Seventeen years on, that 9-year-old girl is now my greatest pride

My name is Li Xiufang. I am a retired worker from a small county in Sichuan Province. Today, I want to share my daughter's story.

The story began seventeen years ago, in 2009. My daughter, Xiao Li, had just turned nine and was in the third grade of primary school. Around that time, she was often listless, had little appetite, and her complexion turned sallow. I initially believed it was merely school fatigue—until one day after school, she suddenly clutched her stomach and cried out in pain, drenched in sweat. I rushed her to the county hospital.

The ultrasound technician's expression changed during the scan. A CT scan followed. The day the results came back, my mind went blank—a tumor had grown in her liver, right at the second hepatic portal, wrapped around major vessels, and was already the size of a fist. The doctors said such a condition was extremely rare in a young girl, and the location was too perilous for them to handle.

Her father and I refused to give up. We traveled to several major hospitals. Every surgeon who reviewed her scans shook their head—the tumor was too entangled with the large vessels in the portal area; the risk of intraoperative mortality was simply too high. Some told us bluntly, "There's nothing we can do. You should take her home. " I spent my nights crying while holding my daughter and my days putting on a brave face as I went from hospital to hospital. She was only nine, a third-grader—her schoolbag was still hanging by the door, waiting for her return. How could I ever give up?

Just as we were running out of options, a fellow patient's family member told us about a hospital in Chengdu called Uni-Asia Hospital, where Professor Liao Zhengyin specialized in minimally invasive interventional oncology. Many tumors that other hospitals deemed untouchable, they said, found solutions in his hands. Her father and I discussed it through the night, and early the next morning, we set off for Chengdu with our daughter.

Upon arrival, Professor Liao carefully reviewed all the previous medical records and ordered new examinations for Xiao Li. After finishing his review, he sat beside my daughter, gently patted her head, and asked her how old she was, what grade she was in, and which subjects she liked. She had been keeping her head down in silence, but his gentle questions coaxed a small smile from her. Then Professor Liao turned to us. He took out a pen and, on a scrap of paper, began to draw and explain: "Sister, let me put it this way. Your daughter's tumor is like a small tree—its roots are embedded in the liver, right next to a big river. If you try to cut the roots with a knife, you risk damaging the river, which is why others hesitate. But think about it—if a tree gets no water and no nutrients, it will wither on its own. What I can do is find the tiny tubes that feed that tree, block them off, and deliver the medication directly to the roots through those tubes. The tree will naturally die off, while the big river keeps flowing undisturbed." He set down his pen, looked at my husband and me, and said calmly, "This path is viable. Trust me, and don't panic." That was the very first time, after so many hospitals, that a doctor told us, "This can be done." Tears streamed down my face. After so long without hope, someone had finally extended a lifeline.

On the day of the procedure, we waited outside the operation room, our hearts pounding with anxiety. In about an hour, Professor Liao emerged and told us the surgery had gone smoothly—the vessels supplying the tumor had been successfully blocked. I wept on the spot—tears of relief and joy.

Xiao Li recovered much faster than we ever expected. The very next day after the procedure, she told me she wanted some congee. By the third day, she was already walking around the ward. A few days later, she was discharged and went back home—and back to school with her schoolbag, as if nothing had happened.

Since then, we have brought her to Uni-Asia every year for regular check-ups. In the first year, the shadow on the scan shrank noticeably. By the third year, it had reduced further. Then eventually, the doctor pointed at the image and said, "Look—it's completely gone." Professor Liao called it a "clinical cure"—meaning the tumor had disappeared and all test results were normal.

Images above: CT images at diagnosis (Fig. 1–4)

Images above: CT images after treatment (Fig. 5–7).

Seventeen years have passed. From 2009 to 2026, that nine-year-old girl has grown into a graceful young woman. She graduated from university with honors, receiving multiple academic commendations. On her graduation day, I cried from the audience as she posed in her cap and gown. She has since entered her chosen profession, leading a fulfilling and grounded life, busy from morning until night.

Sometimes I pull out her old medical records and scans from those years. Looking at those yellowed pages, I recall the darkest days—and feel both sorrow and warmth. If we hadn't found Uni-Asia Hospital back then, if we hadn't met Professor Liao Zhengyin and his team, I dare not imagine where we would be today.

Not long ago, my daughter told me she wanted to treat Professor Liao to a meal once she got her year-end bonus. I said, "Silly child, he's so busy—he won't have time." She said, "Then we'll send a banner of gratitude." I said, "Yes, that we can do."

This is our story. A nine-year-old girl, a life-threatening illness, a hospital that never gave up, and a team of truly skilled experts. Seventeen years on, my daughter is doing well—better than anything else in the world.

This case is a real patient experience, with personal details anonymized for privacy. It does not constitute a treatment guarantee.