This is part 2 of my long and gruesome health story. In case you missed part 1, it is where I talk about the one event that triggered a cascade of other events, the heart attack I had in my thirties. We left off with the doctors in Turkey saying I needed open heart surgery. In this final piece, we have four main sections:

Part 1: After The Knife: The Gruesome Details of Waking Up Post-Op in Turkey.

Part 2: "The Recovery That Wasn't": Outpatient life, odd sensations and a collapsed graft in Moldova.

Part 3: Heart Repair in the Middle Kingdom: Transferring care, comparing hospitals, rehab experience, hope and progress in Shanghai (finally).

Part 4: Lessons from a Broken Heart: Wrapping it all up. If you are a lady, don't skip this part. Because of a comment from a reader on part 1, I learned that women experience heart attacks differently than men, and I share what I found.

Part 1: Waking Up After The Knife

First, the beeping. It wasn't loud. But it was an immediate reminder where I was waking up. Then came the sensations. I felt bloated. Inflamed everywhere.

My mouth was dry. Worse than dry. I needed water now. I'd never experienced being so desperately thirsty. I couldn't swallow. There was a tube in my throat that went deep inside of me. Do you know what that feels like? It feels like a violation.

My gag reflex fired – then came a sharp pain in my chest. I stopped instantly. Moaning was all I could manage, and even that was barely a whisper. But it was enough. The machines had already told the nurses I was awake.

They undid the tape around my mouth that fixed the tube in my mouth. They began to take it out. They said, "This won't feel good."

What surprised me, was not how it felt taking the tube out… but how freaking long it was. It wasn't a simple 1, 2, 3, you're done. It was an entire snake they took out.

That woke me up. My eyesight wasn't so blurry anymore. I wasn't wearing a shirt. I had a long bandage down my chest, and tubes coming out of my side abdomen, and out of my stomach. There was something in my groin. Painful. Uncomfortable. Another tube snaking its way down the side of the bed. The damn catheter. Forgot about that.

I whispered. Water. Please. Water. They gave me an ice cube.

That single ice cube was a moment of relief. Heavenly relief. It wasn't enough. I begged them for more. Literally. Begging. They said, "No, you can't have water, or any more ice right now. You'll throw up."

This is where the psychology of pain kicks in. Every single breath was a reminder that to do open heart surgery, they had to crack the ribs in my chest in order to open up my chest cavity. I had been torn open.

Every inhale, exhale, you feel pain. And so, I relaxed on my bed, because the idea of throwing up makes you think… "Maybe if I throw up, the reflex might make the stitches break, and my chest will burst open, and everything will spill out." Seriously. This is what you think. Everything you feel in those moments justifies such outlandish things.

But the thirst and dryness in my mouth were unbearable. I managed to convince another nurse (not the one who had told me "no") to give me some more ice. She did. I later threw up, and it was an uncontrollable projectile. They warned me. Now I'm warning you. Listen to the nurses.

The Next Few Days:

People imagine the pain of open-heart surgery as this chest-centered agony. And they're right – but not entirely.

Yes, your chest hurts. It's a soft, dull, ever-present ache that sharpens whenever your chest reflexes engage. God help you if you sneeze. Or vomit. (Learned that one the hard way.) But the real, god-awful pain? That came the first time they asked me to stand up.

I didn't know this before the operation – and I doubt most people do – but for bypass surgeries, doctors often have to harvest veins from other parts of your body. Sometimes it's your chest or arm. Other times, it's your leg. I had mentioned this as a joking aside to Dr Wei Meng, chief of internal medicine and chief of the cardiac Center while having a check up at Jiahui, and he was genuinely surprised.

"You mean, they didn't tell you that they would harvest veins from your arm or leg? It should be standard to tell a patient prior to surgery what to expect..."

Well, back to me, and the unexpected sensations. Lucky me. I had a 53-centimeter gash running up my right leg, starting just above the ankle, all the way to the inside of my thigh.

So there I was: Every breath hurting, ribs feeling like splinters, and now I had this Franken-leg stitched up like a football. And they wanted me to stand on this mutilation of a leg that I had.

Agony. You don't realize how many things involve your chest muscles until even typing a message on your phone feels like lifting a car. Holding a book? Painful. Breathing deeply? Torture. Just shifting in bed sent lightning through my torso.

There's no real escape from it. You feel every inch of what they did to you. And it forces you to one conclusion:

Don't have a heart attack.

Take care of your damn heart. You. Do. Not. Want. This.

Public Hospitals Overseas

Now – let's talk about being in a public hospital overseas. And I want to caveat that this was my experience, in one hospital, so please don't think I'm making a hasty generalization. This part of my story will just provide contrast to experiences I later had in Eastern Europe, and then here in Shanghai. You'll see.

I was in Turkey, at a government hospital. And to be clear: It wasn't bad. It was functional. Life-saving. But if you're a traveler, a foreigner – this is important: There are big differences across borders.

Language Matters

Most of the nurses and doctors didn't speak English. I was lucky to have one doctor with some English, and even luckier to have a friend who could help translate. But my friend wasn't a medical expert. So a lot was lost in translation. A lot. I barely understood what was going on, and this was before ChatGPT could translate like a genius.

Care and Comfort? Hit or Miss.

Most of the staff were kind. Compassionate. They did their best.

But not all.

One of the most miserable nights of my life happened in the cardiac ICU. It was my second night there, fresh out of anesthesia, body riddled with tubes in Godforsaken places, pain and exhaustion.

Then a night shift nurse came in.

And for her, apparently, midnight was time to party. Loud conversations. Clanging equipment. If there were pots and pans, she would have been banging them. She chopped vegetables for her lunch and washed out her Tupperware with the faucet running full blast.

Now imagine this: You've been cracked open, your chest wired back together, your leg carved up, and you are desperately trying to sleep in the dim light of the ICU. And she's treating it like a prep kitchen before Gordon Ramsay arrives. This went on from midnight until noon. No exaggeration.

I wanted to scream. But I didn't. I gave her the benefit of the doubt. I kept hoping she'd realize where she was – and let us have a moment of peace.

For contrast, I've had surgery in Shanghai's public hospitals before. That level of disregard? Never. There's a shared understanding in the air that patients deserve rest. You might not get that elsewhere.

Out of the ICU

Once you're sort of mobile, they transfer you out of the ICU into a recovery ward.

This Turkish hospital did 40 to 60 open heart surgeries a month, so this wing was full. A sea of bandaged chests and slow shuffling. I was the only one under 60 – maybe 70 – except for one girl who looked even younger than me. That was surreal, and the poor girl was not having a good time.

And that's where you face the next demon.

The Cough

After surgery, your throat is torn up from that tube they jammed down there. Your esophagus is inflamed. You're coughing up phlegm – or trying to.

You're told: Don't swallow it. Cough it up.

But all you can think is: If I cough too hard, will my stitches burst? Will my chest come apart like a zipper?

So you baby cough. Little kitten huffs.

But they don't let you off the hook. The nurses – or a loved one – coach you through full coughs, deep breaths and hocking exercises while slapping your back. It hurts. But you have to do it. Not clearing your lungs leads to pneumonia, and that is a whole other nightmare.

Be Mindful of Your Mind

There's something else people don't talk about enough: the mental toll.

You feel wrecked. Physically annihilated. And in that state, your thoughts go to some very dark places.

"I'll never be the same."

"This is it. I'm a burden now."

"Maybe it should just end."

And if you're recovering in a place where you don't fully speak the language, that darkness grows heavier.

You can't ask the questions you want to ask:

"Is this normal?"

"Is this pain expected?"

"Did something go wrong?"

You doubt everything. You imagine the worst. And it's isolating. Especially if you are the type of person that become still and quiet in dark moments. It is nice having a partner who can see this and knows when to say "hey… Jacob (snap snap), where are you flying? Come back here!"

In China, especially in Shanghai, the communication was different. Clear. Reassuring. Even on a recent visit to the Dapuqiao Community Health Clinic near my house. Yes, they couldn't speak English, but they took the time to explain everything to me using their phone translators. But in Turkey? I was mostly left to guess. And hope.

Part 2: The Recovery That Wasn't

Before I knew it, three months had passed. I was out of the hospital, back in the real world. I was going to the gym again. Biking along the Antalya bay. Living a version of normal. There was still pain, yeah – in my chest, in my leg – but by now I'd started to accept that healing takes time.

The body is miraculous that way. You begin to believe you're out of the woods.

But something wasn't sitting right.

On colder days, I started to feel chest pain when exercising. Sometimes it would creep into my left arm – numbness, tingling. Not every time. Not immediately. But it was happening.

It was... familiar. Not exactly like a heart attack, but enough to make me pause. When I described the symptoms to my doctor during follow-ups in Turkey, he said it was likely just vasoconstriction – blood vessels narrowing in response to the cold. Sounded reasonable. And whenever I rested, the pain went away.

But here's the thing: Sometimes the body whispers before it screams. I didn't realize it yet, but this was the beginning of something bigger.

Moldova and the Hill That Broke Me

Life had brought me to Moldova. If you've never been to its capital, Chișinău, it's a city built on hills. Beautiful, but brutal on the legs and lungs.The apartment I was staying at required a short uphill climb to reach the commercial area nearby. That hill became a test – and eventually, a warning.

Despite all my lifestyle changes, despite the exercise, diet and recovery efforts, I could barely make it up that hill without stopping. Old women – babushkas – would pass me with ease carrying bags of groceries.

Then one day, the chest pain hit hard. Worse than before. I had a headache, and every heartbeat felt like a pulse throbbing in my head... that kind of headache. Fatigue swept over me like a wave. "Oleg, Lexa... I need to sit down."

Something was very wrong.

I walked across the street to a pharmacy, described my symptoms, and had my blood pressure checked. It was high. They gave me meds, and they helped – for a bit. But I knew that wasn't enough. I needed real answers.

Right Place, Right Time

Here's where fate intervened: The apartment I was staying at was directly across from Chișinău's largest international hospital.

It wasn't massive like the ones in Shanghai. But it was clean. Quiet. Organized. And, crucially, the staff spoke English. After the chaos and communication gaps in Turkey, that already felt like luxury.

I saw a cardiologist. He happened to be Turkish, so he could read all of my previous medical records. That was a relief. But when I explained what I was feeling, his face changed. He ordered tests – first a contrast CT scan, then an angiogram.

And that's when we found it.

Critical Stenosis and a Missing Graft

Three of my main arteries showed critical stenosis – a fancy term for dangerously narrowed arteries. This is what had been causing the angina (chest pain). It wasn't just cold weather sensitivity. It was blocked blood flow.

Even more concerning, one of the bypass grafts from my original surgery – just... wasn't there.

The doctors couldn't find it. It was supposed to be there, a vein grafted in to reroute blood around the blockage. But it was either occluded, dislodged or never properly connected in the first place. This was confirmed a second time later in Shanghai, when Dr Wei had done an angiogram, and said as well, "We can't find the fourth graft."

It was clear I needed more stents, at least three. Two of the blockages were complicated and would require two surgeons working simultaneously. But the first one could be done right away.

Angioplasty: Round Two

If you've ever had an angiogram or an angioplasty, you'll know the sensation – it's like aliens poking around in your heart. There's pressure, some heat when they inject the contrast dye, and then... there's the balloon.

To place the stent, they inflate a tiny balloon inside your artery, which temporarily blocks blood flow – it basically feels like your having a heart attack. I was awake the whole time. The doctors communicated throughout, keeping me calm, letting me know when they were inflating the balloon, how long it would last, and what they were seeing.

It helped. After living through an actual heart attack, those sensations can trigger panic. But when the doctors are present – really present – it keeps you grounded.

When it was over, I felt the difference almost immediately. The chest pain lessened. My arm stopped going numb. The relief was real.

But we still had two more stents to go. And something about this whole situation – the failed graft, the recurring symptoms, the zigzag across countries – told me I needed to transfer my care back home.

And for me, home was Shanghai.

What Happened to the Graft?

It wasn't until I was back in China, at Jiahui, that I got a real answer.

I asked Dr Wei Meng, "Is it normal for a graft to fail that quickly? I thought these things were supposed to last years."

He looked at my timeline – the pain had started about two months after the surgery – and gave me a pointed answer:

"It's not common. Early graft failure, within two to six months, is often due to surgical technique. Yes, skill matters. Other contributing factors could include not strictly adhering to post-op medication. Especially the ones that prevent something called intimal hyperplasia – when the body over-heals and narrows the vessel from the inside out."

So basically? Either something went wrong in the original surgery, or my meds weren't right, or both.

Either way, I was lucky to catch it when I did. If I hadn't gone to Moldova... if I'd ignored the hill... things could've ended very differently.

PART 3: Heart Repair in the Middle Kingdom

After everything – the open heart surgery in Turkey, the mysterious chest pain, the unexpected angioplasty in Moldova – I knew one thing: I couldn't keep getting critical procedures done in places where I didn't live.

It wasn't sustainable. I needed consistency. I needed a team. I needed to bring my care back "home" – and for me, that was Shanghai.

I reached out to a few hospitals. Jiahui offered a complimentary telehealth consultation to get things started while I was overseas – no pressure, no hard sell, just an interest in understanding what was going on with me. They reviewed my files from Moldova, listened to my story, and started connecting the dots. And when I said I wanted to write about my experiences, they said "sure" in a way that exuded such confidence, that it was in contrast to some others who were hesitant (understandably, most institutions won't want publicity until after a successful case study).

That conversation turned into a plan. And that plan turned into something I hadn't really experienced up to that point: A coordinated approach to care.

Jiahui was proactive in wanting to help me transfer my care to Shanghai.

The rest of this piece might sound like an advertorial, but it's not. I'm writing sincerely from a place of regret, where, through my own preconceptions about China, where I totally ignored my health while here in Shanghai, skipping health check-ups, etc. So in a way, yes, I am being promotional. I want people to know that Shanghai really is a stand-out place to get healthcare. So if you're new to Shanghai, this is for you. What you thought about China and healthcare might not be entirely up to speed.

I've got a lot more to say here, mostly because the communication and experience have been so deep and substantive. My earliest experiences with healthcare in China go back to 2008 and 2012. It wasn't bad – but it also wasn't what it is today.

If China's EV sector can explode in three years, imagine what's happened in healthcare over the past decade. Even within the public hospital system, the transformation in Shanghai has been remarkable.

When Jiahui opened in 2016, it didn't make a huge splash right away. It wasn't until 2017 or 2018 that they really began to articulate their vision – American-inspired, personalized healthcare adapted to China's modern medical strengths.

I know this firsthand. Back then, I was a commercial director at another major English-language media company, with direct insight into industry-wide marketing strategy, media buying and budget allocation – healthcare included.

A System That Talks to Itself

The Jiahui system felt... different. Modern. Integrated. American-style personalization adapted to China's pace and precision. Suddenly, I wasn't just seeing a cardiologist. I was being referred to:

• A nutritionist

• An endocrinologist

• A secondary cardiology specialist for a stress test

• A rehab therapist

It was the first time someone actually tried to understand all of me, not just my heart, but the context around it. Blood markers. Hormonal imbalances. Nutritional gaps. Lifestyle patterns. Oh, and there is the technology too. I won't go into details, but the app makes a huge difference, appointments, medical records and prescriptions.

Beginning with the Cardiologists

My first in-person consultation was with Dr Wei Meng, who I had mentioned earlier in part one. He is the chief of internal medicine and chief of the cardiac center. He's famous. I've seen him on TV! Behind him sits a PhD from an American University and another from Germany. The first meeting was reviewing all of my documents that I had brought from Turkey and Moldova (translated) and sharing my previous angiograms. He laid it all out. "The doctors in Moldova prescribed the appropriate treatments. It does look like you will need further treatment, but we should have our own test results to see your current condition."

By my second consultation with Dr Fei Minzhong, an associate chief cardiologist, joined because the nature of my next stent procedure would be slightly more complicated, and would require two sets of hands. They laid out the next steps before the stent procedure. I needed to see a nutritionist to lock down diet changes, and I needed to see an endocrinologist to look at some of my blood markers. Here are some tidbits.

I had these two cardiologists explaining everything about my condition, after they had seen my angiograms from Moldova. They then proceeded to refer me to a nutritionist, to an endocrinologist to look at how some of my blood markers might be impacting my cardio health, and to another cardio specialist to take me through a cardio stress test. This was… the first time I experienced going through a wide spectrum of health professionals, painting a more holistic picture of different parts of my body and how they work as a whole.

The Nutritionist & The Nausea

By the time I met Helen Tao (Jiahui's chief nutritionist), I had already done a deep dive on heart-friendly diets back in Turkey. I knew what I should be eating. But I didn't realize how medication changes could interact with those choices.

Her advice – small adjustments, nothing extreme – helped reduce the side effects I'd been battling for months: nausea, vomiting, fatigue. The body's healing, but if what you're putting into it doesn't match your chemistry? It's an uphill climb.

The Weight Gain No One Warned Me About... Gah... Again!

Another surprise: the weight gain.

But… no. I had gained 10 kilograms in three months. Not from bingeing Moldovan desserts (so good, tho). Not from inactivity (I was walking more than 10k steps/day). It was one of the medications I'd been prescribed in Moldova. When my bloodwork came back, it showed elevated triglycerides and signs of insulin resistance – pre-diabetes, basically.

That's when I met Dr Pang Can, who prescribed a GLP-1 medication – part of a newer class of drugs that help with weight control, insulin sensitivity and even cardio health. It wasn't a quick fix. It was a long-term course correction. These types of meds are very unusual. But that is an entirely different article.

The Stent Procedure at Jiahui

Both Dr Wei and Dr Fei performed together the angioplasty procedure. As they were performing the procedure, they were keeping me updated with the progress, and specific actions taking place, so all the sensations I felt weren't out of place. It went without a hitch.

Interestingly, Dr Wei had made the decision not to place stents in my vessels but instead opted for drug eluding balloons (these are balloons coated with medication, that when inflated, they dilate the blood vessel and coat the outter later of the vessel with a medication that helps keep the blood vessel open). I had asked why, when in Moldova the prescribed treatment was to put in stents. Dr Wei had said that the vessel being treated was a smaller one that wouldn't have benefitted from a stent which it had previously and closed before. Since I had responded well to the stent previously, balloons instead were opted for.

The procedure was done in about an hour and a half, and I went back to a private recovery room to stay over night for observation. For those wondering, the in-patient rooms at private hospitals like Jiahui are more like hotels, nicely styled, comfortable sofa beds, big screen TV, etc. Pretty nice.

Cardiac Rehab Done Right

Beyond the smooth procedure of the angioplasty, what stood out was: rehab. And if you ever have heart issues, you will want a place that will do cardio rehab, because both Turkey and Moldova didn't have this.

After the stent, Dr Wei told me, "We're not done yet. Now we begin recovery."

In Turkey, rehab meant: "Come back in three months, for a one-hour wait, for a 15-minute conversation." In Moldova: a one-month check-in, substantive conversation and medication adjustments.

In Shanghai? It was a program. Supervised. Measured. Gentle – but relentless in its consistency.

Led by the soft-spoken and endlessly patient Dr Li Yaoyao, the sessions were designed with intention. They weren't about pushing your limits. They were about rebuilding from ground zero – the right way.

Rehab Wasn't What I Expected

Here's what a typical session looked like:

1. Light Resistance Training

Strength training... for your heart. It sounded counterintuitive at first, but Dr Li explained: Regular resistance training helps your heart pump more efficiently. Over time, that reduces blood pressure and eases the workload.

We did:

• Wall push-ups
  
• Lunges
  
• Leg raises
  
• Chair squats
  
• Balance drills (like standing on one foot)
  
• And other stuff!

Just one to two sets, 8-12 reps. Simple movements – but when your chest feels like it's still held together by wire, it's enough.

2. Monitored Cardio Cycling

You're hooked up to monitors while cycling at a controlled pace. It's not about speed – it's about hitting your heart rate targets. The tech tracks everything. And Dr Li is there, watching your stats, ready to tweak things based on how you're responding.

Quick tip: Sleep well the night before. Have a light meal before the session (you won't feel good after steak & eggs). Give yourself two hours after meals.

3. External Counter Pulsation (ECP) Therapy

This was my favorite – and the weirdest – part of rehab.

You lie down while giant cuffs on your legs inflate and deflate in sync with your heartbeat. It sounds sci-fi, but it boosts blood flow to the heart and helps open up small collateral vessels. It's non-invasive and helps promote something called angiogenesis – the creation of new blood vessels.

In my case, it was particularly useful. Some of my arteries were too narrow to stent. This therapy helped build alternative pathways for blood flow.

Bonus tip for guys: Loose pants. You'll thank me.

The Body Starts to Speak Differently

After 10 sessions, something shifted.

My chest pain started to disappear. My endurance improved. Most telling of all? Early on, I had arrhythmias – irregular heartbeats – when I hit high heart rates. By midway through rehab, those had vanished.

It wasn't magic. It was structured care, consistent monitoring, and a team that gave a damn.

And the difference? Night and day.

Part 4: Lessons From a Broken Heart

By the time I finished cardiac rehab in Shanghai, I felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Not relief. Not closure.

Clarity.

I could finally see the whole picture – the surgery in Turkey, the mystery symptoms, the near-miss in Moldova, the unexpected reset in China. Every country, every hospital, every doctor and nurse – they were all pages in this ridiculous, painful, surreal chapter of my life. But now… I was reading it back with the lights on.

And if there's one thing I've learned, it's that healing isn't linear. It doesn't follow logic or geography. It shows up when it's ready. And only if you're paying attention.

So Here's What I Know Now – And What You Might Want to Know Too

1. You're Not Crazy for Feeling Crazy

Nobody tells you how much darkness comes with recovery. Nobody warns you that your thoughts will start turning on you – that you'll hear yourself thinking things like "I'll never be normal again" or "I don't want to be a burden."

It's not weakness. It's the aftermath.

Your body goes through trauma. And your mind? It lags behind. Don't ignore that part. Don't assume it'll just pass. Talk to someone. Talk to anyone. You're not broken. You're just in process and on a journey.

2. Good Healthcare Isn't Just About Skill – Communication is Huge

Turkey saved my life. Moldova gave me the diagnosis. But it was Shanghai where I finally understood what was happening to me. And that mattered.

It's not enough to just survive the procedure. You need someone to look you in the eye and walk you through it. Slowly. Patiently. Repeatedly, if needed.

Because when you're scared – when you're dealing with heart surgery, stents, collapsed arteries – the language barrier becomes more way than inconvenient. It becomes existential.

You start doubting everything.

Did they do it right? Should it feel like this? Am I worse off than I know?

Clarity is medicine. Never forget that.

3. You Don't Bounce Back – You Crawl Forward

There's this lie we tell ourselves. That one day, we'll just "get back to normal." That after the surgery or the stents, or the hospital bed, we'll wake up and feel like our old selves.

That's not how this works.

You crawl. You walk. You bike (slowly). You rehab. And then one day, you're laughing with a friend and realize you haven't thought about your chest in hours. And that's your milestone. That's your win.

It doesn't come in a dramatic moment. It comes quietly. Like peace sneaking in through a side door. But you do have to do your part. You can't skip your meds. You can't hold back on details with your doctor. You can't skip check-ups. You have to eat right, and you really need regular physical activity.

4. There's No Such Thing as Overreacting to Chest Pain

Ever.

Just go. Every time. Go. Even if you think it's acid reflux. Even if you think it's stress. Even if it's just a "weird tightness" when you breathe.

Go.

I'm still here because I did. You will never regret overreacting to a heart symptom.

5. Heart Attacks Manifest Themselves Differently For Women

This point was inspired by someone who had responded to part one of this article. A lady had said something to the effect of "great article, but just a small note that heart attacks manifest differently for women." I had no idea about this, so I did some research, and it's true. I asked Dr Wei about this, and he said that women's experience tend to show symptoms such as:

• Shortness of breath (often without chest pain)
  
• Extreme fatigue (sudden or for days before the attack)
  
• Nausea or vomiting
  
• Lightheadedness or dizziness
  
• Pain in the jaw, neck, shoulder, upper back or abdomen
  
• Chest discomfort rather than sharp pain (often described as pressure, tightness or fullness)
  

"Women are more likely to dismiss symptoms as stress, the flu or indigestion, which, if this leads to delay in care increases the risk of complications or death." – Dr Wei

Final Thoughts... Two of Them

First – many of you reading this probably have healthy hearts. No symptoms. No scares. You're doing fine.

But maybe your dad had a heart attack. Or a friend. Or an aunt. Or someone you knew from high school, or college. And maybe – God forbid – it happens to someone close to you tomorrow.

If that ever happens, now you'll know. Not everything. But enough. Enough to understand what they might be feeling. Enough to help them navigate the fog. Enough to see the warning signs before things go too far. Send this to someone, who needs to listen to their body. It could make all the difference.

Second – and this is for the ones who might one day face what I did.

The road back isn't straight. Or fast. Or fair.

You don't get "fixed." You don't "bounce back." You rebuild – slowly, awkwardly, yes, sometimes painfully.

You collect little fragments of progress. Tiny gains. You wake up and don't dread the walk to the bathroom. You carry your own bag again. You sleep through the night. You go a full day without thinking about your mortality.

And then one day – maybe months later – you find yourself biking by the water. Your leg still aches. Your chest feels tight. But you're out there. The wind hits your face. And for a moment, you remember: You're still here. Living. Moving forward with more life to live.

Post-Script

We all need to listen to our bodies. In a city like Shanghai, we are overwhelmed with external stimulus, to the point where we often ignore or overlook the internal stimulus. Have you had symptoms or signals from your body, that turned into health lessons learned the hard way? Share your thoughts and experiences, we'd love to hear from you.