Miss Dong's starting point is an economics degree from Barnard College at Columbia University. It sounds glamorous, but peeling back the layers, it is essentially an affiliate college of Columbia University, with independent admissions and teaching, essentially a 'high-cost low-quality degree' program. What does an ordinary person need to enter Columbia's main campus? A gaokao score of over 680, and application materials that undergo rigorous screening. Meanwhile, Miss Dong's family threw money at the problem, allowing her to easily obtain a diploma from a 'branch of Columbia'. Even more exaggerated is that she has never set foot in Columbia's main campus—it's akin to buying a diploma from 'Harvard's affiliated high school' and calling it 'elite study abroad'.
The original intention of Xiehe's '4+4' program was to attract engineering and science talents to study medicine across disciplines, but Miss Dong successfully profited from her economics background. Normally, a medical doctorate requires at least 12 years of hard work (5 years undergraduate + 3 years master's + 4 years doctoral), but she only took 4 years. Even more absurdly, her undergraduate institution does not meet the '4+4' program's stringent requirement for 'world-class top universities'. Netizens dug up that the admission criteria for Xiehe's '4+4' program at that time were: applicants must come from universities ranked in the top 100 globally, and their undergraduate major must be highly relevant to medicine. However, Miss Dong's Barnard College is merely an 'affiliate college' within the Columbia system, and even jokingly referred to as 'Columbia's third-tier college'.
The key question arises: How did she pass the review?
The answer lies in her parents' resumes—her father is a senior executive at a state-owned enterprise, her mother is a vice president at a university, and the family's connections are deeply rooted in the healthcare circle. While ordinary people are still troubled about 'who to ask for a recommendation letter', Miss Dong's recommendation letter was already stamped by an academician-level figure in advance. Even more ruthless, her doctoral thesis supervisor is an orthopedic academician, but her research direction is gynecological imaging, and the main body of her thesis is only 30 pages (a normal medical doctoral thesis is usually over 100 pages). Such a 'cross-disciplinary guidance + shortened thesis' operation would be impossible to pass the defense without the personal endorsement of an academician.
After entering the clinical training at the Japan-China Friendship Hospital, Miss Dong's operations left people astonished.
Skipping key department rotations: Urology residents must undergo rotations in all departments, but Miss Dong found the spine department too exhausting and directly had Dr. Xiao Fei (her extramarital affair) intervene, even getting a special approval from the vice president to skip rotations.
Throwing a fit in the operating room: During one surgery, when the nurse questioned her operation, she walked out of the operating room on the spot, resulting in a patient being left unattended for 40 minutes after anesthesia. Dr. Xiao Fei not only did not stop her but even took off his surgical gown to accompany her and 'calm her down'.
The tricks behind paper retraction: After the incident broke, Miss Dong's CNKI paper was urgently withdrawn. Netizens exclaimed 'there's no silver here', as it is nearly impossible for a normal doctoral dissertation to be retracted unless there are 'special operations' behind it.
Miss Dong's ambitions go beyond being a doctor. Every step she takes is paving the way for her entry into the medical administration system:
Degree embellishment: First, she uses the title of 'Xiehe Doctor' to boost her presence, then packages her academic background through high-profile papers and 'academician guidance'.
Resource exchange: Utilizing her parents' connections to turn medical qualifications into a 'ticket' for entering medical management.
Power inheritance: Her father's company won the bid for the construction project of Xiehe Xiong'an campus, and her mother is a vice president at a university. This 'industry-academia-research' closed loop makes it possible for her to directly advance to hospital management or even enter the National Health Commission system in the future.
Becoming a chief physician takes at least 15 years, but Miss Dong might complete the path in just 5 years. Even more terrifying is that her 'cheat-like life' exposes fatal loopholes in the healthcare system:
Monopoly of educational resources: The admission scores for top medical schools are consistently above 600+, but the '4+4' program has become a 'backdoor' for the children of the elite.
A breeding ground for academic corruption: Academicians guiding cross-disciplinary papers, compressing training time, skipping rotations—these practices have turned medical education into a 'privilege game'.
Patient safety risks: A 'half-baked doctor' who has not even completed proper training can perform a level 4 surgery; this is an extreme irresponsibility towards life.
Miss Dong's story is not an individual 'malfeasance' but a rot in the entire healthcare system. When educational fairness is trampled by privilege, when medical ethics are hijacked by resources, the ultimate victims are not only students from humble backgrounds but also the countless patients lying on the operating table. Medicine should not be a 'gold-plated channel' for the second generation, and surgical knives should not become tools for the transfer of power. If even the industry of saving lives is monopolized, what can ordinary people still believe in?
The end of this farce may not be Miss Dong's 'failure', but the 'surgical detox' of the entire healthcare system. Otherwise, the next 'Miss Dong' will surely come again.