After Jiang Qing's return from the Soviet Union, she had become obsessively hypochondriacal, convinced she was seriously, alarmingly ill. She was certain that her cervical cancer had recurred, that she had a tumor in her liver, her stomach, her brain, that her body was riddled with disease. She was troubled by a ringing in her ears and said it felt as though insects were trying to crawl in. She could not bear light or noise. She complained about drafts. She had no appetite. She could not sleep. She took first this kind of sleeping pill and then another, one kind of medicine and then, convinced she was allergic, another. She was addicted to pills, to medicine, to her own illnesses.

But her radiation treatment had been successful. Her cancer was completely cured.

Her health, when she and Mao were together, was my responsibility. I was forced to take her complaints seriously.

In several of the blood tests I had drawn since her return from the Soviet Union I had noticed a slight irregularity in Jiang Qing's blood count. I was certain it was nothing serious, just part of the body's gradual readjustment after radiation, but Jiang Qing was nearly hysterical with worry, and I wanted to assuage her fears by having her examined by a team of the country's leading physicians. Shortly after my stint at hard labor, the Central Bureau of Health—the division under the Ministry of Public Health responsible for high-level leaders—gathered together a number of specialists, working under my direction, to administer a thorough physical, checking for every conceivable malady. The process took a full two weeks, with Jiang Qing behaving more imperiously than ever, changing the schedule at whim, treating the doctors with disdain, ordering them around like servants.

After all the exams had been completed and the test results were in, I called a meeting of the physicians. We all reached the same conclusion. Jiang Qing was not sick. Her cancer was cured. Her blood count was a minor problem. There was no evidence of any illness. Indeed, from the time she returned from the Soviet Union in the spring of 1957 until her arrest twenty years later, she remained in perfectly good physical health.

The problem, we all agreed, was psychological. I could understand how it had evolved. Jiang Qing was genuinely frightened about her health, and she had little understanding of the workings of the human body. She was naturally suspicious and nervous and could not trust anyone, not even her doctors. Nothing we said could allay her fears. Caustic and selfish, she was preoccupied with herself. She drove potential friends away, and her relationship with Mao was not normal for husband and wife. Her isolation and loneliness only exacerbated her anxiety. We described her overall psychological problem as neurasthenia. There was no other label we could use. But we were physicians, specialists in illnesses of the body. We had no way to cure Jiang Qing's psychiatric problems.

We wrote a report and submitted it separately to both Mao and Jiang Qing, explaining that we had performed a complete, detailed examination on every aspect of Comrade Jiang Qing's health, that the radiation therapy had been successful and she was recovering well. We agreed that she should take vitamins to strengthen her resistance to disease and suggested she involve herself in cultural, literary, and athletic activities. We recommended that she increase her social activities while taking a temporary leave from work. We were being polite. Jiang Qing had no work to leave. Inactivity was one source of her problems.

Jiang Qing rejected the report and insisted that she was seriously ill. The doctors were incompetent, she said. Or we were lying. She ordered us to rewrite the report.

We met again, but not to discuss her physical health. We needed to decide how to write a report that would convey our ideas to Jiang Qing and still be acceptable to her. We decided to say that her process of recovery would be long and gradual and that her neurasthenia would naturally intensify. The physical discomforts she was experiencing were a result of this natural intensification.

But she was no more satisfied with the second report than the first. “Can you guarantee that I won't get sick in the future?” she demanded. Her question was absurd. Of course no one could make such a guarantee. She also thought the report was too abstract. She wanted us to work out a weekly schedule for her, filled with specific cultural, literary, and athletic activities.

We suggested that she spend her time watching movies, listening to music, perfecting her photography, and attending dancing parties and concerts. We also suggested that she begin practicing tai ji chuan, the traditional martial art of shadowboxing. Tai ji chuan requires intense concentration, both to control the breath and to move the body, and the practice, properly performed, has a soothing effect. We thought it would help keep Jiang Qing calm.

Mao was skeptical about Jiang Qing practicing tai ji. But he agreed that she could try it for a while to see how she liked it. The Central Bureau of Health found a teacher named Gu, recommended by the Shanghai Athletic Commission, and Gu began daily instruction in the basic techniques. Mao and his wife were spending a couple of weeks in a new villa in the western outskirts of Beijing—a complex for the top leaders called Six New Buildings. I accompanied Gu there for the daily lessons.

Though Jiang Qing was intensely serious about learning tai ji, she was a dismal student. Gu was a cautious and reticent man, but he was devoted to his art, strict in his demands even on the Chairman's wife. Jiang Qing would become irritated when he corrected her posture or breathing, and I had to caution him to tread gently and not be too concerned about her slow progress.

Summer was upon us again, and in July, I left with Mao and Jiang Qing for Beidaihe. Gu, after a little more than a month of instruction, came too, to continue the program.

In Beidaihe, Jiang Qing's psychological problems returned with a vengeance. She complained incessantly. She was afraid of bright lights and ordered her nurses to pull down the shades to keep out the sun. But she wanted fresh air, so she ordered the windows open. When the windows were open she hated the draft. When they were closed it was too stuffy. The slightest noise, even the rustle of her attendants' clothes, drove her to distraction, and she was constantly yelling at them about the noise they made when they moved. She was bothered by color. Pinks and browns were especially troublesome. They hurt her eyes. She had everything in her residence—walls and furniture alike—painted a pale light green.

Her nurses were under constant attack and continually ran to me in tears complaining about the Chairman's wife. There was nothing they could do to satisfy her. Within a month, her nurses had been changed five or six times. “With six hundred million Chinese, we have enough people around,” Jiang Qing would say after dismissing yet another nurse. “If they don't want to work for me, they're welcome to leave. We have plenty of other people.”

I was responsible for Jiang Qing's nursing staff and at a loss about what to do. I talked to Shi Shuhan and Huang Shuze, the director and deputy director of the Central Bureau of Health, hoping that their experience overseeing the health of the country's highest leaders might help. They, too, were at a loss. Huang Shuze and I went to explain the problem to Yang Shangkun. “Jiang Qing doesn't think much of me,” Yang said. “What good can I do?”

Finally, Shi Shuhan, Huang Shuze, and I decided to take the problem to Zhou Enlai. We all respected the premier tremendously, and Shi Shuhan had already faced a similar problem with Lin Biao, one of China's marshals and a vice-chairman of the National Defense Council, who was then in semi-retirement. Lin Biao also suffered from neurasthenia and had refused to listen to his doctors. Zhou Enlai had talked to Lin, telling him that Chairman Mao and the party really hoped he would follow the doctors' advice. For a while at least, Lin Biao had complied. We thought that if Zhou understood the problems Jiang Qing was causing, he would work out a similar solution.

We were wrong.

We requested a meeting with Premier Zhou, outlining our reasons. Zhou pleaded busy. He suggested we meet with his wife, Deng Yingchao, the premier's closest adviser and confidante and herself a highly respected member of the Central Committee. My contact with Zhou's wife had been minimal, but I had long admired her from afar. Big Sister Deng, we called her. It would be an honor to meet her.

I was charged with making the presentation. I described Jiang Qing's situation to Deng Yingchao in detail, explaining that Jiang's problems were not physical and hence were beyond any medical solution. I explained that I thought Jiang Qing's psychological problems derived from her isolation and from her lack of interest in work. I thought, though, that if the proper person were to speak to her, she might be persuaded to change her behavior and perhaps her problems would diminish. I told Deng Yingchao that we were asking for her help because we did not know where else to turn or what else to do.

Deng Yingchao listened attentively throughout my presentation. Only when I was finished did she respond. “The Chairman has devoted his whole life to the revolution,” she said. “Eight members of his family have sacrificed their lives for the cause. The Chairman's contributions have been extraordinary, and the respect we owe him is tremendous. We must realize that the Chairman now has only his wife, Comrade Jiang Qing. His first wife, Yang Kaihui, died for the revolution. The Chairman's second wife, He Zizhen, is herself suffering from a mental disorder. Now Jiang Qing is ill. We must do everything we can to help her, as a way of showing our gratitude to the Chairman. We must take proper care of Comrade Jiang Qing no matter how difficult the job.

“You say Comrade Jiang Qing has mental problems. This makes us very, very sad. You should not have said that. It isn't fair to the Chairman. The party has assigned you the responsibility of providing Comrade Jiang Qing with the best medical care possible. You have no right to do anything but that.”

I was astounded. Deng Yingchao was not being honest. Clearly, she had consulted with Zhou Enlai. She would not be saying this without his agreement. This was their joint response. Suddenly, I realized that Zhou Enlai was Mao's slave, absolutely, obsequiously obedient. Everything he did was designed to court favor with Mao. Everything he did, he did to be loyal to Mao. Neither he nor his wife had a shred of independent thought. Deng Yingchao was a tough and clever woman. I had come to her with a genuine problem, and she knew the problem was real. But she had to be holier than thou, accusing us of failing in our duties to the Chairman, of lacking her devotion to Mao, of lacking her husband's devotion to Mao. If Mao were ever to learn what she said at this meeting, her standing and the standing of her husband would rise a few notches—and mine would most certainly fall.

I felt betrayed. She had managed to twist my intentions and put me on the defensive, making my inability to solve Jiang Qing's problems a test of my loyalty to Mao. Deng Yingchao was treacherous, and I never trusted her again. I left in disgust, shaken.

I was left with no other choice but to talk to Mao directly, without Jiang Qing. The opportunity came when Khrushchev made his secret visit to China.

Khrushchev arrived in Beijing on July 31, 1958. Mao returned to Beijing by train from Beidaihe to meet him. En route, I raised the question of Jiang Qing's health.

Mao was surprised. “Didn't you people already give me a report? Is there some new problem?”

I explained that there was no new problem but that the report had not contained all that the doctors wanted to say. Mao put out his cigarette and asked me to give him the full report.

“The physicians believe that Comrade Jiang Qing really has no serious physical problems,” I began. “Her problem is psychological.” I handed him a statement to this effect, signed by the doctors who had examined her. Mao read it.

“The physicians think that Comrade Jiang Qing often substitutes her own opinion for reality,” I continued. “She changes her mind a lot. They think it would be best for her to have more social activities, more contact with other people. Maybe that would help.”

Mao was silent.

I continued. “I understand that when Marshal Lin Biao was ill, his doctors had a hard time getting him to listen. But when Premier Zhou asked him to follow doctors' orders, he listened. That helped with his treatment. The problem is that Comrade Jiang Qing does not listen to any of us. We just don't know what to do.”

Mao closed his eyes and lit another cigarette. He took a deep puff. “Jiang Qing does listen to the orders of the party,” he said slowly. I knew that when he spoke of the party, he was referring to himself. Mao said that his wife's thinking was often bourgeois but that we were seeing only one of her problems without seeing the other. “What really bothers her is that she is afraid that one day I might not want her anymore,” Mao said. “I've told her many times that it's not true and that she should stop worrying about it. Now, you tell the nurses that I do appreciate their service to Jiang Qing. I know she is not nice to them. Tell them they don't have to listen to her all the time. Sometimes they will just have to turn down her demands.”

“They wouldn't dare,” I said. “How can they reject her demands? If they refuse to do what she wants, they could be accused of being counterrevolutionary. They can't satisfy her even when they are doing their very best. She accuses them of working only for pay.”

Mao smiled. “I tell her often that a parent sick for a hundred days will have no filial sons. She's been in poor health for a long time. She ought to be a little more accommodating.”

“The nurses don't expect her to be accommodating. They just hope she won't criticize them all the time and that she'll stop making such impossible demands.”

“I think the worst of her disease is over,” Mao said. “Please thank both the nurses and the physicians for me.”

I told Mao the physicians hoped that he would not tell Jiang Qing what they had said.

Mao agreed. “No, I won't tell. I think Jiang Qing will listen to the words of the party. If you have any more problems with her, tell her directly, though—and tell me, too. Don't avoid talking to her, and don't talk to others about her behind our backs. That would be bad.”

“I've never said things behind your back,” I replied. “I'm telling you all this because I'm having such a hard time.” Talking to Deng Yingchao had been going behind Mao's back. But I could not admit that to him, and I had already come to regret my meeting with the premier's wife. I would never do it again.

Mao smiled. “Let's all just do what we have to do,” he said. Our conversation was finished.

I met with Shi Shuhan, Huang Shuze, and Cui Yitian—a vice-minister of public health—to report my conversation with Mao. They were worried, afraid of the repercussions on the doctors and the Central Bureau of Health if Jiang Qing should ever find out. They advised me not to talk with Mao about Jiang Qing again.

Afterward, I could tell that Mao had talked to Jiang Qing about her behavior toward the nurses. She made an effort to treat them better. Even so, several of them were dismissed that summer in Beidaihe. I began to suspect that Jiang Qing's problems with her nurses were not confined to her dissatisfaction with their service to her. I now realize she was also worried about Mao's attraction to the young women. Jiang Qing was in the habit of interviewing prospective nurses during the dancing parties, where she said the atmosphere was more relaxed. Mao was always there, too, and the young, innocent girls were always awed by the spectacle and overcome with admiration when they saw their great leader Chairman Mao. Once, Jiang Qing became upset when one of the young nurses stopped to shake Chairman Mao's hand, greeting him warmly, before delivering the medicine she had brought for Jiang Qing. I explained that it was only natural for a young nurse to behave so enthusiastically when meeting a man she so greatly admired.

Jiang Qing thought otherwise. “Doctor, you don't understand the Chairman,” she replied. “He is very loose with his love life. His physical pleasure and his mental activity are separate, and there are always women willing to be his prey. Don't you understand? You have to teach these young nurses something about morality. They should be courteous to their leader, but they should also be careful in their contact with him.”

Jiang Qing's comment puzzled me at the time. I was still ignorant then of Mao's sexual excesses and remembered the conversation in which he had mentioned both his wife's worries that he would leave her and his own assurances that he would not. I did not yet know that in some matters Jiang Qing saw reality more clearly than I. Mao's appetite for sex was enormous, and sex and love were separate.