By Anastacia Barbie Chu

“Amidst the pandemonium of my invasive thoughts and rumination of my corporeal existence, the universe had given me a message — find order within yourself.”

“Purge the yin out. Allow the heat to take over. Burn.”


“Cover your neck! You’re allowing the cold inside your body!” became my mother’s mantra throughout our winter trip to China.

Each time, I pursed my lips and begrudgingly zipped my coat all the way up as beads of sweat threatened to form on my forehead. The heat from my body and the heavy fabric always made me feel like a human radiator, so I didn’t understand why my mother insisted that I did not wear enough clothes. Yet as we ventured into the small eateries around my mother’s hometown, I could only cough when I gave my order, and nausea overwhelmed my stomach each time our dishes came to the table. I tried to wait my ailment out, but it only intensified, tormenting my lungs and depriving my ability to smell.

With our fears of my symptoms worsening, my mother and I went to the zhong yi, a doctor who practices traditional Chinese medicine.

Holding my wrist to take my pulse, the zhong yi jotted down Chinese characters I couldn’t read. My leg couldn’t stop shaking. The doctor had just prescribed me the herbal medicines I was supposed to take, and now he was prescribing my fate.

“When’s your birthday?”

“August 19, 2005.”

“Ah, so you’re a wood rooster.”

The scratching of his pencil filled the silence as my mother and I watched his assistant pour us tea. I traced the rim of the steaming cup despite its heat so my nervous hands did not lay idle. Finally, the zhong yi put his hand down.

“You are someone who has erratic emotions, and you must learn to keep them in check. You are also someone who is quite impulsive, so driving can be a real danger for you.”He paused. “Beware, between the ages of 28-31, pay more attention. Something major will happen. If you overcome it, your life will be peaceful. You are very moved by your feelings, so try and not do anything too impulsive during those years.”

His assistant laughed, “Don’t leave the house for a few years and you should be okay!”

I waited for him to tell me what would happen if I didn’t overcome my “major challenge,” but he never did.

I mustered some awkward laughs, and my chest swelled with fear. While I didn’t completely understand the zhong yi’s thick Chinese dialect, I did understand that something dire taunted my future. The only part of my fate that I could focus on was something he never even explicitly shared, yet continuously insinuated: the danger of death.

In the weeks leading up to my trip, I constantly contemplated my future. Each day, I pondered and pondered, but on the flight to China, it finally all made sense. Full of relief and clarity, I hastily wrote down my ten-year-plan. My older cousins flinched when I shared my goals, telling me that I was young and had time, so why rush? I grinned in response knowing that while it might have seemed too early for me to know what I wanted to do in life, I was excited to realize my dreams.

Yet after hearing my fate, those dreams seemed much less tangible. The game of life was once my favorite board game, full of multiple chances and choices. These elements unfortunately did not translate to the real game of life. The ten-year plan was now a ten-year deadline. Was that what the zhong yi was suggesting? Could the game be done after my 20s?

In Chinese culture, the number four is si, like a snake’s cautionary hiss. The phonetics for death are also si. As such, four is an unlikely number signifying death. So when I saw 444 on a motorcycle’s license plate a week after our visit to the zhong yi, I grimaced. Was this truly my fate? My father’s mother had passed at ninety-nine, and my mother’s mother still skillfully wielded iron knives at ninety-two. I always assumed that I would inherit their longevity.

After seeing the zhong yi, my family subjected me to a strict regimen of traditional medicinal practices.  Every evening, I shuffled into my grandmother’s living room, and a wooden tub of hot water with billowing steam awaited me. I begged to wait until the herbal concoction cooled to put my feet in, but my grandmother did not relent to my pleas. As tears of pain fought to stay within my eyes, my aunt would place the rounded tip of her gua sha into my neck, slowly dragging the jade down to my shoulder blades, tracing lines of red from my bursting capillaries.

The gua sha’s movements became a dance routine upon my skin: Push and pull. Push and pull. Move my qi around until my skin is pigmented in purple and maroon. Bruise me so that I can heal.

Purge the yin out. Allow the heat to take over. Burn.

Every time I received my treatments, I grumbled and squirmed. All I could focus on was my numb mind inside my feeling body.

“Don’t you want to get better? It feels like everyone but you is trying to help you get healthier again!” my mother shouted two nights before our departure back home.

I blinked angrily. This wasn’t true. I had been terrorizing my skin with excruciatingly hot herbal bath water, at the mercy of my family’s medicinal practices for weeks. I allowed them to do with my body as they desired.

But as I tried to think of a retort, my mouth simply hung in suspension. I shut my mouth and pouted in silence. My mother shook her head as she called to make an emergency appointment.

The next day, we went to the incense house for reinforced recovery methods.

The scent of sweet, ambrosial honey wafted into my nose as incense smoke drifted around me. As the fragrant cloud enveloped my body and spirit, my mind cleared and my limbs loosened. With each inhale, I slowly dragged the scented air into my nose. Feeling the flow of oxygen travel into my lungs, filling them up, my chest gradually swelled outwards. Slightly parting my lips, I blew out into the space in front of me, allowing for the melange of both my breath and the remnants of the burning incense to escape. I succumbed to the aromas and focused on identifying the natural elements that were inside the golden spheres of incense.

Exhaling, I released my energy into the room. Tranquility seeped into my body, quieting my  racing thoughts. The smell of honey overpowered my senses. I never knew incense to be so remedial. Not only did my internal obstructions clear, but so did my frame of mind.

444 was not a death sentence; rather, it was a revelation. It was the number for reclaiming control in chaotic times. Amidst the pandemonium of my invasive thoughts and rumination of my corporeal existence, the universe had given me a message: “find order within yourself.”

Daoists believe in the power of opposing elements: Yin and Yang, night and day, cold and warmth. In order to maintain balance, one must possess polarity. These forces are complementary because they are essential for existence. Yet with too much of one element, chaos ensues.

Overwhelmed by an excess of Yin, the element of Cold, my body became  a reflection of my physical disharmony, spiritual imbalance and mental chaos. I had surrendered myself, allowing others to dictate and control my body. While the treatments were effective, my inner self had not yet developed a desire to mend. True healing required a genuine personal want to recover — not just to appease my mother.

While I might suffer in the future, I didn’t have to wait my entire life for my final moment, withering away in wait. I didn’t want to continue enduring. Instead of languishing in the pain, I gained a desire to relish in my healing.

Release the Yin. Restore the Yang. Find a balance, and live. ■