Defecating in the Clinic

and on letting go

I remember my first experience of psychoanalysis. It was a very cliché New York experience. It happened to be that an old friend from Milan who was obsessed with Jung had been telling me for years about psychoanalysis. He wouldn’t shut up about it. For years, he talked about individuation, the collective unconscious, symbols, and most likely, everything seemed to be about the mother complex. But, of all people, he said, I seemed to have the least. Or was it simply because my mother complex didn’t fit neatly within his white Italian projection of the world?

In any case, the first analyst I went to was a Jungian on the Upper West Side. It looked like a Woody Allen film.

How do I know if she’s a good fit for me? I asked my friend.

If you have a massive dream before your first session, he said, then it’s right.

I never liked esoteric things, but before my first session, I had a massive dream. I was entirely embarrassed by the content of my dream, and I also got highly nervous having to tell this stranger my massive dream.

My first Jungian analyst was in her 70s. I arrived early and had a pleasant stroll around the block. Quaint. I remember the trees. I think it was the end of summer—the breeze. I was pretty stressed. I didn’t have much money at the time. No, that’s an understatement. I was broke. But, the curiosity was more potent than my cents.

Her office had a waiting room. I sat there thinking, don’t tell your parents you're spending money on this! It felt like the whitest thing I had done yet. Her office was the kind where previous analysands could exit through another door, thereby preventing contamination amongst the patients. Finally, she opened the door, smiled, and asked for my name.

As she held the door open, I walked inside. She closed the double doors behind her. I had never experienced that level of privacy before. Insulated, and double doors.

I stood in the middle of the room. There was a long black divan and a single couch.

Where should I sit?

Wherever you like.

Surely, she didn’t mean wherever. What if I sat on the floor? Or if I sat on her chair? I sat in the seemingly most appropriate place. Should I lie down, like in the movies?

If you’d like.

I just sat on the edge, right in the middle.

She sat down, legal pad ready, and looked at me.

I knew, more or less, the gist of what was supposed to happen. Talk about my dreams—mother complexes, phobias, obsessions, etc. Like a good Asian student, I did my homework. I had my massive dream.

I uh…I brought a dream. It always takes me a while to realize that I am bringing a gift, an offering, a sacrifice. She looked at me, waiting for me to continue. It’s kind of, uh…inappropriate.

I’m 74 years old, she looks up from her glasses, with an assured smile. I’ve been working as an analyst for thirty years. I’ve heard all kinds of things. Don’t worry, nothing we speak about leaves this room.

Well, she asked for it.

I had this dream that we were in a Tatami room. The kind that was on the third floor of my childhood home. All these people were standing by the wall and watching. Anonymous. And you and I were….making love. I was thinking, we fucked. What the hell was I saying to this woman?! And uh…then I pooped. Defecated. But the shit was uh…translucent.

She kept on scribbling. Transcribing.

Does she write everything down? Does she read and keep all her notes? What if I just made things up? Like many things in life, we tend to remember the first experience. I remember feeling perplexed and felt that the whole experience was pointless. I remember the check that I had written out just earlier for her. I felt like an adult from another era. I had written out very few checks in my life; most were to her.

That’s so great you’re doing psychoanalysis! said my Boomer New Yorker friend. I’ve been going once a week for forty years. I remember when I first did it, I thought, this is fucking incredible! Everyone should do this, and the government should pay for it! I said that in the 80s!

He’s a quintessential New Yorker. An actor-director. He was even on Sex and the City for one episode and ranked 50-something on the 100 Sexiest Men on Sex and the City. I thought, forty years! I didn’t want to do the mental arithmetic of what that would have amounted to. Every session, my Scruge thinks, When are you going to be done?

When will you be done with this? Was what my old business partner would say to me. She interrupted me as I was in the middle of ranting about the latest book I was reading.

你夠了沒? (Nǐ gòu le méi?) When will you be done? Or, more precisely, are you sufficient yet?

你快好了嗎？(Nǐ kuài hǎo le ma?) Are you quickly good? Meaning, are you almost done?

So if one continues, one is insufficient. One is not good if one has not completed or found the end. Does that make me bad because I have yet completed my analysis?

My first psychoanalytic shit was more than a decade ago. Now, I’m back with Baba at the ICU in Brisbane. I stand there, and we awkwardly give each other a touch, a slight indication of intimacy on occasion. A pat on the shoulder or the leg is used when the other person is holding back their tears. Unlike the ICU nurses, we haven’t learned to offer a Kleenex yet. I don’t think Baba was targeted by their advertisements.

After more than a decade since my first analysis of speaking, free-associating behind closed doors, after reading countless books on the transference, repetition compulsion, the unconscious, the drives, suddenly, I’m here standing next to Baba, watching and holding Mama on life support.

After spending most of my adult life abroad, away from them, I’m suddenly thrust back home. I find myself in the analyst position, listening. Listening between the lines. Listening beyond what Baba is telling me beyond the manifest level.

Baba spends his time massaging Mama’s foot. Sometimes, I withhold myself from telling him that he shouldn’t massage her too hard. I was worried that she might bruise. He hopes she feels the soreness, the 痠 (suān), from his massage, the sour, as it translates. In Traditional Chinese Medicine, massage is not a function of wellness or relaxation. But a treatment. A balance. And if there is no 痠 (suān), no soreness, there is no function. He told me that he had found different spots on the internet that would help: the headache, the stomach, the chest. She has barely defecated in two weeks since entering the ICU. He searches for the accupoints for her bowels on his phone.¹

I hold back from saying that she has an aneurysm. That she’s on Fentanyl and Propofol. The display says she’s on a -5 on the Richmond Agitation-Sedation Scale, meaning unarousable, no response to voice or touch. But I say nothing and force a smile.

The bus rides to and from the hospital fluctuate between exacerbated neurotic speech in the morning and exhausted silence on the way back. After our first day, after I exploded and gave him a massive lecture on the violence of insisting others to let things go, I told him that I wished to be able to speak and wished for him to share honestly. Since then, he begins an outpouring of thoughts, memories and frustrations. I explained to him the function of repression and the current totalitarian landscape in Berlin, Germany, and Europe. I told him that I would not stand to allow the casual inhumanity of denying speech and emotions of one another. Slowly, I heard him speaking and telling his friends about my thoughts, my books, and feelings. His feelings, my feelings, both seem particularly evident as Mama lies sedated in the ICU.

Yesterday, the patient on Bed 24 was in a very active mood. Her voice broke through the usual quite, polite, even cheerful voices for what is an intense area, the Intensive Care Unit. A very Australian woman, she suddenly belts,

No! I told you no! I told you, you’re not listening to me! You let me down!

What do you mean? The nurse tried to ask.

I’m going down, you’re not listening to me!

Ok, but we just need to get this air into you, and I’m changing the tubes…

No! her voice strong, insisting. Declaring. Get me the Doctor! You’re not a doctor!

No, mum, he’s the nurse! Her daughter tried to appease her.

Another Nurse enters.

Who are you?! You’re not the doctor. Go and get me the doctor! Right now!

The doctor is unavailable, the nurse tried to comfort her. Can we help you?

Shut up! You’re not a doctor. Go and get me the doctor!

Just leave and pretend to get the doctor, whispered the daughter to the nurse.

Ok… I’m going now to get the doctor, responds the nurse as she backs out slowly.

More and more people show up. Her son, her mother. More nurses. They try to offer support and sympathy despite more verbal abuse. I try to hold back my laughter. Finally, the doctor arrives. Everyone looks on. Like watching a toddler having a temper tantrum, except this toddler has the voice of authority while still attached to life support.

At least she has her voice, I thought.

Look down there, she demands. Look at my leg; it’s going down!

Yes, we’re lowering the angle of the bed for the pressure, explained the nurse.

You don’t understand! I’m going down! Let me down!

---

The doctor finally made his way to our bed. We needed to give consent for a tracheostomy. He sat us down in a private room, where a makeshift bed made from couches, still had used bedsheets and cushions. He told us that a family had slept there the night before.

Oh, ok. Baba says, in his quintissential Australian English.

The doctor explained the situation, I suspect more about legal precautions than the actual Tracheostomy. Baba, being the next of kin, had to give consent.

Wha’s next of kin? He asked me in Chinese. I’ve heard of this before.

I feel grateful for the wonders of medicine and the healthcare system—the privilege to receive such care and professionalism. But I also find myself doubting, doubting my limits. As I translated and explained to Baba the full extent of the issues, I also found myself replicating the distance.

Since you are the next of kin, Baba, you must make this decision. What no one says is that these decisions are already made. Not just by the doctor but by fate. By God. By 命運² (mìng yùn, destiny, fate). But of course, someone must sign the document, as the Doctor searches for a flat surface nearby. At that moment, it felt more like agreeing to buy a used car than acknowledging that we understand a Tracheostomy’s medical and legal procedure.

After translating, I give in. Nothing more to say, nothing left to decide. While the doctor waits for Baba’s signature, he makes small talk.

So…what do you do?

I’m an artist. Filmmaker, writer.

Oh! Anything I’ve seen?

Probably not... nothing worth seeing. Just commercials.

Oh…what took you to Berlin?

It was a mistake.

He laughed.

Can I take a photo of the consent form?

I can make a photocopy for you in fact.

As I wait for the photocopy, Baba goes to look at Mama. Every look, we never speak of the possibility that this may be the last. Or was our last already behind us? We watch her body, beneath the fentanyl, the propofol, the body no longer reacts. But Baba believes.

What do we believe in? In contracts? In consent? In democracy? The woman in Bed 24 is gone. An empty bed takes its place like a hotel room. Mama’s bed is quiet. The nurses continue with their rounds, checking the lines, the adjustments with laser-guided accuracy. Care does not require consent. Every demand is a demand for love.³

I watch, thinking, at some point, Baba’s hands will tire. The body will be left to the machines. The nurses and doctors will be replaced with undertakers and monks. The world will keep going. At some point, we will all have to let go. To 放下 (fàng xià). To put down in Chinese is to let go.⁴

But we’re not letting go just yet, Mama.

1. In Traditional Chinese Medicine (TCM), 痠 (suān), often translated as "soreness" or "ache," is a crucial sensory indicator in practices like acupuncture, tuina (推拿, therapeutic massage), and guasha (刮痧, scraping therapy). Unlike Western conceptions of massage, which emphasize relaxation and relief, TCM regards 痠 as a necessary response to treatment. The sensation signals that the qi (氣) and blood (血) are being activated, breaking through stagnation and restoring balance to the body.

The character 痠 (suān) shares phonetic roots with 酸, which means "sour," creating an evocative link between bodily discomfort and taste. Just as sourness in food can stimulate the appetite or digestion, 痠 in the body suggests circulation and restoration. In TCM, a proper 痠麻脹痛 ("sore, numb, swollen, painful") response during massage or acupuncture confirms that the technique is effective—without it, the treatment is often considered ineffective.

For Baba, ensuring Mama feels 痠 is an act of care, a belief that discomfort now will bring relief later. His approach reflects a deeply ingrained understanding that healing is not always immediate or gentle but requires persistence, even through pain. His searches for acupressure points on the internet reinforce this mindset—locating precise spots on the body where touch can induce movement, particularly for her digestion, aligning with the TCM view that stagnation (氣滯) leads to illness.

2. 命運 (mìng yùn), translated as "fate" or "destiny," combines 命 (mìng)—a fixed life mandate, often linked to cosmic will (天命, tiānmìng)—with 運 (yùn), which signifies movement, luck, and the possibility of change. While 命 suggests predestination, 運 implies that fate unfolds dynamically, influenced by circumstances and actions. In Daoist and Confucian thought, 命 is beyond human control, yet 運 allows for agency within predetermined bounds.

In the passage, this distinction underscores the illusion of choice: though Baba is asked to sign, the decision feels already made—by doctors, by fate, by forces beyond human will. The comparison to buying a used car highlights the absurdity of bureaucratic rationality in the face of existential inevitability. Medicine, with its procedural and legal frameworks, attempts to impose control, but 命運 remains the ultimate determinant, exposing the tension between agency and resignation.

See notes on the weaponisation of translation.

3. This phrase reflects a psychoanalytic and philosophical perspective on human relationships, care, and power. In Lacanian psychoanalysis, desire is always the desire of the Other—meaning that our demands are never just about the thing itself (e.g., attention, care, recognition) but always point to a deeper longing for love and acknowledgment. Even when a demand appears transactional or utilitarian, it carries an unspoken plea: See me, value me, care for me.

Within the context of medical care, where patients lack autonomy, and consent is often abstracted into institutional protocols, the notion of care without consent highlights a paradox. The nurses, moving with "laser-guided accuracy," enact an unwavering, impersonal duty—but duty itself can be read as a structure of love, even when devoid of sentimentality. The demand for care (whether by the patient, their family, or the institution itself) is, at its core, a demand for love, recognition, and survival.

This resonates with political and ethical questions posed earlier in the passage: Do we believe in contracts, consent, democracy? These structures mediate care, yet they remain insufficient in addressing the raw, existential need for connection. The patient in Bed 24 disappears, replaced like a guest in a hotel room—suggesting the transient, impersonal nature of institutionalized care. And yet, even within this machinery, each intervention, each adjustment of a tube, each unspoken act of attending to the body, is part of the impossible demand for love—a demand that lingers, whether spoken or not.

4. The phrase 放下 (fàng xià) in Chinese, often translated as "let go," literally means "to put down" (放 = "release, place," 下 = "down"). Unlike the English phrase "letting go," which conveys a sense of detachment, emotional surrender, or release into the unknown, 放下 carries a more deliberate, tangible connotation—an act of placing something down, as one would set aside a physical burden.

In Buddhist and Daoist philosophy, 放下 is a key concept in relinquishing attachment, particularly in relation to suffering, desire, and the ego. To "put down" is not just to cease holding but to actively set aside what binds or weighs upon us, implying a conscious decision rather than passive loss. This differs from the Western idea of "letting go," which often suggests an organic, almost external process, as though release happens naturally over time.

Here, we have a Buddhist ideal of release, and the human refusal to surrender is embodied in Baba’s hands—still working, still holding on.

This reflects a cultural and existential struggle: in Western discourse, "letting go" can be framed as a psychological necessity, something one must arrive at to move forward. In contrast, 放下 suggests that release is an action, a choice that has weight—one does not merely "let go" but must first carry, endure, and then decide to put down.