从我的经历到小洛熙事件：普通人在医疗体系里的无力感

作者：朱晓娜

看到宁波小洛熙的事情，我一直缓不过来。一个几个月大的孩子，就这样离开了。作为一个母亲，我看到这样的新闻，第一反应不是“事件本身有多复杂”，而是那种很直接的难受——如果换成是我的孩子，我该怎么办？

后来我一直在想，这类事情为什么总是会引发这么大的争议。也许并不仅仅是某一个医院的问题，而是很多普通人在面对医疗体系时，都会有一种说不出来的无力感。这种无力感，我自己也经历过。2021年，我怀孕37周，因为宫颈环扎需要拆线，到医院就诊。那段怀孕经历并不轻松，之前经历过两次流产，所以这个孩子对我来说非常重要，可以说是好不容易才保住的。

本来以为只是一次常规拆线，但到了医院后，医生告诉我需要立即进行剖腹产手术。说实话，当时我没有太多判断能力，也不懂医学。我唯一的感觉就是紧张，还有对孩子安全的担心。医生说要这样处理，我就只能接受。第二天，37周加1天，我做了剖腹产手术。

事情过去很多年了，但我偶尔还是会想：当时有没有其他选择？我是否真正理解了所有情况？如果我当时提出疑问，会不会得到更充分的解释？

这些问题，其实一直没有答案。因为在那样的场景下，患者和医生之间的信息差是很大的。医生掌握专业知识，也掌握判断依据，而患者往往只能依赖医生的解释。很多时候，不是不想问，而是不知道该怎么问，也不敢问。

我身边也有不少朋友有类似经历：签字很快、解释很简短、选择看起来也不多。大家更多是“相信医生”，而不是“做出选择”。这种信任当然是必要的，但当信息不对等变成常态时，很多人心里其实是没有底的。

所以看到小洛熙事件的时候，我才会特别有感触。一个家庭在失去孩子之后，最基本的诉求其实很简单——知道发生了什么。

但现实中，很多时候事情并不会那么直接。信息、流程、鉴定、沟通，每一步都可能变得很复杂。对于普通家庭来说，这些程序本身就已经是一种压力。我并不想简单地把问题归结为某个医生或者某一家医院，因为我相信大多数医护人员也是在自己的体系里工作。但我确实觉得，一个让普通人感到无力的系统，本身是值得被讨论的。

医疗本来应该是最需要信任的领域之一。但这种信任，应该建立在清晰的信息和充分的沟通上，而不是“只能相信”。一个社会是否尊重普通人，不只是看它能提供多先进的医疗条件，也要看一个普通人在遇到问题时，能不能被认真对待。

我写这些，不是想给出一个简单的结论，只是把自己的经历和感受放在这里。因为很多时候，真正让人不安的，不只是结果本身，而是过程里那些说不清、问不明、等不到的部分。如果信息足够透明，沟通足够充分，很多误解和恐惧其实是可以被提前化解的。可一旦普通人的疑问被轻轻带过，感受被匆匆忽略，再大的专业也很难真正安抚人心。

也许，医疗最珍贵的地方，不只是治病救人，更是在每一个脆弱的时刻，让人知道自己被看见、被解释、被认真对待。只有当信息透明、沟通充分成为常态，普通人才能真正拥有面对未知的底气!

编辑：黄吉洲      校对：程筱筱 翻译：沈美花

From My Own Experience to the Xiao Luoxi Event: The Helplessness of Ordinary People Within the Medical System

Author: Zhu Xiaona

Seeing what happened to Little Luoxi in Ningbo, I haven’t been able to shake off the heavy feeling. A baby just a few months old left this world just like that. As a mother, when I see this kind of news, my first reaction is not “how complex the event itself is,” but rather a very direct, visceral heartache—if this were my child, what would I do?

Later, I kept thinking about why these kinds of incidents always trigger such massive controversy. Perhaps it is not simply a problem with one specific hospital, but rather that many ordinary people experience an indescribable sense of helplessness when facing the medical system. I have experienced this kind of helplessness myself. In 2021, when I was 37 weeks pregnant, I went to the hospital to have the stitches removed from a cervical cerclage. That pregnancy experience was not easy; I had previously suffered two miscarriages, so this child was incredibly important to me—you could say I managed to keep the pregnancy against all odds.

I originally thought it was just a routine removal of stitches, but after arriving at the hospital, the doctor told me that I needed to undergo an immediate C-section. To be honest, at that moment, I didn’t have much capacity to judge, nor did I understand medicine. My only feelings were anxiety and fear for my child’s safety. The doctor said it had to be handled this way, so I could only accept it. The next day, at 37 weeks and 1 day, I underwent the C-section surgery.

Many years have passed since then, but occasionally I still wonder: Was there any other choice at that time? Did I truly understand the full situation? If I had raised questions back then, would I have received a more thorough explanation?

These questions, in fact, have never had answers. Because in that kind of setting, the information gap between the patient and the doctor is immense. Doctors possess professional knowledge and hold the basis for judgment, while patients often can only rely on the doctor’s explanation. Many times, it is not that you don’t want to ask, but that you don’t know how to ask, and you don’t dare to ask.

Many friends around me have had similar experiences: the signing of forms happens very quickly, explanations are very brief, and choices seem few and far between. Everyone mostly “trusts the doctor” rather than “makes a choice.” This trust is, of course, necessary, but when information asymmetry becomes the norm, many people actually feel completely uncertain in their hearts.

That is why I felt such a deep resonance when I saw the Xiao Luoxi event. The most fundamental demand of a family after losing a child is actually very simple—to know what happened.

Yet in reality, things are often not that straightforward. The information, the procedures, the medical malpractice appraisals, the communication—every single step can become highly complicated. For an ordinary family, navigating these procedures is a heavy burden in and of itself. I do not wish to simply reduce the problem down to a single doctor or a single hospital, because I believe most medical personnel are also just working within their own system. But I do feel that a system that makes ordinary people feel helpless is, inherently, something worth discussing.

Medicine is supposed to be one of the fields that requires trust the most. But this trust should be built upon clear information and sufficient communication, rather than “having no choice but to trust.” Whether a society respects ordinary people depends not just on how advanced the medical conditions it can provide are, but also on whether an ordinary person can be taken seriously when they encounter a problem.

I am writing this not to offer a simple conclusion, but merely to put my own experiences and feelings out there. Because many times, what truly causes anxiety is not just the outcome itself, but those parts of the process that cannot be clearly explained, cannot be fully questioned, and cannot be waited out.If information were transparent enough and communication were thorough enough, many misunderstandings and fears could actually be dissolved in advance. But once the doubts of ordinary people are casually brushed aside and their feelings are hurriedly ignored, no amount of professional expertise can truly comfort people’s hearts.

Perhaps the most precious aspect of medicine is not just curing sickness and saving lives, but more so, in every single moment of vulnerability, letting people know that they are seen, explained to, and taken seriously. Only when transparent information and thorough communication become the norm can ordinary people truly possess the confidence to face the unknown!

Editor: Huang Jizhou

Proofreader: Cheng Xiaoxiao

Translator: Shen Meihua