No.1 My Father Was a Chinese Herbalist — A Childhood Under the Medicine Cabinet

You might find it hard to imagine, but I grew up surrounded by all sorts of strange smells. My father's idea of early childhood enrichment for me — yes, literally in the olfactory sense — was to put me under his medicine cabinet, where there was a low, movable cabinet designed to keep strangers from touching the medicines.

I don't remember if it ever kept strangers out, but it certainly kept me in. He was 100% sure that once I was trapped in there, I wouldn't be interested in a single herb inside. He was right — those things smelled way too strong, especially for a child.

I can tell you this: I've tasted every single herb in those drawers that I could reach. Yes, I'm not exaggerating — it wasn't until I grew up that I learned the ancient Chinese pharmacologist Li Shizhen also personally tasted every herb himself. 😓 But every taste made me gag. I still remember it vividly — nothing but bitter, spicy, and pungent. Those flavors made me cry and sniffle more times than I can count — you can imagine it like eating a spoonful of wasabi.

The only thing I remember that had a hint of sweetness, something I could actually put in my mouth and enjoy a little, was something I didn't learn the name of until I was about to start primary school: cinnamon bark. And let me tell you — after probably hundreds of taste tests over the years, that was the only thing I ever rated as child-friendly snack material!

During those years I was parked under the cabinet, cinnamon bark was my only source of joy — but you could only chew a tiny piece at a time. If you tried to stuff your whole mouth full, it would teach you a lesson with tears and snot. You know that feeling of putting a handful of small chili peppers in your mouth? Yeah, pretty much that.

So as a kid, I envied other children whose fathers took them to ball games or amusement parks, or taught them how to play ping pong — China's national sport. Most of the time, all I got was that 3 or 4 square meters of space under the cabinet, watching my father welcome and see off all sorts of curious customers.

My father was a man of few words. He was nothing like most fathers who lecture their children endlessly. The longest continuous sentences he ever spoke to me rarely went past three words.

You know how young Chinese people today hate a term called "dad energy" — that preachy, lecturing vibe some older men have? My father had none of that.

We never really had any memorable conversations. He didn't hand out tasks or set strict rules like other fathers. To me, he felt more like a roommate — except he was the elder, and he took care of you. That was it.

You might remember the title of this article has a "but..." in it.

I'm not trying to create suspense for no reason — it's just that what I'm about to say isn't easy to put bluntly. It's something that almost no Chinese person likes to talk about.

Here's what comes after that "but":

My father passed away in 2022 from stage 4 lung cancer. At that time, China was still in strict COVID lockdown. He died on the second day after his 65th birthday.

He had been a Chinese herbalist his whole life, but after he learned his cancer was terminal, he completely rejected TCM — he wouldn't even drink a single bowl of herbal medicine (which is mostly taken as a decoction).

Like I said, he was a man of few words, so I never really understood why he made that choice.

Instead, he turned to a fortune teller — something he had dismissed his entire life.

He always taught me as a child that fortune tellers were frauds.

Yet he chose to trust a fraud over his own medicine. I still don't understand why.

After he passed, I was in a daze for a long time. I didn't know how to go on with my life. I often dreamed of the times we shared.

Today, I run a pharmacy — just like my father once did. I've become a Chinese medicine pharmacist myself. But this was a decision I only made after he was gone; before that, I had little interest in medicine — I still remembered how much I hated those smells as a child.

By the time you read these words, I'm already 40. As the old Chinese saying goes: "At forty, one is no longer confused." But really, how can life ever be completely free of worries?

Thinking back on all the little moments with my father, I created what you see today: 5baba.com. In Chinese, the domain name sounds like "my dad" — and it's pretty easy to remember.

I'll carry my father's memory and the Chinese medicine I've come to understand, and share some Chinese stories with you.

And of course, I want to know — who are you? Where do you come from? Have you eaten? (That's the ultimate Chinese greeting! ^_^)