Year Five

Testicular Cancer

In 2008, five years ago to this month I had surgery to remove a tumor from my body. The eventual analysis of the tumor's cells showed that it was cancerous, and the doctors said I needed chemotherapy.  At this point I considered getting treated back home. That route, however, was an impossibility due to my lack of insurance in America. So I remained in Japan and underwent three rounds of chemo. I could not work during that time. Nor did I have an apartment because my company had forced me out of my former place once I stopped teaching. To get by while I was in and out of the hospital I relied on the kindness of friends. From one day to the next I slept on a floor. But that didn't bother me. I was happy just to have somewhere--anywhere to spend the night.

Post surgery

This period of treatment was a major downer. I had so many dreams and hopes shattered by the onset of my illness. For one, I had planned to soon start a Master's course, but that would not happen for several more years because of the financial setback the cancer situation created. At the time it seemed like it might never come to pass. The future had shifted from a firm and tangible horizon to a dark, cruel shroud of uncertainty. That was for me the most difficult thing to handle. I had lost control over my life and the direction in which it was headed. Slighted by my own health, I did not know when I could work again, or even where for that matter.  But I was certain I would become better. I told myself from the beginning no matter how dire my circumstances became I would fight and pull through. A person with operable cancer has little other choice than to think that. Listen to the doctors, get the treatment, and hope for the best.

After four months my chemo ended. I had follow up tests and they showed that I was in the clear. I could now return to work, but another three months passed until a position opened up in Gifu. It was there that I rebuilt my life. I threw myself into my teaching and saved up money to travel and do the other things I enjoy. However, the threat of recurrence still loomed heavily on my thoughts. To be sure I was free of the illness I went to the hospital every few months. A blood test checked for tumor markers and a CT scan showed if any irregular growths had developed in my abdominal lymph nodes.  Prior to my original treatment it was there that the doctors had told me the cancer metastasized.

These trips to the hospital have continued for years. In fact, this very morning I went in for the results of some tests I had undergone two weeks ago. At this point the possibility of recurrence is very low, yet recent stomach pains had me worried. The cause could be any number of things but in the back of my mind I had feared it was from the swelling of my lymph nodes. So I was quite nervous while I waited to be called into the doctor's office. Once inside, he asked me to take a seat and brought the results of my tests onto his computer screen. Doctors in these situations never get to the heart of the matter right away. They show you numbers and images that are indecipherable to the common man, and say something along the line of "this *data* here, and this *image*, and oh yeah, this *information* too, well, it all indicates....."  and that's when they finally share the verdict. As I leaned forward on the edge of my seat, the doctor told me I was still cancer free.

What he couldn't tell me was why I had stomach pains. I didn't care. I breathed a sigh of relief and left the office feeling like I was emerging from a large, seemingly endless cave in which I had lost my way.  Outside the sun greeted me with a kiss of warmth. The sky was blue, the trees shone green and all was right in the world. I hopped in my car and drove straight to work, arriving in time for second period. The class began with greetings. "Good morning," I said to the thirty something teenagers seated before me. "How are you?"

"I'm fine, thank you" said a boy.

"I'm hungry," said another. "And you?"

"I'm great." For once I really meant it. "Five years! Five years! Five years!" echoed the words inside. Never had they sounded so sweet.

Making Sense of It

As I type this I still have so many thoughts running rampant through my head. The past, the present, and the future, in my mind they've always been anchored against the tide of cancer. I catch my reflection on this computer monitor before me. In it I see the man I am, one shaped by an experience I hope none of my friends will have to suffer through.

Life is not so kind though. A few months ago Vicky, a British girl I had befriended in Gifu, was stricken with breast cancer. When I found out my heart went out to her. We met the night before she left for London and it was so difficult to say goodbye. I knew very well what awaited her, and I wished at that moment I could have frozen time to spare her from the pain and anguish. But I am no such magician, and I could do no more than to hope that the forces at play grant her a quick recovery. She continues with her treatment to this day. From what I understand it is going well. In time she will be better, and then it will be a long walk forward until she too steps outside the shadow that the threat of recurrence casts.

Before Vicky left

I think of another friend at this time as well. His name is Ryota. We met at the hospital in the same ward undergoing the same treatment for the same type of cancer. We were both 29 as well. What were the odds? Needless to say we became fast friends.

Because my family was in America at the time they never visited me. Mom wanted to come but I talked her out of it. I didn't want her flying half way around the world only to sit by a hospital bed. "Wait till I'm better," I told her. "Then we can do something fun." That said, I felt a certain loneliness being separated from my family during such a trying time. But then appeared Ryota and his family. I remember when his mother came into the ward and saw me lying in the bed next to her son. Ryota introduced me, and she did not hesitate--not for one moment--to take me in beneath the fold of her warmth and affections. And like that I became an adopted son of the Yamigawa family.

With Ryota, his daughter and mom

My friendship with Ryota is a special one. When people ask how we met, I always tell them, "it was through the most unusual of circumstances." I say it with a laugh because its one of the few occasions that I can use the expression truthfully and without hyperbole. And for five years now we've been friends. Following our dismissal from the hospital, I've seen him when I can. The last time was in February. I went to Ishikawa prefecture where Ryota is a train conductor. He has a wife named Kumiko and a young daughter Minori. Had Ryota succumbed to the illness they would have been at a great loss. Me too, for I absolutely love the guy.

Towards the end of my stay we visited a hot spring facility. Ryota and I sat shoulder deep in a large pool of steaming water. Behind us a wide window faced east into the night. Flakes of snow collided against the pane, but you'd have thought it was raining because of how quickly they melted. In this setting we talked, and the conversation turned decidedly profound, similar to one that takes place around a camp fire at night, or on the clear mountaintop.

"Life is a gift," I said to him, "But we sometimes fail to appreciate it. You know, like so many other things given to us."

"I can't disagree with that."

"Well, after the cancer do you think you value your life more?"

"In some ways perhaps."

"For example?"

"I may have never seen my daughter grow. I may have never again pulled back on the brake of a train and felt it yield. Those are the things I live for. I realize that more than before."

"I know what you mean. It could be something as simple as the sunset. When I see one I know it will be there every evening without fail. But one day I won't be alive to witness those colors, that brilliance of light. I understand that more now too. And the sunset seems so much more beautiful because of it."

Ryota leaned back deeper into the water and tilted his head upward. "It's good to be alive," he said with a sigh.

"It is."

Still going strong

The Simple Truth

Life is precious, yes. But everyone understands that. The experience with cancer taught me another, more important lesson. That of freedom and choice. We live to do the things we want when we want, and in that we find happiness. But when we are no longer free to exercise that control over our lives we feel trapped and frustrated. For me, when I had cancer I was in such a position, and it made me miserable for eight months. So once I became better and was free to act as I chose, I made good on the opportunity.

Even now the drive to enjoy life burns strong in my heart. There is so much to do and see, and if I don't act out, I feel like I am watching this existence of mine flicker by, while piece by piece it vanishes meaninglessly into the past. Before I did not think this way. I had become somewhat complacent. Now I am awake. Beauty, majesty and good times can be discovered at every turn, but we must first take the steps to get there. To an extent we are free to do so though not all of us choose to exercise that freedom. Life becomes routine. The years blend together. Only a few highlights stand out. Then we realize decades have passed and with them those freedoms that only young age and good health could afford us, at which point it is too late to do a damned thing about it. So we try to take satisfaction in what we've gained along the way and project our hopes onto others. That though is not the path for me. 

Life is in the freedom of the moment. Cancer has shown me that. I have more focus, volition and urgency in my choices than before because of it. There are no guarantees to count on. I must make the most of what I have now...while I still can.

So much to see and do

Golden Week

Vacation Time

Golden week this year was good. Then again, it's always good. I first stayed at a cabin in Nara prefecture with friends where we had a BBQ. The next day we went hiking in the mountains. After that I was thinking I'd spend the remaining two days of the holiday in the area on my own. But on second thought I returned home. I was stepping off the train when it occurred to me to drive south. So the next morning I got in my car and I was off.

Cabin We Stayed At 

BBQ Time

The local highways ran from my town of Toba into adjacent Shima. Then it was on to Minami Ise. I stopped the car whenever something caught my eye to take pictures. At some points I also veered off the main highway onto roads that went to the small port villages. Again it was about taking pictures and getting a feel for the area.

Things did not get interesting until I reached the town of Kihoku. And by town I mean a large expanse of land with a few villages scattered along the main roads. All else was rugged coastline and hills. The sun had now begun to set and I was not at all interested in returning home. In the back of my car sat a thirty dollar tent I 'd got the summer before at a Wal-Mart in America. I did not know where I would be camping that night, and I was not too worried about it. The matter would sort itself out in good time.

Town in Minami Ise 

Flying Carp

Pulling Poles

At yet another port town, I passed by a hot spring facility. I would definitely be going for a soak, but not before seeing the beach that road signs indicated was another kilometer away. This beach it turned out was nothing impressive. I was about to get back in my car and drive away when I saw a local tourism board with a map. The large, colorful board showed all the nearby places of interest. One was an observation deck. According to its description the deck offered exceptional views of the sunrise. I made up my mind to camp there and wake up in time to see my first sunrise of the year.

The hot spring facility I had passed by early was rather crowded with holiday travelers. Still I went in and soaked. As always I had to do so in intervals. The water was much too hot to tolerate for more than a few minutes at a time. To cool off I needed to get up on the edge of the bath and because I was the only foreigner present I drew some stares. But I did not care. After eight years in Japan I am used to it, even when sitting naked surrounded by a bunch of other naked guys.

For me the best part of visiting a hot spring is at the end. Once I am dried off and feeling refreshed I'll sit in a coin operated massage chair. The facility had one in the lobby. 100 yen bought me a 10-minute full body massage. I sat with my eyes closed while the mechanical fingers of the chair dug into my neck, back and calves, humming and clicking with every movement. When time was up the chair fell silent. I got up, cricked my neck and strolled over to a vending machine. A bottle of cold, whole fat milk was exactly what I needed, and that is exactly what I got.

Rice Seedlings

Hot Spring

Starry Night

Night greeted me outside. I now wanted to get to Tatsukayama Observation Deck. I sat in my car trying to remember the roads on the tourist board map. Was the turn off after the next tunnel on the highway, or the second? I don't use a smart phone or navigation system of any type when I drive, and this often makes it hard to find places. It’s both good and bad. I sometimes lose my way but the effort makes the journey more memorable, and I might discover a little something interesting I'd otherwise not have chanced upon. In the case of the observation deck I missed the sign that indicated where to turn off the highway. It was by then pitch black and the flow of traffic on the highway had been pushing me along faster than I wanted to drive. I finally stopped at a gas station and asked an old attendant in an orange uniform for help. He explained that I had gone to far and thanks to his directions I was able to backtrack to the right location.

The night was moonless, and in the rural town of Kihoku, little to no light polluted the sky. I stepped out of the car at the observation deck's parking lot and gasped at the sight of the stars overhead. To the left a path zigzagged up the hillside. It had no lighting and a canopy of trees and thick foliage casted endless shadows. I made my way up through the darkness. Being there alone did not make it any easier yet I was resolved to scout out the observation deck above. After ten minutes I emerged into a hilltop clearing. There stood the deck, shaped oddly like a UFO. A grass lawn surrounded it and I knew that was where I'd set up my tent. However, I first wanted to take pictures of the night sky. Without my tripod this was no easy matter. I placed my camera on the ground and angled it upward with my wallet. But because it was so dark I did not realize I still had a circular polarizer filter on the lens. The filter works like a pair sunglasses. It blocks out light but provides better highlights and deeper colors. The problem was that less light reaching the camera sensor made it more difficult to photograph the stars. Still, in spite of my slip up, I managed some shots, albeit noisy ones due to the high ISO setting I used.

Observation Deck

Next, I pitched the tent and got in with my sleeping bag. Wind beat at the nylon sides and the leaves of nearby trees rustled. At times I also thought I heard an animal growl or footsteps in the distance, but I knew better than to become frightened. Experience has taught me that all manner of strange sounds fill the night air. They are perfectly normal. I've also learned it is best to use a mat when camping. More than providing comfort as a soft surface, a mat acts as a thermal buffer between the body and the ground. Unfortunately, I did not have one. I soon realized I was not going to get any sleep lying on the cold ground, so back to the car I went and in the driver's seat I slept.

At 4:30AM my alarm sounded. I journeyed back up the hill. In the blue haze of predawn the zigzag of a path no longer appeared sinister as it had the night before. At the observation deck I faced west and sized up the bay. Islands big and small carved black chunks from the pink, glossy surface below. A blood red sun came up within minutes. It slowly climbed above the water and the color becoming more of an orange the higher it went. Small boats moved in the distance. They were dragging nets along the water and their wakes created v-shaped ripples. The scene was spectacular to behold and joy to photograph.

Before Sunrise 

Around 5AM 

Tent

Last Shot

Sacred Route

Many pictures later, I returned to the car and continued south still not knowing how far I would go. The highway was empty at such an early hour. It continued on through small villages and water logged rice fields toward the next city of Owase. I thought I might stop off there. With only 10km I spotted a sign on the highway that marked a trailhead for the part of the Old Kumano Road. I pulled over, and examined the map beside the sign. It showed that the trail led into Owase. The Kumano Road was also labeled one of the Sacred Pilgrimage Routes of the Kii Peninsula and a UNESCO World Heritage Site. I opted to leave the car behind and make my way through the forest and hills.

Unlike other hiking trails in Japan, large flat stones cover the Old Kumano Road. For centuries, before modern transportation, people walked the path between the towns of the south and the sacred shrine of Ise Jingu to the north. As I went along the stones underfoot appeared smooth and worn from heavy use. A few other hikers came the opposite way, all of them Japanese people over the age of 50. They politely greeted me with a "Good morning." A few kilometers into the forest the trail peaked and dropped in elevation. A second dirt trail branched off in this spot and led to the top of a mountain. Why not go check it out I thought. This new trail had no stones, and it ascended at a sharp incline. I was sweaty and heavily panting by the time I reached the summit. A large, rocky ledge offered a clear view to the west and southwest. The port city of Owase shone pale yellow in the morning sun. Its myriad of rooftops and grid like roads cut a swath inland between verdant mountains. I took my obligatory photos and then it was back down the mountain. 

Map Post

Way Up

Owase City

Roots

On the way I came upon a man I had overtaken earlier. He was taking a rest. I smiled and said something to the effect of, "Nice morning for a hike eh?"

He agreed. The man was probably in his mid 50s. He said he had come from Owase. That was his hometown, but for the past decade he had been going around the world on a fishing boat.

"The boat's currently docked in Brazil for repairs," he said. "So I thought I'd take the opportunity to visit home. It's been over two years."

From what he told me he was content to hike the Old Kumano Road every morning during his stay, much as he had when he was a boy. Life on a boat afforded no such opportunities, and in spite of visiting ports across all the continents he was seldom granted shore leave.

I shook my head. "What a shame."

"The company I work for is based in Tokyo," he added, as if that explained why it had such a lame, strict policy towards its employees.

As we talked more I asked him what there was to see in Owase.

"Nothing. It's just a fishing port."

That did not discourage me from wanting to see it. Since we were both headed that way I suggested that we walk together.

"I think it best you go ahead alone," he smiled. "I move at a slow pace."

I thought I might take a picture of the man. I asked if that would be okay. He declined with a sideways wave of the hand across the face. "Alright then," I said and hiked on.

The trail descended and the forest eventually cleared. Houses and roads marked the north side of Owase. The Old Kumano Road continued on through the city and into the mountains to the south. I did not care to follow it much further. My plan was to take some photos and then return to my car. I had also wanted to eat at a restaurant. Owase is renowned for the local seafood. It is one of the few places in Japan where they serve grilled sunfish. A friend had once told me the fish is delicious and has the texture of pork. Unfortunately, it was still too early in the day. None of the restaurants were yet open for lunch. Rather than wait I went back into the forest and hills.  The Old Kumano Road was now inundated with hikers and when I reached my car the dirt lot brimmed with vehicles. A local tourism society had also set up an information table nearby.

"You want me to take your picture?" asked one of the staff.

"Yeah, sure."

He handed me an old straw hat. I place it on my head, stood beside the sign that marked the trail, and posed.

I took back my camera. "Here have this too," said the man, giving me a guide pamphlet. Back in my car I flipped through it and discovered that there was a narrow river ravine only a half hour away. Since it was only noon I started up the engine and drove inland.

Port

Beer Vending Machine

Going Back

Done

Under the Water

Spring this year in Japan has been unusually cold. But on this final day of Golden Week, as I went along the river, the warm weather signified a definitive turn for the better. I was so pleased with the change I stripped down to my underwear and slipped into a pool of swirling water. The water was ice cold though. I endured by moving my limbs to generate warmth. On the rocks near the water surface I noticed black tadpoles. They were taking refuge from the currents and basking in the bright midday sun. At the opposite end of the pool two small waterfalls dropped down from a rocky overhang. I swam over and sat lotus style beneath the larger of the two. I was determined to take 100 deep, focused breaths while the frigid water pummeled my head and shoulders. But the attempt ended in failure. I became so light headed that I gave up halfway for fear of fainting.

Tadpoles

Glorious Falls

I don't know what it is with me and waterfalls. Every time I come across one I am tempted to sit or stand beneath it. Perhaps the experience makes me feel like a samurai of old, when they trained in a similar manner.

Whatever the reason I came out of the water at last content with the trip. I sat on the whitewashed rocks and slowly dried off, all the while thinking of nature and its grand majesty. And so ended my excursion south. Once I returned to my car, I drove straight home.

Spring in Japan at Last

Quirky

The Island

I must take a ferry to an island on certain days to teach at one of three schools. Two are elementary schools, and one is a junior high school. The elementary schools are on opposite sides in their respective port towns. The two towns do not get along because some twenty years ago there was a bitter battle over local fishing rights. This means that the children from one elementary school won't go to the junior high school on the island. It is in the rival port town and they will instead take a ferry to the mainland, and then ride a bus to another junior high school at which I also teach English. It's all very complicated.

Gathering Seaweed at the Port

The story I shall now tell takes place on this island. At one of the elementary schools, on my first day there, I noticed during lunchtime that some of the children had unusual names. I brought this up with the lunch lady. A nearby 4th grader overheard us. He asked if I thought his name was unusual too. I said no. Then he asked if the boy sitting across from us had an unusual name, or the girl behind him, or the lunch lady. I played along a bit but soon ignored him. His interest in me did not fade at this point. He continued to hound me with questions about how I ate my food. Why for example did I dip my bread in my soup? And how come I drank my 200ml milk box in one go?

Two weeks later I returned to the school for the second time. I did not teach the 4th grade boy that day and was not seated at his table during mealtime. In the afternoon for 5th period the entire school--staff and students--went outside to pick onions. The students numbered around forty, and the principal lined them up in rows. "These onions are important," she said. "We will use them in our school lunches."  Another teacher added that the kids should pick them with care. Wanting to put in my two cents, I said that onions are the most widely eaten vegetable in the world. No one seemed impressed by this knowledge so I slumped back in embarrassment for having opened my mouth.

As the children entered the onions patch they went for the big ones first. They plucked them by their green stalks, and out the vegetables popped from the sheet of black plastic which covered the soil. After a few minutes the students shouted "lizard, lizard." I glanced over and a lizard was running on the plastic in a frenzy, searching for cover. It leapt onto the grass beside the onion patch and moved in my direction. I was going to pick it up and place it in some nearby bushes, but before I could a kid, the boy from before, stomped down on the reptile with his foot. "What are you doing?" I cried out. It was too late. The damage was done. The poor lizard's leg had become mangled. I scooped up the creature and saw that its lower belly was also bleeding. Carefully, I set it beneath the bushes and with a limp, the animal scampered away. The creature I knew would soon be dead, for nature does not make allowances for the weak and crippled.

I went right to the boy and looked him in the eye. I was so furious I did not know what to say. Finally, I asked, "Why did you do that?"

He shrugged and turned away to pick more onions. That made me more furious. I wanted to pull him aside and really let him have it. But with all the other teachers present I decided it better not to make a scene.

"Did you see what that boy did?" I later asked the principal. The kids had already returned to class, and a few of us adults were peeling the brown layer off the onions they had picked.

She nodded. "The lizard will probably be okay."

"I don't think so," I said. And with those words the topic died.

This matter, however, was far from over. The next week I did not return to the elementary school. But I did go to the junior high on the island. I always finish at 3:50 in time to catch the 4:15 ferry. On that day I had it in mind to explore the island rather than go straight home. According to a map I had picked up at the ferry terminal, there was an observation deck somewhere in the green hills that formed the island's interior. I found the trail up, and snapped pictures of the port below. It was oddly quiet, a sharp contrast to the commotion that had taken place when I had arrived that morning on the ferry. Boatloads of seaweed had then lined the waterfront, and locals had sat sorting the fronds from their stalks.

Another trail down led me to behind some houses. I wandered the narrow streets taking pictures of the tightly packed port town. An old lady smiled at me and made conversation. I talked with her about a drama they had filmed on the island in the summer. After we went our separate ways I somehow ended up in a noodle shop that the same woman ran with her husband. The worn, wooden walls were lined with decorative shells, conches and taxidermized fish. The old couple's son was there too, and he was the most talkative of the lot. He told me all manner of things, and asked what I thought of the local kids. "Oh they're really cute, and well behaved," I said.

"Yes. That's because here on the island we make sure they are raised proper. If anyone sees a child doing something wrong they stop and say something. It doesn't matter whose kid it is."

"I see." And then I remembered the boy, and what he had done. I explained to the man how I had failed to set him straight.

"You may have wanted to yell at him," the man said. "But that is not the right approach. It's better to show a child the error of their ways. And with that boy you could have explained that a lizard too has a life, and that life is precious. It doesn't matter if it belongs to an insect or a flower. It's something we should respect and preserve."

Such wisdom, I thought.

Port in the Afternoon

Path Down

Back Street

Puffer Fish

The Story Continues

Another two weeks passed and I was back at the elementary school. I had by then forgotten about the lizard incident and the talk with the man. But when lunch time came around, there I was sitting across from the 4th grade boy. He stared at my goatee and pointed. Why did it have gray hairs, he asked.

"Because I'm getting old," I said. Now it was time for a question of my own. "Last time I was here, we picked onions. And there was that lizard. You never told me. Why did you step on it?"

The boy became quiet. He looked blankly at his lunch tray while I waited for an answer.

"Fine," I said. "Don't tell me, but know this." I next repeated what the man at the noodle shop had told me to say. "Can you understand that?" I finished. The boy nodded. "Good, now eat your lunch."

A moment later I used my chopsticks to remove the shrimp from my bowl of cream soup.

The boy leaned over and asked, "You don't like shrimp?"

"Nope."

"What else don't you like?"

"A lot of things."

"How about dragon meat?"

"It doesn't exist."

"But if it did, would you eat it?"

I gave the prospect a moment's thought. "Yeah, why not. It would probably taste good."

"Yeah, it would huh? I'd eat right off the bone." The boy took an imaginary chunk of dragon limb into his hands and bit at the air. 

That was worth a laugh.

So another quirky episode had played out in the life of Phil the English teacher, and as I reflect on it, I wonder if I've been doing the same thing for too long. A company supervisor had once told me that teachers who stay on for years eventually grow jaded and complacent. Yet among those kids I felt happy. Maybe I am getting older and more gray, but the faces of my students stay the same age. I've taught so many. Perhaps 3,000. And how many have I made laugh with the same jokes and silly gestures? How many have I chased around during a game of tag?  How many odd lunchtime conversations have there been? Those are questions I can't even begin to guess at, but one thing is for certain. It's been a hell of a ride getting to where I now am.

Another Day Ends on the Island