Recommended Phrases
Just like communicating with AI, the more concise and clear your questions are, the better your doctor’s answers will be.
Original Text
Transcoded by Jianyue SimpRead; original source: mp.weixin.qq.com
I’ve never been a clickbait headline writer—right?
I said this 7,000-word article could elevate the mindset of most cancer patients?
Will you read it all the way to the end?
What you’ll find here is original, reflective thinking—available only from me.
By / Captain
Being diagnosed with cancer is, at its core, like suddenly facing an unanticipated, high-stakes life exam. You’re forcibly ushered into a sealed examination hall—with no exit, only one option: answer every question and submit your paper to fate.
I’ve long been preparing my book on “Cancer Strategy Theory,” grounded in the “Way of Heaven”—i.e., the deep biological logic governing tumor microenvironments, immune evasion mechanisms, and genetic mutations—the experiential insights about survival-level strategic engagement with cancer cells.
But I cannot share that on social media.
First, it’s too technical; non-specialist patients would find it dull. Second, such content risks being flagged by platforms as unauthorized medical科普 (science communication)—a violation that kills traffic. And as a creator, I rely on traffic for survival.
Still, setting aside the “Way of Heaven” (biology), we can discuss the “Way of Humanity.”
This “human” dimension of strategic cognition is something I can write about—and precisely what the vast majority of patients most critically lack when confronting life-or-death stakes. So if you’ve ever attended elementary school—or completed China’s nine-year compulsory education—you’ll understand everything I’m about to explain.
This article will be long. Please stay patient. You and I are facing nothing less than a life-or-death exam.
Let’s first recall: back in school, when you received your final exam paper, which question type stressed you out most?
Fill-in-the-blank? Multiple choice? Or the final essay/discussion questions?
It was definitely those last few high-point-value discussion/essay questions—the ones requiring you to organize your own language, dissect complex problems step-by-step, and reason through conclusions—right?
In contrast, fill-in-the-blank questions were far more forgiving. As long as you’d maintained a reasonably broad reading habit—or even just crammed right before the exam—you’d likely handle them fine.
Multiple-choice questions were even simpler. As long as you hadn’t slept through every class this semester—and as long as you retained basic common sense and discernment—you could often eliminate obviously wrong options (A/B/C/D) and pick the most plausible correct answer—even without full understanding.
Cancer, as a “life exam,” actually unfolds in two halves.
The first half is heaven’s exam paper—and you’re the test-taker. What’s being tested? Your foundational cognitive framework.
The moment you receive your diagnosis—or even earlier, when your body first sends warning signals—your brain instantly faces a multiple-choice question.
For example: persistent abdominal discomfort, continuous rectal bleeding, pain, and irregular bowel movements—lasting two or three months. Fate presents four options:
A. “Normal aging—my body’s just wearing down. I’ll tough it out.”
B. “Find a folk ‘miracle healer’ deep in the mountains, get a pulse diagnosis, and drink mysterious herbal decoctions.”
C. “Buy Yunnan Baiyao at the pharmacy and combine it with online ‘folk remedies’—daily moxibustion and cupping.”
D. “Go straight to a reputable Grade-A tertiary hospital’s gastroenterology department and get a gastroscopy/colonoscopy to check whether anything malignant has grown inside my intestines.”
Which do you choose?
Seems simple, right? Yet in reality, many people do choose A, B, or C—delaying care until late-stage disease, then bitterly regretting it.
Why? Because their cognitive frameworks lack reverence for science, logic, and dialectics. Their minds are saturated with myths, folklore, and blind faith in “shortcuts.”
Thus, Sartre wrote: humans are beings whose “existence precedes essence.”
Then consider Heidegger’s view: humans are “thrown” into this world.
Hence Camus declared: this world is, quite frankly, absurd.
So when misfortune strikes, there is no retreat.
You can only define who you are—and alter your odds of survival—through repeated choices.
Just like how I persistently write practical, valuable content despite zero algorithmic promotion on Day 6.
Back to our topic: If you regularly read authoritative clinical guidelines and consult peer-reviewed literature when encountering unfamiliar concepts, you’re effectively “cramming” before the exam—practicing past papers. The more consistently you do this, the clearer your cognition becomes, the lower your risk of pretending to understand, and the higher your “fill-in-the-blank” score climbs.
Are multiple-choice questions difficult? It depends entirely on the cognitive framework you’ve built over your lifetime.
But that isn’t my main point today. What truly determines how long and how well you’ll live through this illness is your strategic engagement with your doctors.
The moment you walk through the hospital gates, the rules of the game change completely.
At this stage, diagnosis, treatment, and therapeutic planning—decisions that literally determine life and death—are no longer yours to make. They belong to your doctors.
Here, roles reverse: you shift from test-taker to exam-setter. Your doctor becomes the one being evaluated.
So how do you help your doctor craft a passing—or even outstanding—answer to your life’s exam?
You must grasp a harsh yet objective fundamental truth:
Doctors are extremely resistant—and simply lack the time and energy—to properly address your “essay/discussion questions.”
There’s only one root cause: busyness.
Visit an oncology outpatient clinic at a top-tier Grade-A hospital and you’ll see: crowds surging, air thick with antiseptic and anxious sweat. A top chief physician sees dozens of patients in a single morning—your allotted time? Five to eight minutes, tops.
Solving a complex, open-ended discussion question within that window requires what?
It demands meticulous review of your complete medical history—and deep, dialectical analysis of each treatment option’s pros and cons. Beyond that, it requires subjective judgment constrained by objective realities: assessing your financial capacity (e.g., can you afford imported targeted/immunotherapy/ADC drugs?), your health insurance coverage, your age and tolerance for chronic comorbidities. Even your personality—and that of your family—matters: Will you be difficult to communicate with? Might you escalate disputes if outcomes disappoint?
He must solve dozens of such high-difficulty, high-intensity “essay questions” daily. He’s human—not superhuman. His cognitive bandwidth is finite; his mental energy is already depleted.
(Like how, right now, I can only personally support ~80 patients in my private community—because I also need to write articles to earn money, repay debts, and support my family. So, to clarify: my community is genuinely not open for new members at this time. Accepting payment without delivering meaningful support would be tantamount to fraud.)
How do most patients with underdeveloped cognitive frameworks behave?
They rush into the consultation room, plop down, dump a plastic bag overflowing with disorganized imaging scans and lab reports onto the desk—and tearfully plead: “Doctor, what’s really going on with me? Please take a look—I’ve been in pain for months! You must save me…”
That’s like handing a candidate—already mentally overheated after four hours of nonstop testing—an open-ended, chaotic, condition-less exam question.
You can imagine the quality of the answer. He has no time to empathize with your tears. He defaults to reflexive memory and the safest clinical guidelines—delivering a “by-the-book” answer guaranteed to avoid error… but rarely optimal.
So truly sophisticated cancer patients never go to clinics carrying chaos seeking rescue.
Their core strategy in doctor-patient communication is to pre-emptively transform complex “discussion questions” into the doctor’s easiest format: “fill-in-the-blank questions”—done at home, before the appointment.
What qualifies as a “fill-in-the-blank question”?
It means you first organize your symptom list, question list, and medication history with absolute clarity. On one sheet of paper:
- Paragraph 1: Diagnosis date + pathological staging
- Paragraph 2: Key recent symptoms + duration
- Paragraph 3: Past medical history + your top-priority immediate needs
You hand over this battle-report-clear document. You proactively eliminate the doctor’s need to interrogate you like a census officer—saving them immense effort spent extracting details and reasoning deeply.
His cognitive resources are instantly freed. He focuses entirely on “filling in the blanks!” Within your crisp, structured framework, he inputs precise treatment plans and dosages.
Did you grasp it? Sophisticated patients don’t just bring questions—they convert questions into fill-in-the-blank formats.
The quality of your consultation report is the difficulty level of the exam you hand to your doctor. Making him guess or deduce under time pressure is, fundamentally, sabotaging yourself.
Remember this: In the high-efficiency medical assembly line, you must first process your own medical data into a KFC-style fast-food burger—ingredients clearly labeled, easy to digest at a glance. Only then can you earn your doctor’s optimal life-saving response.
Next, let’s discuss the advanced play: multiple-choice questions.
If I were the patient, I’d leverage my deep disease knowledge—gained over four or five years of studying textbooks and updating myself on cutting-edge literature like a medical student—to independently formulate all the options I want my doctor to evaluate.
I’d ask directly: “Chief, given my current drug resistance, would combining chemotherapy with Option A yield greater benefit—or should I try monotherapy with Option B? I’ve reviewed the literature; opinions seem divided. I’d value your clinical experience.”
That’s giving your doctor a multiple-choice question. Success rate is extremely high—because he only needs to apply his clinical expertise to select the best answer.
But reality is, most patients don’t know enough. If you can’t even pronounce basic medical terms, you certainly won’t pose this highest-scoring “multiple-choice question.”
So what do you do?
Here, game theory’s principle of “multi-party checks and balances” comes into play.
Consult three to five doctors—and give each the same high-quality “fill-in-the-blank” exam.
Pay for appointments. Visit senior physicians across different hospitals and schools of thought. Submit identical, meticulously prepared “fill-in-the-blank” documents to each. Each will provide their distinct solution strategy.
Once you collect these three to five strategies, you gain a bird’s-eye view of the entire landscape.
Then, at home, you become the decision-maker: analyze these expert perspectives, tally votes, weigh trade-offs—and decide where to place your “checkmark.”
But since this is strategic博弈 (game theory), deployment matters. Readers familiar with my prior articles know I often emphasize: patients at different stages need doctors with different attributes.
For instance: When diagnosis is exceptionally complex, you need someone to solve the problem—young doctors (PhDs, associate professors) are ideal. They’re energetic, patient, curious, and eager to research rare cases with you.
When you need a reliable surgical plan or chemotherapy schedule, you need precision “fill-in-the-blank” execution—senior chief physicians excel here. Their decades of clinical experience and exposure to countless emergencies mean their neural memory is the safety net.
Ultimately, you must filter this vast system to find one person you trust. Someone you connect with, who values you, avoids arrogance, and welcomes discussion of diverse approaches. You present the answers gathered from those three to five doctors—and they patiently help you weigh pros and cons.
You entrust them with the final decision. That’s how you “entrust your life to the right person.”
Since many readers of this WeChat public account are middle-aged or elderly, I can guess your silent objections: “Captain, we get your point—turn discussion questions into fill-in-the-blanks. But I’m just an elder who describes all inflammation or infection as ‘getting overheated.’ I lack your logical rigor—how on earth do I draft this exam paper?”
Truth is, you need no medical degree—not even advanced education. You only need the normal adult capacity for synthesis and organization.
Here’s how to solve it with one sheet of paper.
Don’t write an Gaokao essay. Don’t pour out fears, grievances, or resentment about cancer in front of your doctor. Understand: doctors in outpatient clinics aren’t psychotherapists—or priests in confessionals. They neither need your tears nor have time to provide emotional validation.
Within this cold, efficient system, they need data, biomarkers, and clear logical chains.
Grab a clean sheet of white paper—or open your phone’s Notes app—and divide your information into four blocks, like stacking bricks.
Block One: Definitive Diagnosis
Don’t start by pointing to your chest and saying, “Doctor, it hurts here—I can’t sleep!” That’s ineffective communication.
Lead with the essentials: When (year/month/day), where (which hospital), and what procedure (biopsy or aspiration)? What does the pathology report literally state? Adenocarcinoma? Squamous cell carcinoma? Small-cell lung cancer? Have gene mutation tests been done? EGFR? ALK? Wild-type? Any brain or bone metastases? Clinical stage?
Drop these definitive terms in the first line. In ~3 seconds, your doctor’s eyes scan them—and a predictive model of your disease profile, including probable survival timeline, forms in their mind.
Block Two: Chronological Treatment Timeline
What interventions have you undergone over the past months—or even years?
Never say vague things like, “I took some medicine before—it didn’t work.” Doctors panic hearing that. What medicine? For how long? How did you judge it ‘didn’t work’?
Be precise—down to the month, even dosage. Example: “June 2025: Left lower lobe resection at X Hospital. August–November: Four cycles of pemetrexed + platinum chemotherapy. December: Progression confirmed on follow-up scan; started osimertinib, continuing daily.”
This is the known data you provide—the “given conditions” for your doctor’s reasoning. The tighter and more gap-free your input, the safer and more reliable their next-step recommendation becomes.
Block Three: Core Objective
You paid tens or hundreds of RMB for this expert appointment. You queued for three hours starting at 5 a.m. Finally sitting face-to-face—what specific issue must be resolved today?
Is it because the latest CT shows the tumor grew 1 cm—should you switch treatments? Or because targeted therapy caused debilitating diarrhea and facial rash—can dosage be reduced or supportive meds added? Or are you simply here to obtain an admission order for the next chemo cycle?
Condense your goal into one question-ending sentence.
“Chief, I’m here primarily because my back pain has worsened over the past two weeks. Could you please review today’s bone scan results to assess for bone metastasis? If confirmed, should we proceed with localized radiotherapy—or adjust systemic treatment?”
See? That’s an exemplary, highly comfortable “fill-in-the-blank question”—even doctors appreciate it.
The doctor only needs to examine your scans and check “Yes/No” and “Do/Don’t Do” beside your question. Communication cost plummets; efficiency soars.
Block Four: Backup Options (Intermediate-Level Players Only)
If, like me, you’ve done deep preparatory work—reading guidelines and literature—you can list known options at the bottom, turning your doctor’s task into a multiple-choice question.
“Option 1: Continue current regimen + anti-angiogenic drug. Evidence: …
Option 2: Switch directly to second-line chemo combined with … Given my liver/kidney function, predicted outcomes are … Which do you prefer?
Option 3: Considering recent clinical trial data on novel agents, do real-world outcomes from your practice suggest any higher-risk/higher-reward options suitable for me?”
…
This is the intermediate tier of doctor-patient strategic engagement. You fully liberate your doctor’s cognitive load from tedious information gathering—and you define the boundaries of their thinking, enabling them to channel all their expertise and experience toward making the final, optimal strategic decision for you.
Prepare this sheet. Then, the human drama begins.
You visit three to five major hospitals across Beijing, Shanghai, and Guangzhou—book appointments with three top experts. And just like the proverbial “Three Monks Without Water,” conflicting advice may emerge.
Dr. Zhang glances at your A4 sheet and waves decisively: “Your case isn’t too advanced yet—operate now while the lesion remains localized. No hesitation. Delay only makes it harder.”
Dr. Li pushes up his glasses, frowning: “The tumor’s too close to major vessels—surgery carries extreme risk. I recommend conservative chemo first to shrink it, then reassess surgical feasibility.”
Dr. Wang strokes his chin, speaking slowly: “Hold off on surgery and chemo. Since you have a targetable mutation, try the newest targeted therapy + immunotherapy combo—better quality of life.”
Three top lung cancer specialists. Three radically divergent plans. Your already-fragile psychological defenses shatter.
Whose advice do you follow?
Most patients collapse here—frantically seeking connections, asking everyone in patient groups, flailing like headless flies.
At this juncture, I urge you to deploy foundational philosophy and logical reasoning—the very core competency I repeatedly stress in my “cognitive upgrade” column.
When authoritative recommendations clash—how do you decide?
Remember one crucial concept from economics and game theory: Asymmetric Risk.
Taleb states bluntly in Skin in the Game: “Who bears the ultimate consequence holds the ultimate decision-making authority.”
You cannot, and should not, expect any doctor to make the final call for you. Because the one lying on the cold operating table, enduring chemo-induced vomiting, or facing financial ruin—is you and your family—not the doctor sitting in the clinic. The doctor offers probabilistic judgments based on personal clinical experience; for you, it’s 100% life-or-death.
You must reweigh these three proposals on your own life’s scale. How?
Step One: Apply “Bottom-Line Thinking” to Falsify
Under extreme fear and desperation, people easily fall into “blind optimism”—fixating only on whichever plan sounds most promising or whose doctor promises the longest survival.
But in cancer, chasing absolute, cost-free “cure” is often a fatal obsession—and precisely the vulnerability exploited by folk remedies and medical scams.
Rational strategists ignore the ceiling—they focus solely on the floor. Ask: If this plan fails, what is the worst-case outcome? Can you and your family bear it?
If Dr. Zhang’s surgical plan carries worst-case risks like intraoperative death or ICU admission due to massive hemorrhage—and your current physical reserves can’t even withstand a common cold, with no reserve cash to burn in ICU—then this high-reward, high-destruction-risk plan demands extreme caution.
If Dr. Li’s conservative chemo plan’s worst case is drug ineffectiveness and slow tumor growth—but you retain current quality of life (e.g., walking downstairs to buy groceries, eating independently)—
That’s game theory’s “maximin principle”: In an overwhelmingly adverse, fog-shrouded jungle, don’t chase elusive maximum gains—first ensure you won’t be annihilated when the worst happens.
Step Two: Introduce “Time Dimension & Irreversibility Logic”
Medical decisions aren’t shopping—they’re often irreversible, with no returns policy.
Once you cut, the organ is gone—physically and permanently. If post-op pathology reveals surgery wasn’t indicated, you’ve sacrificed irreplaceable tissue for nothing.
But chemo or targeted drugs? If two cycles show no efficacy—and your body hasn’t been utterly destroyed—you can wait for drug clearance and pivot to another option.
During uncertainty, prioritizing reversible, flexible options reflects humane, wise strategy. Leaving yourself an escape route is leaving time for life. Time, in the anti-cancer war, is the soil where all miracles grow.
I digressed—onto a new topic. Apologies.
These days, Weihai’s sun shines brightly, yet the sea remains gray and hazy.
Sitting in this small city, gazing out the window, I sometimes drift. Why, when fate grants both people a reprieve, does one walk away composed—and another, broken?
Ultimately, cancer doesn’t just consume organs—it acts as an examiner, relentlessly probing your soul, your cognition, and the confidence you’ve accumulated over half a lifetime.
Many patients’ tragedies stem from habitually treating their lives like a broken smartphone: toss it into the repair shop and abandon responsibility—wholly relying on white-coated technicians to fix everything. Success earns a banner of thanks; failure triggers tantrums and blame—believing the whole world owes them.
This immature mindset might only cost minor losses in daily life—but in life-or-death medical strategy, it’s lethal.
Nietzsche delivered a thunderous line: “He who knows why he lives can bear almost any how.”
I paraphrase it slightly for our exam hall: Once you’ve used logic and bottom-line analysis to clarify why you’re choosing a particular medical path, you can face any final outcome with equanimity—even if it falls short of hopes.
Because that choice was made by you, rationally—not blindly following someone else’s authority.
That is true self-redemption.
Life’s grand exam—however hard the questions, however unjust heaven’s grading—doctors, even top academicians, are merely paid tutors.
The one sitting alone in that cold exam hall, pen in hand, sweating, enduring agony, writing life’s final answers stroke by stroke… is you, and only you, from beginning to end.
Treat every clinic visit as a meticulously planned joint operation. Treat every agonizing treatment decision as your optimal solution—within your cognitive framework and available resources.
Even if, ultimately, we still face that irreversible finale—at least in the “Way of Humanity” game, we refused to surrender blindly. We fought honorably—for ourselves—and earned, as independent individuals, our final dignity.
End.
Captain’s Statement:
I am a cancer patient entering my ninth year of survival—with six documented recurrences. I hold a National Level 1 Disability Certificate (the highest severity classification). I sustain myself solely through writing—16 hours daily. Years of treatment have left me deeply in debt, yet I uphold principles of self-respect, self-reliance, and self-sufficiency—sharing my authentic cancer journey and reflections through writing. If my words resonate and help you, I sincerely thank your recognition and voluntary support.
However, I absolutely refuse donations from three categories of people:
- If you yourself face financial hardship, please uphold the principle of “cultivating virtue when poor.” Spend your money on yourself and your family. (Please—writing is my job, not fundraising. I am not destitute or unable to afford treatment.)
- If you feel my content hasn’t genuinely helped you—and are donating only out of pity or compassion, please don’t force yourself. True compassion respects mutual value.
- If you reject the idea that a disabled person’s original writing and knowledge-sharing is equivalent to a non-disabled person’s daily work—and if you believe that only certain disabled figures (e.g., Shi Tiesheng, Zhang Haidi) “deserve” to live with resilience—then please unsubscribe from my channel.
I am a knowledge-focused, cancer-survivor blogger. Opening donations serves solely to fund my upcoming book.
Yet I repeat constantly: Do not donate if you are financially strained. Direct your kindness to patients suffering unbearable pain yet lacking resources to help themselves.
Finally, fellow warriors who’ve experienced the raw authenticity described herein—please share your stories.