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