After Three Long Years, the Old Orchard Finally Welcomed Back Its Owner

My name is Wang. I am 71 years old. I have spent most of my life tending an orchard, growing persimmons, peaches, loquats, and all kinds of fruit. In the winter of 2022, my abdomen was often bloated, I felt full after only a few bites, and I had no strength at all. I went to the county hospital for an examination, and the diagnosis was liver cancer.

The day my son came back with the report, I was squatting in the orchard, piling soil around a persimmon tree. He hesitated for a long while before speaking. I grabbed the report and looked at it. My mind buzzed, and even the hoe slipped from my hand. I was not afraid of dying; I just could not bear to leave this land. The persimmons on the trees had just turned red and had not yet been fully harvested. I kept thinking: next year, will anyone still take care of these trees?

Over the next three years, my son took me from one hospital to another. Each time, we got up after four in the morning to catch a ride and came home in the dark. But every time the doctors finished reviewing the scans, they had the same expression: their brows tightened, and they stayed silent for a long time. Some said the tumor was too close to major blood vessels, making surgery impossible. Some said that at my age, chemotherapy might break my body down before it could treat the cancer. Others simply told my son, “Take your father home. Cook him whatever he wants to eat.” I understood what they meant: there was no treatment left, and I should go home and wait.

The image above shows the CT image of the liver lesion at the time of diagnosis.

After visiting several major hospitals, the more we heard, the colder our hearts became. Later, I had accepted my fate and told my son to stop putting me through it. But he refused to give up. He asked around again and again, and finally heard from another patient about Uni-Asia Cancer Hospital in Chengdu. He was told that it was a high-end international oncology hospital specializing in international patients, bringing together top minimally invasive interventional experts in China, including Professor Liao Zhengyin, Professor Zhang Jinshan, and Professor Xiao Yueyong. Many people had flown in from overseas specifically to seek treatment from them. My son said, “Dad, this is the last hospital. If it still does not work, I will accept it too.”

On the day I arrived at Uni-Asia Cancer Hospital, Professor Liao Zhengyin came to my room in person. He was not wearing a white coat, just a dark blue jacket. He sat beside me on the sofa and carefully went through my thick stack of examination reports one by one. After reading them, he said to me, “Uncle Wang, the lesion in your liver is something other hospitals do not dare to touch because it is close to major blood vessels and surgery carries a very high risk. But do not be afraid. We will use another method, without open surgery.” He took a pen from his pocket and began drawing on a sheet of paper. “Look, this tumor needs your blood supply to grow. We have counted the vessels feeding it, and there are several. I will insert a thin catheter from the root of your thigh, follow the blood vessels all the way to these feeding branches, deliver the medicine directly into the tumor, and then block the blood vessels supplying it. It is like a patch of poisonous weeds growing in a field. Spraying medicine on the leaves is not enough. You have to dig out the roots so they cannot grow again.” I asked him whether my healthy liver would also be harmed. He said, “No. I will only cut off the roots of the bad weeds. Not a single healthy seedling will be touched.”

Hearing him explain it that way, I immediately felt relieved. In three years, this was the first time a doctor had explained everything so clearly to me and spoken with such confidence.

For the first procedure, I walked into the operating room myself. After I lay down, they used a little local anesthesia at the root of my thigh, and I remained awake the whole time. Professor Liao and his assistants spoke softly inside the room, occasionally telling me, “The catheter is in,” “The medicine has been delivered,” and “This blood vessel has been blocked,” just like ordinary conversation. I stared at the screen above me and saw several winding, thread-like lines moving inside, but I felt no pain at all. In less than an hour, the puncture site was bandaged and I was wheeled back to the ward.

The image above shows the CT image of the liver lesion after the patient completed our hospital’s treatment plan.

That evening, I drank a bowl of rice porridge. The next morning, a nurse helped me walk two laps along the corridor. I had heard people say that cancer treatment could make you suffer terribly, but for me it was only a tiny needle hole at the root of my thigh. After a short hospital stay, I went home.

Later, I underwent two more procedures. Professor Liao said they were clearing out those feeding vessels step by step. After the third procedure, I returned for a follow-up examination. Professor Liao pointed at the scan and said, “Uncle Wang, look. It is basically no longer visible.”

I leaned in and looked for a long time, then asked him, “Can I go back and take care of my fruit trees?” He smiled and said, “Why not? Go back and prune the branches, fertilize the trees, and do what you should do. Just do not overwork yourself.”

When I heard that, I nearly cried. For three years, from 2022 to 2025, I was passed from one hospital to another, and each time I walked out to the sight of doctors shaking their heads. This time, I walked out smiling.

Now I have returned to my hometown. When the persimmons turn red, I pick persimmons. When the loquats turn yellow, I pick loquats. This spring, I even planted a few new peach saplings. Standing in the orchard, with the warm sun on my back and the wind carrying the smell of the soil, I took a deep breath. After three years, this old orchard had finally welcomed its owner home.

Not long ago, my son asked how I was feeling. I told him: your father can now eat two bowls of rice at one meal, walk around the orchard every day, and live a very comfortable life. When the peaches ripen, I will pick a basket of the biggest and sweetest ones and send them to Professor Liao and his team.

This case reflects a real patient experience. Personal information has been anonymized, and this case should not be interpreted as a promise of treatment outcomes.