22

My problem was Jiang Qing. She had returned from the Soviet Union in April, just before Mao called me back, and was with us in Qingdao. The cobalt 60 treatment had been successful, but her bout with cancer had left her more demanding and hypochondriacal, and more difficult to deal with than ever. After only two days in the castle, she had kicked out Mao's entourage, complaining about the noise we made. The flushing of our toilet disturbed her. “Whose rest did we come here for, anyway?” she demanded. “Yours or mine?”

She was still under the care of her two gynecologists, but since Xu Tao's departure in the fall of 1956, she had had no internist. She asked me to serve as her doctor. I demurred, pointing out that my obligations were to Mao, that I always traveled with him, and she was not often along on the trips. She understood, she assured me, but wanted me to take care of her when she and the Chairman were together. “I won't need much help,” she said, “and if you are not around, my nurse can call you for instructions and prescriptions.” I could not refuse.

The arrangement soon ran into difficulty. Several days after our expulsion from the castle, in the midst of a torrential downpour, Jiang Qing's nurse called me. It was about eleven o'clock at night, but Jiang Qing wanted to see me immediately. She had a stuffy nose. After determining that her pulse was normal and she was running no fever, I suggested to the nurse that Jiang Qing take some allergy medicine, and I promised to go and see her first thing in the morning. I had no car and saw no use getting soaked in the downpour over Jiang Qing's stuffy nose.

Minutes later, my phone rang again. Jiang Qing was furious and had asked her nurse to tell me that it was irresponsible for a doctor to prescribe medicine without seeing the patient first.

I was furious, too. It was very late, and Jiang Qing knew it was raining heavily. Her “illness” was a mere stuffy nose. She was utterly inconsiderate demanding me to see her in those circumstances. “She does not have to take the medicine if she doesn't want to,” I assured the nurse. “I will see her tomorrow.”

Jiang Qing snubbed me the next day. Her two gynecologists were about to return to Beijing, and she had scheduled a farewell banquet in their honor. Protocol required that I be there, too, but she pointedly refused to invite me, spreading word through her staff that I was being punished for my misbehavior. In fact, I was happy not to go. Eating with Jiang Qing was an ordeal. She took her medication at meals and had a pill for each of her many disorders. Her guests were forced to sit through her disquisitions on each pill and its functions—this one for her poor digestion, another to build her blood, tranquilizers for her nerves, a host of vitamins for a range of ills. Those who came expecting good food and lively conversation soon found their appetites disappearing as Jiang Qing monopolized the conversation with her maladies.

Then Mao caught a cold, too. Qingdao had stayed cool and wet even in July, but the Chairman still went swimming every day at the private beach the Shandong public-security officials had cleared for him. His cold started shortly after the meeting was over, and he developed a cough, lost his appetite, and turned listless. My Western medicine did no good, and after a few days I suggested he stop taking it. Shu Tong, the first party secretary of Shandong, persuaded Mao to see a famous doctor of Chinese medicine from Jinan. It was the first time Mao had agreed to be treated by traditional methods. He still did not believe in Chinese medicine, even though he continued to promote it, and he did not like the hot, bitter herbal liquid that was the trademark of the traditional cure. But he was frustrated that he could not shake the cold and he decided to give it a try. “You don't want me to take more of your Western medicine,” he said to me, “so what am I supposed to do?”

I never understood the theory behind Chinese medicine, but many of the herbal cures seemed to work. My father had once been cured by a famous doctor of Chinese medicine when Western medicine failed. I thought Mao should give it a try.

“So let the doctor come and treat me—under your supervision,” Mao said.

The doctor, Liu Huimin, was a tall, thin sixty-year-old man, unsophisticated and honest. Mao treated him in the same disarming manner he always used when meeting people for the first time. “Huimin means ‘beneficial to the people,' ” Mao said, commenting on the doctor's given name. “Please give me the benefit of your treatment.”

Dr. Liu felt Mao's pulse and looked at the Chairman's tongue. “The Chairman has a cold deep inside his body,” the doctor announced seriously. “We need to administer medicine to get the cold out.”

Mao already knew he had a cold and was not interested in further confirmation. He only wanted to be cured. “I don't understand Chinese medicine. You just talk to Dr. Li about how to treat me,” he said, motioning us both away. Dr. Liu bowed deeply to Mao, in the traditional manner of respect, and I accompanied him and Shu Tong to discuss the treatment.

Dr. Liu wanted to administer two doses of herbs, stewed in broth, just before his bedtime. Mao was then to sleep under heavy blankets, to induce sweat. I knew the Chairman would not like the prescription. He did not like bitter liquids, and he kept his room cool, covering himself with a terry-cloth towel rather than a blanket.

I had to explain the proposed treatment to Mao. He frowned. “Chairman does not like this treatment, does he?” I asked. “But Chairman can try it this once. If it doesn't work, you don't have to try it again.”

Mao was still reluctant. “If I cover myself with a heavy blanket, I'll perspire without his medicine. Why do I need to take the medicine, too?”

“Perspiring with his medicine and without it are two different things,” I explained. “If you try it, you'll be able to tell the difference.”

Mao agreed. “I'll try it just this once. If it's no good, I won't do it again.”

Shu Tong's wife prepared the medicine. I checked all the ingredients to satisfy myself that the herbs were harmless, but since the medicine would not go through the elaborate poison control of Fu Lianzhang's pharmacy, I had to confer with the Central Bureau of Health in Beijing about how to guarantee that the herbs were safe. Mao always had special telephones installed when he traveled, with six or eight secure lines going directly to his confidential secretaries in Zhongnanhai. I used one of them to call. The bureau concluded that since Shu Tong was a member of the party Central Committee and first party secretary of Shandong province, the doctor he had proposed must be reliable. But they were puzzled over the question of how to protect against the possibility of poison. In the end, four identical portions of the medicine, a dark brown bitter-tasting brew, were prepared. One bowl was sealed and put in custody with the Central Bureau of Health. Then Shu Tong and I served as guinea pigs, drinking the medicine first. When we suffered no immediate adverse effects, Mao drank his.

Mao spent an uncomfortable night sweating under his heavy blanket. He felt no better the next day. Dr. Liu encouraged him to repeat the procedure.

On the morning of the third day, Mao still did not feel well. Dr. Liu felt the Chairman's pulse and looked at his tongue again. The Chairman, he concluded, had been cured.

Mao thought otherwise. He was still sick. He had a cold and a cough. His symptoms had not gone away. After another three days of the medicine, Mao had still not improved.

Dr. Liu was puzzled. He examined Mao again, taking his pulse and looking at his tongue. This time he concluded that the real source of the Chairman's discomfort was not the cold but exhaustion. The cure was a concoction of ginseng and herbs designed to replenish lost nutrients. The herbs were the stock-in-trade of traditional Chinese medicine, and while dubious about the need to “replenish” Mao's nutrients, I saw no great harm in the prescription. The Central Bureau of Health again approved. Four batches were prepared, and Shu Tong and I again served as guinea pigs.

Still Mao did not improve. The doctor was puzzled. I thought warmer weather might help, and while Shu Tong assured us every day that the cool, damp weather was highly unusual and would surely change, it did not. Finally, I suggested to Mao that we return to Beijing. He agreed. We arrived back in Zhongnanhai in early August. His cold immediately improved.