Weight of Choices

Coma comes in several degrees. The mildest form is drowsiness. Especially for seriously ill children or infants, if you spot signs of unusual sleepiness, you need to stay on high alert.

Sometimes what looks like a mild coma gets brushed off as simple napping.

When young children or infants under three catch a cold or fall ill, they can’t say what they’re feeling. The most common sign is increased drowsiness.

If parents or guardians ignore this, the child may rapidly progress to the second stage—stupor.

At this point, only loud calling or shaking their shoulders and cheeks can barely rouse them.

If it’s still not taken seriously, tragedy can follow.

Worse than stupor is light coma.

Now, their pupils react much more slowly to light, they lose consciousness, and you can’t wake them no matter how hard you try.

Beyond this are moderate coma and deep coma.

Once it reaches a deep coma, death isn’t far off.

Some people, after surviving serious illness, wake up and tell their families about seeing the underworld or being summoned by ghosts. Others say they felt their soul floating up, like they were about to drift into another world.

These are really just nerve disorders and hallucinations that come with deep coma.

Earlier, Deputy Director Lu’s level of coma was deep—he was teetering at death’s door.

When the hospital gave the family a critical condition notice, they factored in his degree of coma too.

Now, signs of active brainwaves have started popping up. That means his coma is improving, taking a turn for the better. No wonder Director Ming Xin is so delighted.

Active brainwaves are often a sign a patient’s about to regain consciousness. Clinically, it’s a hopeful signal.

He’s still under full anesthesia right now, which might suppress brainwave activity to some extent. Once he’s moved to the recovery room and wakes up from anesthesia, there’s a good chance things will improve even more.

Regardless of anything else, right after surgery, his vital signs are already stabilizing. That’s a huge positive.

Everyone’s hard work paid off—they’re finally seeing results.

“This surgery’s been a real eye-opener! Looks like in the future, we’ll need to communicate more with other hospitals and stop working behind closed doors. Otherwise, we’ll never grow.”

Director Wu Yongming peeled off his gloves and mask, grinning from ear to ear.

This surgery gave him plenty to learn, mostly thanks to Zhou Can.

From the order of steps in saving Deputy Director Lu, to the techniques used, Zhou Can’s skills and methods gave him a wealth of new knowledge.

“Dr. Zhou’s surgical techniques are definitely something we should all learn from,” Director Gou Qiong offered high praise for Zhou Can.

“The two of you picked up a few tricks from me tonight, but I learned even more from you. Director Wu’s suggestion for more exchanges is spot on—I’d double down on my support. If you’re interested, when I get back, I can talk to Tuyu Hospital’s leadership. Our two hospitals could share and learn from each other; departments could swap staff as needed for professional exchange.”

Zhou Can suggested with a warm smile.

He’d been considering this for a while.

For any hospital, shutting itself off never brings progress.

Only by reaching out and learning externally can you truly keep up with the times and make real advances.

Normally, these two big hospitals compete fiercely.

Conversations are rare—you’re lucky if they don’t end up bickering.

Take the time they tried to corner Tuyu’s cardiothoracic surgery—for that, Provincial People’s Hospital really played hardball. The rivalry may not be as bitter as between Tuyu and the Third Hospital, but it isn’t much better.

This time, Zhou Can managed to break the ice unexpectedly, getting both hospitals to open up to medical cooperation—a big achievement.

It’s good for reputation and good for merit.

For a small-time resident like him, his influence just shot up several notches.

And what’s influence? It’s the weight your words carry.

“Dr. Zhou, your proposal’s fantastic—it benefits both our hospitals. We’ll talk to the leadership as soon as possible, and once there’s word, we’ll keep you in the loop. When the time comes, we’ll need you to help make this happen with Tuyu.”

That was Director Xiang Fei speaking.

He sounded and looked perfectly calm.

In terms of seniority, Director Ming Xin from Anesthesiology is older than him. Status-wise, Director Wu Yongming from Neurosurgery definitely outranks him. Even Director Gou Qiong from Thoracic Surgery isn’t much lower in rank.

And a bit of background: If you split cardiac surgery out from cardiothoracic, thoracic surgery suddenly drops down to the level of general surgery.

It loses all that prestige.

Cardiac and neurosurgery are widely considered the top of the surgical field.

Both are razor’s edge specialties, representing the height of surgical skill.

So, for Director Xiang Fei to be the spokesperson now? Everyone seemed to think it was only natural. Clearly, he’s pretty high up in the pecking order.

Zhou Can took a mental note.

It’s not uncommon for a seemingly ordinary attending to also hold an administrative role as department chair.

Director Xiang Fei is not only a chief physician in Critical Care but probably also holds some higher admin responsibilities.

He’s in hospital management, plain and simple.

“No problem at all. Once you’re ready, just let me know.”

Zhou Can nodded in agreement.

“Really hope this all goes through soon! Then both hospitals can share what we have. I’ve been dying to check Tuyu’s anesthesia standards. This year alone, they’ve handled several insane surgeries, and the way they managed anesthesia risks and operational control in those cases got me really curious. Trouble is, with no exchange, I never got to ask. But now?”

Director Ming Xin was genuinely excited now that both sides had shown interest.

Director Feng, who heads Tuyu’s Anesthesiology Department, really is top-tier.

But for those super difficult surgeries, anesthesia alone would never be enough—the primary surgeon is just as crucial, and honestly, the entire surgical team matters.

Zhou Can had helped with several high-difficulty, high-risk surgeries for Cardiothoracic.

Truth is, he’d likely played lead surgeon or assisted on many operations Director Ming Xin was most curious about.

Of course, you’d never let the external doctors know that.

“I’ve already ordered us some late-night snacks. We’ve all worked hard tonight—let’s eat and chat, shall we?”

Director Xiang Fei chimed in again.

Zhou Can found himself more and more intrigued by Director Xiang Fei’s background.

…

It was close to 10:30 p.m. by the time Zhou Can stepped out of the Provincial People’s Hospital.

He hadn’t planned for this, but checking in on Deputy Director Lu turned into hours assisting as a surgeon, keeping him busy late into the night.

The late-night meal took up even more time.

But it wasn’t about the food—it was about seizing the rare chance to bond with several of the hospital’s chief physicians.

He’d gained a lot this evening.

Not only did he grow tremendously as a surgeon, he built lasting connections and made a name for himself at the Provincial People’s Hospital.

He’d met several chief physicians in one go.

A few promising young doctors even came up to ask for his contact, adding him on WeChat. They said they’d love to consult him on medical problems in the future.

Of course, Zhou Can wasn’t about to turn them down.

He headed home with a sense of accomplishment.

Deputy Director Lu’s condition was now stable. After waking from anesthesia, his brain activity became even more lively—great news. Barring any surprises, he’d pulled through.

The Provincial People’s Hospital gained a lot too.

Just reviving a patient who’d suffered such severe multiple traumas is worth bragging about for a good while.

Zhou Can finally got home, and it was close to eleven.

Su Qianqian, always happy to see him safe, had his change of clothes ready and a bowl of ginseng soup or bird’s nest porridge prepared—every day.

A good wife is a blessing earned over lifetimes.

After showering, Zhou Can sank onto the sofa with the ginseng soup that she brought, but he didn’t rush to bed. He fished out the letter from Deputy Director Lu and opened it.

“Who gave you this letter?”

“It’s a suicide note from the colleague who jumped. He probably thought he was doomed and wanted me to clear his name after he died—to stand up for him.”

Zhou Can replied.

“To ask for your help even in his final moments, he must’ve really trusted you. I just hope people ask you for this kind of help less often. You’re my husband—I only want you safe and sound.”

She was probably still a little shaken from the last attempt on Zhou Can’s life.

The rule of law means nothing to those bold enough to cross it—and there’s never a shortage of that sort.

Better to avoid trouble whenever you can.

“Don’t worry, I’ll keep myself in check. Deputy Director Lu only has a daughter still in school. He’s not great at handling people and always seemed to offend someone or another. After getting poached by the Third Hospital, he probably didn’t have many real friends, so in the end, he looked to me for help.”

As he spoke, Zhou Can began reading the contents of the letter.

Su Qianqian, ever tactful, didn’t try to peek.

Private letters like this—even for couples—are still personal business. If you’re not invited, it’s best to stay curious but not intrude.

When Zhou Can finished, his face was stormy and his chest heavy.

The Third Hospital’s darkness was on full display.

Deputy Director Lu was the first to be pushed to suicide, but he certainly wasn’t the only victim.

The Third Hospital had lured scores of cardiothoracic physicians and nurses from many hospitals—just from Tuyu alone, over twenty people.

Back then, those who made the jump thought they’d struck gold, boarding the express train to wealth.

Who’d have guessed it was a pirate ship.

Now the Third Hospital’s cardiothoracic business is shrinking fast—they can’t make payroll anymore.

And as they expand a new campus, debt is piling up.

Their current situation is as bleak as they once were flashy.

All that’s left is for the last curtain to drop.

If the capital dries up, this place will pop like a soap bubble—gone in an instant.

Unless they pull off a miracle soon, they’re doomed.

Call it karma.

Several factors pushed Deputy Director Lu over the edge. First, none of the Third Hospital’s promises—high salaries or bonuses—were kept. Fantastic claims about helping him get academic rank and status? Lies, all of it.

Even if it was just that, it’d be nasty, but not truly sinister.

At most, they’re just con artists.

But the real kicker—they made every one of these recruits sign a non-compete. For five years, if you try to jump ship again, you pay a massive penalty.

You can understand why the Third Hospital would try to keep good people from being stolen again.

Luring seasoned experts over means you need some kind of leash to keep them.

Locking them in with these golden handcuffs was a natural move.

But those agreements sealed the fate of the doctors and nurses who made the switch.

All the promises the hospital made were just talk, but what these folks signed was on paper—with fingerprints and all. They really got a raw deal.

Of course, if they’d had a little more principle or caution, none of this would have happened.

After switching jobs, Deputy Director Lu only ever got a single month’s salary. That was it.

Meanwhile, his daughter had just gotten into a foreign university and needed a huge sum of money.

He’d switched, hoping to earn enough to send her abroad. Instead, his finances collapsed, and he didn’t know what to tell her.

He went to hospital management for help, but was always put off. Nobody had an answer.

Desperate, and with his health failing, he finally broke down and jumped—from the surgical building at the Third Hospital.

He wanted his death to force the world to see what was happening inside those walls.

If even that didn’t work, he left Zhou Can to look after his daughter—to keep her from being consumed by hate.

He never actually asked Zhou Can to seek justice for him.

Instead, he begged for the other twenty-plus Tuyu clinicians who’d jumped ship—hoping Zhou Can could find a way for them to return to Tuyu Hospital.

He’d talked to a lawyer and found loopholes in the non-compete agreements.

If Tuyu Hospital would take them back, they could return without breaking the agreement.

Now Zhou Can finally understood why Deputy Director Lu had swallowed his pride for help—to get his job back at Tuyu.

After being turned away, he’d probably tried asking other old colleagues from Tuyu Hospital.

But really, no one could help him.

In the end, despair led him to take his own life.

“It’s just so pathetic, infuriating and sad!”

Zhou Can couldn’t help but shake his head with a heavy sigh.

“He had a good life and job, but insisted on risking it all for a new offer—never thought to check the facts, swallowed every wild promise, and ended up losing everything, down to the shirt on his back.”