In high school, Zhu excelled academically, his calm and thoughtful demeanor perhaps nurtured by Danyang’s cultural richness. He was always tinkering with small gadgets, taking them apart and reassembling them—his natural affinity for precision and focus already evident.  

    When the college application form lay on his desk after the gaokao, the cicadas outside chirped intermittently, their sound drifting in and out. At that moment, his mind was a whirlwind. He clutched the pen tightly, his hand frozen in hesitation. Memories of the Song Dynasty camphorwood Guanyin statue in Tianning Temple and the story of Jizha’s unbreakable promise flashed through his mind. His gaze lingered on the words “Clinical Medicine.” Back then, his understanding of medicine was still vague, but he sensed it was a path where he could truly help others.  

    “Studying medicine… it’s about life. It’s a profession that demands extreme responsibility and skill,” he thought. This realization felt more concrete and weighty than the initial abstract sense of nobility. The idea of using his hands and intellect to safeguard lives solidified his decision, and the pen tip pressed firmly onto the application form.  

    Little did he know how far this decision would take him.  

    In the fall of 2000, Zhu stepped onto the campus of Southeast University’s School of Medicine. The autumn in Nanjing was deepening, and the leaves of the plane trees lining Central Avenue rustled in the breeze. Sunlight filtered through the golden foliage, casting dappled shadows on the classroom desks. The medical curriculum was rigorous and often monotonous, but he soon discovered that the patience and precision honed by the ancient canal and intricate stone carvings of his hometown played a crucial role. In anatomy class, he could meticulously dissect even the tiniest nerves and blood vessels. 

    “Back then, a few like-minded classmates and I would often gather to practice, especially in the later years when we worked on projects with our professors. It was incredibly exciting,” he recalled, his eyes lighting up as if reliving those nights spent in the lab. Behind the tedious and mundane surface burned a passion for unraveling the mysteries of life. 

    What fascinated him most was the precision of interventional surgery. “We guys always liked fiddling with small gadgets,” he said with a smile, gesturing. “Navigating through blood vessels requires the kind of vision that imaging provides—like overseeing the intricate waterways of Jiangnan—while also needing the precision of a Danyang embroiderer threading a needle.” 

    This craft, it turned out, resonated deeply with his innate love for precision and meticulous work. 

    The five years at medical school passed in a flash. The sunlight still streamed through the windows, but this time it illuminated not the scholarly atmosphere of classrooms and labs but a path as a healer—one that would require both dedication and genuine skill to navigate.

    That fall, Zhu wasn’t entirely sure what kind of medical journey lay ahead of him.  

    “I felt like I was groping in the dark,” he recalled. “But I knew that innovation in medicine was inevitably the future.” 

    At the time, neurointervention in China was still in its infancy. Many advanced catheters and guidewires were not yet widely available domestically, and some devices even had to be sterilized and reused. 

    “Back then, a single catheter cost 10,000 yuan, and it wasn’t covered by medical insurance,” Zhu remembered. “Many people couldn’t afford it and had to forgo treatment. We had to sterilize and reuse catheters as much as possible. It was a frustrating situation.” 

    Zhu considers himself fortunate. His mentor, Director Li Minghua, had been exploring this field as early as the 1990s. Director Li introduced Swedish neurointerventional techniques to Shanghai, becoming one of the pioneers of neurointervention in China. 

    “My mentor was one of the first experts in neurointervention in China. The techniques he brought back led to breakthroughs in aneurysm treatment. Although the surgical risks were high at the time and the choice of devices was limited, it was his persistence and exploration that laid the groundwork for our later work.” 

    Director Li’s early efforts were not easy. Back then, many doctors relied far more on traditional surgery than on interventional treatments. Zhu recalled, “There were often debates between surgeons and interventional doctors about whether surgery or intervention was better. Surgeons argued that surgery had been practiced for decades with stable results, while interventional doctors lacked sufficient evidence-based data to prove the superiority of intervention. This was especially true in the early days of aneurysm and carotid artery stent treatments—the debates were endless.” 

    Over time, the advantages of interventional treatment became increasingly apparent. 

    “Now, 20 years later, the question has been largely settled. Minimally invasive treatment is the first choice whenever intervention can solve the problem. At least 70%-80% of aneurysms are now treated with intervention.” 

    In Zhu’s view, Director Li’s contributions extended beyond treatment—he also advanced the development and application of neurointerventional devices in China. Zhu noted, “After returning to China, my mentor had a better idea—not just to embolize the diseased aneurysm but to address the problem from the perspective of the affected blood vessel. He proposed the concept of ‘covered stent isolation and reconstruction of diseased blood vessels.’” 

    This idea was remarkably ahead of its time. 

    In 2014, when Zhu went to the Mayo Clinic in the U.S. for further training, he gained a deeper appreciation for the rapid global development of interventional therapy. Fifteen years earlier, American doctors had already recognized interventional treatment as a highly reliable trend, especially with the emergence of new devices like flow diverters, which made interventions safer and more effective. This experience further solidified Zhu’s research direction. 

    Looking back on his career, Zhu feels fortunate. From the very beginning, he witnessed the allure of interventional therapy. “I started working with neurointervention in 2005. Although conditions were tough back then, those early experiences gave us invaluable insights and laid a solid foundation for our later work. Now that interventional therapy has become mainstream, I feel deeply gratified.”

    From that moment, Zhu Yueqi felt deeply that if there could be more domestically produced, high-quality, and stable medical devices, it would be a tremendous blessing for patients. 

    Perhaps it was this aspiration that drove his mentor, Li Minghua, to further develop devices like covered stents to address the challenges of treating complex aneurysms. 

    “At the time, under Director Li’s leadership, we began independently developing new devices. I remember we conducted animal experiments on covered stents using over 100 dogs,” Zhu recalled. “Three or four of us, master’s and doctoral students, practically lived in the lab every day.” His voice carried a hint of nostalgia. “Sometimes, to complete the animal experiments, we’d work until two or three in the morning.” 

    The lab lights often burned late into the night. With the support of industry partners, the team repeatedly analyzed the thickness of stent struts and membrane materials in both in vitro and in vivo models, searching for that perfect balance. 

    “It was like dancing on a tightrope—if the stent was too thick, the system would become rigid; if the membrane was too thin, it could easily rupture,” Zhu explained. They conducted hundreds of experiments, ruining countless prototypes, all to solve two core problems: first, how to accurately position the device at the lesion site, and second, ensuring the covered membrane outside the stent could deploy smoothly. 

    Zhu still remembers the day the first-generation covered stent entered clinical trials. Director Li Minghua used their developed stent to treat a patient with an aneurysm. On the display screen, the stent slowly expanded, perfectly conforming to the diseased blood vessel. At that moment, Zhu knew all the team’s efforts had been worth it. 

    “The success of the clinical trials made me eager for the new product to hit the market as soon as possible. But because it was an innovative product with no comparable foreign technology, the regulatory authorities required us to provide long-term data,” Zhu recalled. This meant the team had to reorganize nearly a decade’s worth of case data. During those days, he and his team often worked late into the night, compiling data, analyzing results, and writing reports. 

    Their hard work paid off. In 2014, the covered stent finally received approval for market release. 

    “Innovation truly takes a decade of grinding to forge a single sword,” Zhu reflected. “At that moment, I felt this sword could finally save more patients.” 

    Looking back, Zhu recalled the hardships and challenges of the team’s relentless pursuit of innovation. It required deep involvement from doctors, not just sketching designs for engineers to develop. “At the time, we collaborated with technical companies, and the engineers continuously improved the designs based on our feedback. They had to keep refining until we were satisfied,” he said. 

    “We also understood that in independent innovation, out of ten ideas, only one might succeed,” Zhu added, his tone tinged with resignation. “The initial idea might seem great, but actually implementing it is often much harder.” 

    In Zhu’s view, the biggest challenge in medical device innovation is time. Clinicians are already extremely busy, and finding time to engage in the intersection of medicine and engineering is a luxury. 

    “What kept us going was passion. If you’re deeply interested in and excited about a product, you’re willing to spend the time to refine it. That’s when you find joy in the process.” 

    From the initial exploration to today’s breakthroughs, Zhu is particularly moved. Each breakthrough felt like climbing a new peak—though the journey was arduous, reaching the summit brought immense excitement, as if seeing a broader horizon. 

    Today, beyond covered stents, more and more device companies are offering higher-quality and cost-effective instruments. All of this represents a leap forward in China’s medical devices and interventional technology. 

    “I believe that in the near future, as Chinese doctors become more internationally recognized, these technologies will gradually be embraced by patients worldwide.”

    In the winter of 2014, Zhu Yueqi stood in the corridor of the Mayo Clinic, gazing through the floor-to-ceiling windows at the snowy landscape unique to Minnesota. 

    It was his first time stepping into one of the world’s best hospitals. He couldn’t help but wonder, how did such a great hospital emerge in the frigid, harsh climate of Minnesota? 

    “What exactly is the difference between us and the top-tier institutions in the U.S.?” Years later, recalling his first impressions of Mayo, Zhu’s tone still carried a hint of curiosity. 

    During his first observation of a surgery at Mayo, Zhu felt the immediate impact of cultural and medical practice differences. 

   The attending U.S. professor was guiding him through an aneurysm embolization procedure. “His first sentence left a deep impression on me,” Zhu recalled. “He said, ‘Don’t mind if we’re slow—this is our pace.’” These words were like a stone dropped into water, sending ripples through Zhu’s mind. In the Mayo operating room, Zhu realized for the first time that the differences between Eastern and Western medical philosophies weren’t just about techniques but also about the understanding of “medical safety.” 

    “The American doctors prioritize safety above all else, not efficacy or efficiency,” Zhu explained. “The amount of coil they use for aneurysm embolization might seem insufficient to us Chinese doctors, but their adherence to hospital protocols is admirable.” 

    “American doctors have a very solid theoretical foundation,” Zhu admitted. “They are well-versed in the latest developments of every technology internationally.” He gave an example: “In thrombectomy techniques, American doctors can analyze the pros and cons of each method in detail and make the best choice based on that.” However, this theoretical advantage might not translate as obviously in practical skills compared to Chinese doctors. 

    “In terms of volume, a single U.S. medical center might handle only a few dozen thrombectomy cases a year, whereas in China, many of our hospitals perform over 200 such surgeries annually,” Zhu said, his tone tinged with pride. Perhaps it’s this difference in volume that makes Chinese doctors more technically proficient and confident in their operations. Zhu clearly remembers a U.S. doctor who lectured for an hour on thrombectomy techniques at an international conference but had relatively limited hands-on experience. 

    “This isn’t uncommon in the U.S.,” Zhu added. At an international conference, when Zhu presented data on performing 500 surgeries in a year, his American counterparts immediately showed great interest and gained newfound respect for Chinese doctors. 

    Zhu believes that, over time, more and more international colleagues will come to appreciate the reliable diagnostic and treatment capabilities of Chinese doctors. This is closely tied to the vast number of surgeries Chinese doctors perform and their proactive spirit of medical innovation. 

    Moreover, Zhu feels that Chinese doctors should showcase more details and innovations in handling complex cases. These innovations often resonate with foreign doctors because, once they understand the technical nuances, they develop greater trust in Chinese physicians. 

    “Chinese doctors will ultimately step onto the global stage,” Zhu concluded. “Through the exchange and collision of Eastern and Western medical practices, we will find our unique position and be embraced by the world. Shanghai is one of China’s most international cities, and I believe our generation of doctors has a mission—to bring Chinese medicine to the world.”