CHAPTER 122

2026-01-16

In Chapter 101, “Softhearted Good Deed - Kidney Stone No More (Written on November 4)”, I took credit for myself, believing that Lun’s kidney stones had been completely expelled from his body. It turned out to be wishful thinking. Today I accompanied him to Vancouver General Hospital, where laser treatment was used to break up the remaining 13-millimeter stone in his left kidney.

*(Original passage: On the evening of October 7 last year, after a hearty dinner, Lun developed lower abdominal pain. The most likely cause was the kidney expelling a stone. That evening, I asked him to drink a cup of water between each snack. He ended up drinking two large cups, plus two bowls of soup at dinner—four servings of fluids in total—to help flush out the stone.

As a father, I claimed credit: I successfully “bribed” Lun, regained his trust, and even helped expel the kidney stone—killing two birds with one stone. A good bargain!)*

Early Monday morning, the group home called to say that Lun needed a blood test before noon and asked whether I could accompany him there. After washing up, I rushed over. A staff member helped him complete the registration. Once they stepped out of the lab, Lun sat for a short rest on the outdoor chairs outside the neighboring café.

My beloved son is teachable. By now he is used to it. With accompaniment, the blood test and ECG went smoothly. When he sat in the blood-draw chair, he even smiled, rolled up his sleeve on his own, and sat quietly waiting. He only tilted his head back slightly and let out a small “uh” when the needle went in. The lab nurse was very pleased with his performance.

What Lun looked forward to most was that, once the serious business was done, he could immediately go to the café next door. Using his index finger through the glass display case, he would point out his chosen sandwich and soda, then sit down patiently to wait—happily eating and drinking—before returning to the group home with the staff. The whole process had become a kind of program.

Monday’s procedures were preparation for Friday’s surgery.

This morning (Friday), I went to the group home to meet him. When he saw me appear, he became nervous, sensing that some “serious business” was coming. I calmly told him, “Going to the hospital, kidney stones, OK, no problem.” We rode together; I sat beside him. He was very sleepy—after dozing off once, he settled down and remained quiet the entire journey.

We arrived at 11:30 a.m. First we checked in, helped him change clothes, completed detailed registration, and took X-rays. I accompanied him, though I wasn’t X-rayed myself. The radiology technician allowed me into the control room to see the images immediately and, at my request, pointed out where the kidney was. It turned out to be two blurry images of something—I couldn’t make out even a tiny stone.

Back outside the operating room, we waited about an hour before Lun underwent extracorporeal shock wave lithotripsy. To avoid making him overly anxious too early, I stayed with him after entering the operating room, and only then did the surgeon insert the IV line into the back of his left hand. Earlier, when he climbed onto the operating table, I noticed a thick transparent plastic sheet in the center of the bed, with a large metal circular plate underneath—big enough to hold a dozen people’s meals—with a central component that must generate force or emit waves to shatter the kidney stone.

Once everything was ready, I left the room. The procedure took longer than expected because Lun was too alert to fall asleep easily, so the anesthesia had to be increased. He also slept longer afterward. After waking, he rested quietly for an hour, changed clothes, and then we all left the hospital and returned to the group home, arriving just after sunset.

The surgery went smoothly. We hope that the 13-millimeter stone in his left kidney has been shattered and can finally be expelled, sparing him further suffering.

The staff said that with Dad accompanying him throughout, Lun performed excellently—far better than last time. A parent’s role is that of a lifelong caregiver (LLC), resting only when that day finally comes.