Editor's Note: The following article was written by Dr. Mou Qiujie, a member of the China Medical Team supporting Barbados from Chongqing Hospital of Traditional Chinese Medicine. As the Spring Festival approaches—a time typically reserved for family reunion in China—we invited Dr. Mou to share his story of duty, distance, and the heartfelt words from his young son that have kept him going while serving far from home.
As the Spring Festival draws near, homes across China prepare for reunion. While warmth and celebration fill the air back home, here in Barbados—a Caribbean island nation thousands of miles away—members of the Chinese medical team remain at their clinical posts. As a volunteer doctor sent abroad, I carry with me the trust of my country and my hospital. It is a profound honor to serve here, safeguarding lives and fostering friendship between China and Barbados. Yet when night falls and the day’s work is done, my thoughts inevitably drift toward home. My four-year-old son is the most tender—and most aching—part of my heart.
Dr. Mou Qiujie provides services at a charitable medical event in Barbados. (Photo/Mou Qiujie)
Six sentences from my son—spoken as he grew from a toddler into a little boy—trace not only his understanding of the world, but also my own journey as both a doctor and a father. Each phrase brought me to tears. Each one helped me rediscover the meaning of perseverance across distance.
I have tucked away the memory of that goodbye like a photograph too painful to examine. My four-year-old clutched the hem of my coat, his small body trembling. His clear eyes were filled with unease and reluctance. Too young to understand words like “overseas medical aid” or “mission,” he simply looked up with quiet hope and asked:
“Daddy, you’ll be back tomorrow, right?”
That single sentence filled my eyes with tears. How I wanted to kneel down, hold him tightly, and tell him I would stay. But wearing this white coat, entrusted with this responsibility—when the country calls, a doctor must answer. I did not dare look back as I walked away, afraid that if I did, I would not be able to leave. In that moment, I understood deeply: this was my mission, but it was also my family’s sacrifice.
When I arrived in Barbados, the challenges exceeded my expectations. A different medical system. An unfamiliar climate. A new time zone. Demanding clinical work. Each day required patience and skill to relieve suffering and earn patients’ trust. The busyness masked exhaustion, but at night, when I opened my phone and saw my son’s photograph, whatever strength I had left quietly collapsed.
During our video calls, his small voice—carrying both grievance and hope—would ask again:
“Dad, will you be back in a few days?”
In his world, “a few days” was the longest wait imaginable. He did not know his father was more than ten thousand kilometers away. He did not know the separation would last not days, but more than a year.
I missed his morning greetings. His bedtime hugs. The first time he dressed himself. Fed himself. Stood up after a fall. As a father, I was absent from the precious moments of his growing up. On my side of the screen, swallowing tears, I could only say, “Soon. Soon,” while guilt quietly pressed against my heart.
Days passed in a blend of longing and commitment. My four-year-old grew through waiting. Then one day, he stopped asking about “tomorrow” or “a few days.” On screen, he lowered his head, clutching his clothes, and said in a tearful yet strangely steady voice:
“Mom said Dad won’t be back until next year.”
That was when I broke. Tears streamed down my face. A child only four years old, carrying such a long wait, such a quiet ache.
This year, my wife has carried our home alone—working by day, caring for our child at night, looking after our aging parents, managing the endless details of daily life. No matter how tired she is, she tells me only one thing: “Focus on your work. I’ve got everything here.”
My parents, though facing their own health challenges, urge me to stay committed to my mission. They never speak of their hardships.
While I serve abroad, my family bears the weight at home. Their sacrifice is visible. It is deeply felt. And it is beyond anything I can fully repay.
Dr. Mou Qiujie in discussion with local people during his service in Barbados. (Photo/Mou Qiujie)
On the clinical front in Barbados, I use acupuncture and compassion to ease patients’ pain. Every recovered smile, every sincere “Thank you!” fills me with pride as a Chinese doctor. But only I know what truly sustains me through tough times: the little figure waiting at home. The moment that overwhelmed me most came during a video call. My son suddenly straightened up, eyes shining, and declared proudly to the camera:
“My dad looks so handsome in his white coat with the national flag!”
He doesn’t yet understand foreign aid, national responsibility, or medical compassion. He just knows: Dad is far away, helping and healing people. Dad is a hero. That innocent praise meant more than any honor. In that moment, all weariness, hardship, and loneliness melted away. What brought fresh tears was how, in his longing, he quietly formed his own aspirations. Looking earnestly at me, he said with gravity:
“I want to be as great as you, Dad. You’re my idol.”
Then, lifting his innocent face with determined eyes, he added solemnly:
“When I grow up, I want to be a doctor and help people too!”
Hearing those words, I wept openly. I came thousands of miles to care for the sick abroad; my four-year-old, through missing me, has learned kindness, understood duty, and formed a dream. It turns out all my perseverance, absence, and dedication have blossomed into something beautiful in my child’s heart.
The Spring Festival is a time for family reunion. While other homes buzz with laughter and shared moments, I’m here in Barbados, only able to wish my family a happy new year through a screen. I cannot hand my parents a cup of tea, share my wife’s burdens, or help my son put up Spring Festival couplets, set off fireworks, or enjoy the reunion dinner. It’s a regret I may never fully remedy. Yet I have no regrets—because I know wearing this white coat means responsibility; setting aside my small family for a larger cause is a doctor’s mission. Many volunteer doctors like me are persisting the same way: hiding longing in our hearts, bearing duty on our shoulders.
My son’s six sentences—are hope, are waiting, are understanding, are pride, are aspiration, are legacy. They capture the moving growth of a four-year-old, testify to a doctor’s unwavering dedication, and carry the profound devotion of an entire family.
In the coming year, I will continue my work here in Barbados, striving to be worthy of my country, my hospital, my mission, and my family. I will extend warmth through acupuncture and uphold friendship through a healer’s compassion. A long road of service abroad, a lifetime bond to home and country. Once my mission is complete, I will rush home, hold my child tight, and make up for a year’s worth of longing, presence, and missed moments.
Happy Spring Festival, to my dearly missed family.
Happy Spring Festival, to my beloved homeland.