An Acupuncture Externship in China

I spent a month at Guangzhou TCM University Hospital observing four doctors, each with different specialties. I met my translator at the entrance to the TCM department—he was holding a sign with my name on it. He introduced himself by saying, “Hello, I’m Stoney, but not stoned.” Sporting thick black eyeglasses, a shaggy hairstyle and white lab coat, he resembled a genius scientist. He waited for me to pull on my white lab coat, then grabbing my wrist, pulled me down a long hall way.

The schedule was grueling; six hours of standing. My translator told me it was considered inappropriate to sit down, and I should leave the treatment room if I needed a rest. I gutted it out and stood, and stood, and stood. The clinic rooms were standing-room-only, aside from the patients. Often, a long line of people hoping to see the TCM doctor queued down the hall. Our clinic room reminded me of Tokyo trains at rush-hour, with people stuffed into a small capsule. We stood elbow-to-elbow with the doctor and twelve interns, plus me and my translator. Additionally, patients brought their parents or partner, sucking up more oxygen in our airless environment. Interns pushed trolleys filled with glass cups, snaking between the crowd to give patients cupping therapy. The doctor prescribed smoking moxa to every patient, soon enveloping our room in a dense cloud—so much so that I could not see across the room. One could be forgiven for mistaking this ancient Chinese therapy for a medical marijuana smoke fest.

During my rotation, I spent time in the women’s health department, where many female patients wanted to lose weight. One patient in particular sought me out, engaging me in English. She was flattered that a foreigner was interested in Chinese medicine. She invited me to witness her cat-gut-embedding-treatment, used for obesity. The doctor threaded a strand of cat gut on the end of a hypodermic needle and injected it at various acupuncture points. This patient had been coming to the hospital for seven months for PCOS, and reported that she lost ten kilos in that time.

I also observed the neurology department, swollen with a large number of pediatric cases. Children in China are no different from children all over the world—they do not like needles! It was common to see them seated on their parent’s lap in the hallway, screaming and bawling with needles poked into their skulls, inserted into their wrists and toes, and dangling from the tip of their nose. The doctors used the same gauge needles for adults—i.e.—children did not get a break with thinner, smaller needles. 

A typical scene involved a mother and father dragging their child in already screaming. The father would sit in front of the TCM doctor with the child on his lap. Then a team of interns would forcibly restrain the child by binding his arms and legs, with one keeping his head locked in position while the doctor quickly inserted needles. Afterwards, the parents and child would take a seat in the hall for the duration of the treatment, joining other very unhappy children.

One case was interesting: Parents brought their toddler who was late to walk. The doctor instructed the parents to wait at the other end of the room, but within sight of their child. The child started to cry and crawl over but the interns scooped him up, and the doctor inserted needles. He used scalp acupuncture to stimulate motor and sensory nerves. The toddler remained in the lap of one of the interns with the needles inserted in his head. After awhile, the doctor removed them. He directed the parents to call their child. The interns leaned the toddler against a wall, then miraculously—he walked across the room to his parents!

I recall one doctor in particular, the only female doctor I followed, who generously imparted her knowledge with indefatigable energy. She was constantly teaching; constantly explaining things to her interns and quizzing them. She allowed some interns to insert needles, and she kept everyone on their toes. The other doctors rarely, or never, explained things to anyone, speaking to their interns only to direct them about auxiliary treatments.

I witnessed treatments that are not allowed in the US (or in the state of CA). One photo below is of bleeding veins behind the knee which cause back pain. The elderly patient was told to stand on newspaper while the intern pricked her veins.

This photo is of bees in an acrylic case. An intern plucks them out with a tweezer and holds it over the painful joint (usually in cases of rheumatoid arthritis or osteoarthritis), inducing the bee to sting. It is bee venom therapy, and there is a hive on the balcony of the in-patient acupuncture department.

A view of the courtyard from the 5th floor acupuncture department. I would often sit in the courtyard with a breakfast of a steamed red bean bun or steamed corn.

This photo is of a lovely lunch at the market in Fancun. Wandering around one day, I stumbled upon a restaurant. Not being able to read or speak Chinese, I could only point to the photo on the wall. It was a simple meal of rice, bok choy, chicken feet soup, and chicken simmered with shaved ginger, red date, and goji berries (sheng jiang, hong zao, and gou qi zi). And it was the equivalent of 1USD!

And back to Stoney.

At the conclusion of my externship, Stoney insisted on taking me out for a meal very popular with the locals—Kentucky Fried Chicken. He wasn’t lying: we were lucky to get a table. While he regaled me with stories of growing up in Hunan, he mentioned that he attended ESL school there. In one of his first ESL classes, his British teacher told each student to choose an English nickname which would be used in lieu of their Chinese name. British nicknames proved to be popular such as Harry and George.

Yet he yearned for something special, with a deep meaning. He admired Zen, and the beautiful, meditative practice of stacking stones. He liked the spiritual component, so he chose “Stoney” for his nickname. When his American teacher learned of his new nickname, he giggled for a moment, but accepted it. However, he noticed that his American teacher would pronounce his name with extra gestures and facial expressions. At their last class, he finally asked, “Why do you do that?”

To which the teacher explained the cultural context of “stoney”. Mortified, Stoney exclaimed in his British-Hunan accent, “My God! Why didn’t you tell me?” The whole year he had assumed that his name had been imbued with spiritual significance, but it turned out to be more Haight-Ashbury than Zen. Credit to him, he didn’t change his nickname.

So that’s why when he introduces himself, he always clarifies, “Hi, I’m Stoney, but not stoned.”