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[Special Report] Medications are continuously being sent to the front lines.

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Time：2020-03-24

Introduction to the Character: Rong Yanyan, 37 years old, is the workshop director of Workshop 102 at Shijiazhuang Fourth Pharmaceutical Co., Ltd. Since the outbreak of the pandemic, she has been working tirelessly around the clock on the front lines of epidemic prevention and control production. Each day, she walks two to three ten thousand steps, and even arriving home by 11 p.m. is considered early—she has hardly had a single night’s uninterrupted sleep.

Character Introduction

Rong Yanyan, 37, is the workshop director of Workshop 102 at Shijiazhuang Fourth Pharmaceutical Co., Ltd. Since the outbreak of the pandemic, she has been working tirelessly around the clock on the front lines of epidemic prevention and control production. Every day, she walks two to three ten thousand steps, and even getting home by 11 p.m. is considered early—she has hardly had a single peaceful night’s sleep.

Suddenly assigned a task, canceling the vacation.

My partner and I had originally planned to take our child back to our hometown of Wangdu in Baoding after the Spring Festival holiday to visit my parents-in-law. However, on the eve of the Spring Festival, the sudden outbreak of COVID-19 completely altered everyone’s life trajectory.

January 23rd was our first day of vacation. Shortly after 5 a.m., an urgent phone call jolted me awake from my sleep. I glanced at the caller ID and saw it was Han Shuqin, the deputy general manager in charge of production at the factory. Her voice on the phone was particularly anxious: “The epidemic situation in Hubei is extremely severe. We urgently need to mobilize Abidol capsules and moxifloxacin infusions. The factory is demanding that we quickly get the production lines up and running. Please inform everyone to overcome any difficulties and return to their posts as soon as possible—let’s start feeding raw materials into the machines and resume production today.”

As the workshop director, I fully understand the weight of the saying: “The epidemic is an order; ensuring safety is our responsibility.” Without delay, I quickly notified the team leaders of each workstation in the workshop and contacted the company’s electricians to restore power (the power had been cut off the previous day after work was completed). I also coordinated with the warehouse and other relevant departments to prepare for the collection of materials. At the same time, I “instructed” my spouse to take our 7-year-old son to my mother-in-law’s home. Deep down, I knew that a tough battle lay ahead.

It was from this day onward that I threw myself wholeheartedly into the fight against the epidemic. Over the past two months, all 110 members of our workshop have been fully operational—people take breaks, but the machines never stop—and we’ve been running at full capacity, making our workshop the busiest in the entire factory.

Walking 20,000 to 30,000 steps every day makes my legs feel stiff.

I arrive at the office before 7:10 every morning, then start inspecting the workshop site and preparing to take employees’ temperatures. At 7:40, all staff are in place. I conduct staff scheduling and provide training on key operational procedures, issue and sign production instructions. Around 7:50, everyone quickly gets down to their respective tasks and starts working busily.

Although I don’t actually work on the production line, I still walk through the 6,000-square-meter workshop at least twice every day. I’m responsible for randomly checking the batch numbers of medicines produced by the staff, verifying that the batch numbers on the drug boxes match those on the medicines, and also inspecting the batch numbers on the medicine containers themselves. In addition, it’s part of my job to ensure that employees are following proper procedures during their operations, wearing the required personal protective equipment, and avoiding any unsafe practices. By the time I’ve completed all these checks, it takes nearly two hours. As a result, I end up walking twenty to thirty thousand steps each day—and my legs feel completely stiff afterward.

If I have time at noon, I’ll eat in the cafeteria and discuss work with the team leader at the same time. If I really don’t have time, I’ll wait until evening to eat together. As soon as we finish lunch, we’ll get right to work.

Since the start of the training program, the workshop’s daily output has more than doubled compared to a typical day, reaching as high as over 1.4 million capsules at its peak. From January 23 until now, the abidol capsules produced by our workshop have exceeded last year’s total annual output by more than ten times.

I’ve learned that the Arbidol capsules produced by our company are being continuously sent to the front lines of epidemic prevention and control. Hearing that patients in Wuhan are now using the medication we’ve manufactured—and knowing that I’m contributing, even in a small way, to cheering on Wuhan and supporting China—I deeply feel both the responsibility and the honor of being a pharmaceutical professional.

Even returning home late at night, I can't fall asleep peacefully.

Since the outbreak of the epidemic, as the “frontline” treatment protocols have been gradually clarified, demand for Abidol capsules has surged. The state has also issued two consecutive “emergency task dispatch orders” to the factory.

Overtime has become the norm—I basically don’t get home until after 11 p.m., or even as late as 1 a.m. every day. Once I’m back home, I can’t help but worry about production in the workshop. I keep checking the workshop’s WeChat group from time to time, promptly responding to any questions raised by the team leaders, for fear of delaying production.

Late at night, when a production issue arose in the workshop and couldn't be clearly explained via WeChat, my colleagues called me to ask for details. Once, I didn't get home until after midnight—past 12 o'clock—and received a call from the factory at 1:53 a.m., asking me to communicate and coordinate with the relevant departments. It wasn't until 3:40 a.m. that the matter was finally resolved. Yet, I found myself completely wide awake. By just after 6 a.m., I got up on time and made it to the office before 7 a.m.

I remember that New Year’s Eve night very clearly. I got home at 11:30 p.m. that night, and my spouse had already prepared cooked dishes, stewed fish, and even mixed up the filling. We quickly started making dumplings and finally managed to eat them just before midnight.

I’m deeply gratified to see my son becoming more sensible and mature.

Although I’ve been working for over a decade, this is the first time I’ve been assigned such an urgent task—producing epidemic prevention and control medications. During this period, many aspects of daily life have given way to work.

My spouse and I both work at a pharmaceutical company, and to focus on our jobs without worry, we sent our son to live with his grandmother in Baoding. Speaking of our son, as his mother, I sometimes feel quite guilty.

When I go to work in the morning, my son is still asleep; at lunchtime, I’m busy discussing work with the team leader; and by the time I get home in the evening, my son has already gone to bed. So it’s really nice if I can video call my son once a week. Every time we video call, he always asks us to bring him back home. We’d originally agreed to do so by the end of February, but I’ve been so swamped with work that we still haven’t made it happen yet.

While I miss my son deeply, what touches me most is how grown-up and sensible he’s become. In early March, when schools switched to online classes, my in-laws—who live in the countryside—couldn’t offer much help, so it was all up to my child to figure things out on his own. I remember one evening, shortly after 8 p.m., my son called me, bursting with pride as he told me he’d finally gotten the online-learning software working just fine. The next morning, his teacher praised him, saying he was the only student in his group who’d managed to connect successfully to the class chat group. At that moment, I felt both overjoyed and deeply guilty, and I said to him with admiration: “Son, you’re really something!”

As the vernal equinox arrives and we see news of the Hebei medical team aiding Hubei returning home one after another, I feel an especially profound sense of relief and exhilaration—those two months of relentless toil suddenly seem to have vanished in an instant.

These days, the production of Abidol capsules has gradually returned to its usual pace. Thinking about being able to see my child, whom I’ve been missing every day, soon makes me really happy.

Source: Special Edition of Yan Zhao Evening News—Guarding Spring

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