Dr. Na Zhai Clinic Acupuncture & Chinese Medicine

The Journey  

 

Almost forty years ago, I stood proud in my small hometown, clutching my medical degree. After five years of grueling study, I had become an internist at a big hospital in town—a dream I had nurtured since childhood. But reality arrived quickly, and with it, a crushing weight I hadn't anticipated. The promise of healing that modern medicine seemed to offer felt increasingly hollow with each passing day.

A childhood friend came to me complaining of a headache that had plagued her for months. I ran every test I could think of—blood work, imaging, neurological exams—but all results came back normal. I tried various medications, hoping to release her from the pain, but they offered only temporary relief at best. Eventually, I had to look her in the eye and say the words no doctor ever wants to utter: "I'm sorry." This wasn't an isolated incident. It happened almost daily during my three years of practice at the hospital. I felt deeply hurt, confused, and utterly lost.

Meanwhile, some of my classmates working in the emergency department were filled with pride and heroic spirit. They were saving lives daily—strokes, heart attacks, car accidents, and more. Suddenly, it dawned on me: modern medicine excels in the ER, but it falls short when it comes to chronic conditions like my friend's persistent headache. Why? Because acute and chronic illnesses have fundamentally different pathological backgrounds. The mistake, I realized, lay in applying the same protocols, the same ideal medications to handle these two entirely different kinds of conditions.

Then one day, my headache-stricken friend returned—radiant and joyful. The painful, bleak, and weary expression she once wore had vanished completely.

"Hi Doc," she said with a smile. "I'm pain-free now. No more drugs. I knew you were worried about me."

Surprised? Ashamed? Seeing a new direction? I couldn't quite name what I felt.

"What happened? Who helped you?" I asked eagerly.

"My mother took me to a Chinese doctor (a Traditional Chinese Medicine TCM practitioner) who diagnosed me with a digestive disorder," she explained. "He was right—I often had stomach pain, no appetite, and diarrhea. But the headache was what bothered me the most."

I wanted to ask why she hadn't told me about her stomach issues, but I stopped myself. After all, I was the doctor. I should have assessed her whole body, not just focused on her headache. Shame washed over me.

******

The truth was, I had received training on TCM in the medical school. To learn TCM was my mother's idea, not mine. TCM has been practiced for thousands of years and remains prevalent even today. Like most Chinese people, my mother deeply believed in it, lived by it, and appreciated it—TCM was simply part of her life. I didn't want to upset or disappoint her, so I entered the TCM program. But I poured all my effort into studying modern medicine instead, because I had my own life-saving experience that had shaped my beliefs.

My parents were workaholics. My father was a chief engineer in the railway industry, and my mother was a schoolteacher. When I was a little girl, they sent my two brothers and me to a boarding school. We could only come home once a week.

At the age of ten, I fell seriously ill at school—later diagnosed as typhoid. High fever, nausea, crushing fatigue, headaches, and abdominal pain accompanied by diarrhea tormented me to the point of utter exhaustion. The school nurse thought it was just some kind of flu and didn't take it seriously. I couldn't attend classes and lay bedridden in the dormitory day after day, with no sign of improvement.

Back home during the weekend, the doctors in the emergency room identified the real problem, and soon I was saved by those little pills. The immense relief after a week of devastating suffering was unforgettable. It planted a seed in my heart—the noblest calling of being a doctor who saves lives. Not a TCM doctor, but a real one.

******

I have to say that, stepping into the big hospital where I grew up, the feelings of proud and confident were beyond words. By then, I wanted nothing to do with TCM. Not only did it seem old and outdated, but I also witnessed how TCM practiced with my own eyes. I once watched a TCM doctor give my elderly brother acupuncture treatment for his asthma—every single day for months. Although his asthma eventually disappeared completely, the torture wasn't just from the needles, but from the ordeal of enduring the treatment day after day. What I hated most, though, were the herbs. My brother had to drink a big bowl of black herbal liquid twice a day, morning and night. The smell and taste were horrible. Each week at the herbal pharmacy, he received seven bags of raw herbs for the following seven days. His TCM doctor would adjust the composition according to the change of his symptoms. My mother had to cook it for two to three hours every day—the terrible smell filling the entire room. Everyone around me seemed okay with TCM, but I wasn't.

******

For a while, I tried to ignore what had happened with my friend—her complete transformation from suffering to healing. I tried to convince myself that her recovery could be just an incidental event. I couldn't accept the idea that TCM might be better than modern medicine. It couldn't be true, but I couldn't shake it off.

Slowly, I began referring refractory patients to TCM practitioners. To my surprise, they all got better. One by one, they returned with their symptoms relieved or completely resolved. The evidence became impossible to dismiss.

Finally, I decided to visit the TCM doctors who had healed my friend and many other patients for whom modern medicine had no solution. I had to—the contrast was too stark to ignore any longer. It was like emerging from a dark night with no hope and no direction into a bright day full of joy and vitality. Simply put, it was too obvious to overlook.

Through these TCM doctors, I truly experienced what it meant to be a healer. I knew then that I wanted to become a TCM doctor, seriously and wholeheartedly. But still, the acupuncture needles placed on various parts of the body looked and felt almost absurd. What were these needles doing to the body? Did they really work? How? And the herbs—ten, twenty, or even more grouped together—was there some kind of synergy at play? How could anyone figure it out?

To find answers, I quit my job and stepped into the scientific world while pursuing my Master and PhD degrees. My first mission: find out whether acupuncture is genuinely effective or merely some kind of psychological effect.