From "Falling Down" to "Leaning On" — Afraid of Pain All My Life, Yet Painless After Surgery
True Account
From "Falling Down" to "Leaning On" — Afraid of Pain All My Life, Yet Painless After Surgery
Namo Amitabha Buddha. I am Fo Ming, from Ipoh in Malaysia. This year I went through a fall and an operation—and it was through these that I came to understand, truly, what it means to "lean on Amitabha Buddha." What follows is my account of it.
30 January 2026 was a day I never imagined would become a turning point in my life. That day, I had a fall at work. I drove straight to the hospital to have the wound cleaned and an X-ray taken. The doctor told me there was a slight fracture in my right ankle and some tearing of the ligaments, so I would need to wear a special brace to hold the ankle in place—instead of the traditional plaster cast—and take two weeks off before a follow-up. At the time, of course, I had no idea that this one fall would set me on a road of surgery and recovery lasting nearly three and a half months.
At my first follow-up on 13 February, the X-ray showed that the fracture had healed. The doctor asked, "Does the ankle still hurt?" It truly did not, so I answered honestly, "No." The doctor still advised another two weeks of rest. My family and friends joked that this fall had been a blessing in disguise—a whole month of Chinese New Year holiday. At my second follow-up on 27 February, the doctor cleared me to return to work on 2 March, but told me to keep wearing the brace, take care not to fall again, and come back at once if anything seemed wrong. So I went back to work, brace and all.
At my third follow-up on 27 March, the doctor asked whether I had had any pain or discomfort since returning to work. I answered honestly: "No pain, and nothing obviously wrong—except that I've noticed one thing: the ankle doesn't hurt, but I still can't walk at a normal speed or for a normal distance." Hearing this, the doctor examined me carefully again and decided to send me for an MRI scan.
On 3 April, having arranged my work, I took leave to go to the hospital for the MRI scan. On 4 April, the report came back: two ligaments in my right ankle—the anterior talofibular ligament (ATFL) and the calcaneofibular ligament (CFL)—were completely torn, a Grade III injury, the most severe grade; by medical definition, a patient at this grade is entirely unable to bear weight on the foot. It was only at that moment, seeing the report, that I truly realised the fall had not been as simple as I had imagined. At the time I chose conservative treatment, hoping to avoid surgery. But things unfolded as if another plan had been laid out for me all along.
26 April brought a turn I never saw coming. That day, I suddenly felt unwell; my blood pressure shot up to 160, and I hurried back to the hospital's emergency department. I had only gone to have my blood pressure checked, but in the course of the examination the emergency doctor also took a careful look at my right ankle, and at once contacted my orthopaedic specialist. This time the doctor was unequivocal: "You must have surgery—otherwise there is nothing more I can do for you. Normally, with a brace and regular follow-ups, we would see progress within two months. But your condition hasn't improved." One moment I was still hoping to avoid surgery with conservative treatment; the next, ligament repair surgery was the only way forward.
28 April was the day of the operation. That day I had no confidence at all; I was very worried about my condition, and there seemed to be nothing I could lean on. So all I could do was recite the Buddha's name, one recitation after another: Namo Amitabha Buddha, Namo Amitabha Buddha, Namo Amitabha Buddha… From the waiting room, into the operating theatre, before the anaesthetic was given, and right through to the end of the operation, my heart stayed fixed on this Name, leaning wholly on Amitabha Buddha. Thanks to Amitabha Buddha, the operation went smoothly: the surgeon repaired the ligaments successfully, leaving an incision about six centimetres long. For the first two weeks afterwards, my right foot was not allowed to bear any weight at all—it could not touch the ground, and I had to hop on one leg with crutches.
On 30 April I was discharged and went home to recuperate, and from that point I entered a road to recovery that would last three and a half months. In that time I went through restricted movement, an ankle that stayed swollen, muscle wasting, severe insomnia, and the emotional trauma that came with all of it. In the quiet of the night I cried many times; but I also told myself that I had to steady my mind and adjust, step by step, to the inconveniences of life after surgery. Those days were truly not easy to get through.
And yet, strangely: a six-centimetre incision, torn ligaments stitched back together, an operation inside the ankle joint—by any ordinary reckoning, it should have hurt a great deal. But it hardly hurt at all, and pain never once became a burden to me.
Throughout the whole process, I took antibiotics and painkillers only for the first two weeks; after that, I did not take a single painkiller again. The doctor found this strange. The physiotherapist, who worked on my ankle with her own hands, found it strange too: how could this patient bear pain so well? The truth is, I have been afraid of pain all my life. So the people around me found it all the more unbelievable—by anyone's reckoning, a person whose ligaments had completely torn, who had undergone surgery, and who carried a six-centimetre incision, ought to have gone through a good deal of pain and discomfort. To be honest, I myself never clearly felt that kind of unbearable pain; and the wound healed beautifully, without a single infection. The only real trouble was the restriction on my movement, which was a great inconvenience—but on the whole, there were no major obstacles.
I often think to myself: for all of this, I am truly grateful. What I am even more grateful for is that by mid-May, I was able to return on crutches to the Pure Land Dharma center in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia, to join the group recitation. I still remember that before the operation I had contacted the center to tell Master Jingben I would not be able to attend the Dharma assembly this year; how dejected I felt then. I am grateful that the Master sent me words of encouragement and comfort, which were, without my realising it, like a shot in the arm. And so, when the affinity later arose for me to make it to the Vesak assembly, my heart was filled with the joy of the Dharma. The round trip from my home to the center takes about four and a half hours—not a short journey for someone just out of surgery—but I insisted on going. Not because I am especially brave or strong, but because in those days I felt, always, that I could not be apart from the Buddha's name. Reciting settled my heart; reciting made me less afraid in the face of my body's limitations; and reciting reminded me, again and again, that I was not facing all this alone—that all along, Amitabha, my compassionate father, was watching over me.
On 4 August, the day before I returned to work, both the doctor and the physiotherapist warned me that with an ankle so recently operated on, long hours of standing and walking would very likely cause repeated swelling; they were concerned that these recurring symptoms might add to the strain on my mind, and they prepared me for it in advance. But in my heart there was only ever one thought: entrust myself to Amitabha Buddha, lean on Amitabha Buddha! And then I went back to work. What the doctor and the physiotherapist had feared simply did not happen.
I know that I cannot take my own experience and say it will be the same for everyone. Medical treatment, the surgery itself, rehabilitation, and the body's own capacity to heal—all of these matter, of course. But all along this road, I felt deeply the strength of heart and the protection that Amitabha Buddha gave me. Every step went more smoothly than I had imagined; every hurdle, I came through safely, if not without a scare. And so I want to set down all that I have experienced—as an offering of gratitude to Amitabha Buddha, and as a testimony of my own to the recitation of his name.
Lastly, I want to say: I am grateful to Amitabha Buddha for watching over me all along the way; and grateful to everyone who helped me—the doctors, the physiotherapist, my family, my friends, the Master, and the lotus friends at the Dharma center. I am grateful, too, for this fall—for even as it injured my body, it taught me what it means to "lean on" the Buddha. In the past, I may have recited the Buddha's name only with my lips; through all this, I came to understand more clearly that true recitation means, in good times and in hard times alike, entrusting body and mind completely to Amitabha Buddha, and letting our compassionate father arrange all things.
May everyone believe in the Buddha, recite his name, and lean on Amitabha Buddha. Namo Amitabha Buddha.
With palms joined, Fo Ming
Postscript
I am a vegetarian. During this period, some friends suggested that I set aside my vegetarian diet for a while, worried that I might not be getting enough nutrition—animal protein in particular—and that this would slow my recovery. In fact, being vegetarian left me neither undernourished nor slower to heal; on the contrary, it gave me a deep contentment of heart—I did not, because of my own illness, turn to the flesh of other beings to build myself up. I do not agree with that view, nor could I bear to do such a thing—for no other reason than that I do not wish to harm any sentient being. Namo Amitabha Buddha.
A Note from Master Jingben
Master Shandao explains the six-character Name thus: "'Namo' means to entrust one's life, and also carries the meaning of aspiring and directing merit toward rebirth; 'Amitabha Buddha' is the practice itself. For this reason, rebirth is assured." The Name we recite, "Namo Amitabha Buddha," is in fact nothing other than committing ourselves wholly to Amitabha Buddha. In the plainest words, to "entrust one's life" is to lean on Amitabha Buddha—not merely to reach out a hand and let him steady us, but to let the whole of oneself fall against him, entrusting body and mind to our compassionate father.
When things happen to us, what we rely on is mostly ourselves: our own ability, our own arrangements, our own sense of control. It is only when illness strikes, when we lie on the operating table, or even when we come to the very edge of life and death, that we discover not one of these can be relied upon. And Amitabha Buddha's deliverance is meant precisely for us in our helplessness: when we lean on him, Amitabha Buddha catches us; when we hand ourselves over, Amitabha Buddha is able to bear the weight.
When those who recite the Buddha's name fall ill, they still see the doctor and still go through treatment—there is nothing wrong with that at all. But for those whose hearts rest on "Namo Amitabha Buddha," because they have something to lean on, the suffering of body and mind is lightened by more than half. It is Amitabha Buddha catching our hearts—and, without our seeing how, dissolving our suffering as well.
Leaning on Amitabha Buddha is not, in fact, difficult; what is difficult is that we always think we can hold up under anything on our own. May the lotus friends who read this not wait until they have "fallen down" to learn to "lean on"; from this very day, they can entrust body and mind, completely and utterly, to Amitabha Buddha. And as for the peace and ease we receive in this life once we have leaned on him—that was within the Buddha's power all along; there is no need to seek it separately, and no need to be surprised by it. Rebirth and Buddhahood are the great matter, and even that the Buddha can accomplish; how could he fail to watch over the ups and downs, the safety and danger, of this one life? Namo Amitabha Buddha.
This article was finalized in September 2026.
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