One birthday, two half-decades

This article was written on my birthday six years ago, 7/24/2013.  The original writing was in Chinese, and now a English translation is available to my readers.
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Today is my birthday, a co-worker Vickie in my company asked me how I planned to celebrate; I told her I was going to the hospital for infusion, because today also happens to be the day of my weekly visit to the clinical trial department of City of Hope hospital, where I’ll receive new trial medications for my stage IV kidney cancer. In other words, I’m spending my birthday at the hospital.

There’s nothing particularly special about the day I was born, but there are two five-year periods relating to it which could be considered the most important - and oddest - periods of my life.

61 years ago, when I was no more than a few-month-old fetus sitting peacefully in my young mother’s womb, I accompanied her into Qingdao’s heavily-guarded, terrifying Licun Chinese Prison. This prison was built in 1903 by a German company Baufirma F. H. Schmidt (Chinese name Guangbao Company). It was originally for the purpose to imprison Chinese criminals during the German occupation of Qingdao. After Chinese communists won the civil war in 1949, it became a notorious facility to imprison the “counter-revolutionists” in Qingdao.   

Because Licun Prison had no medical facilities, the day I was born, my mother was “humanely” sent back home to give birth to me, and then she was taken back to Licun Prison to continue serving her jail term.  

I came wailing into this world 61 years ago today; during my first five years of life I didn’t have a single opportunity to suckle my mother’s milk, and was instead brought up by the loving Christian sisters of the church. It wasn’t until five years later that my mother left prison, and I was once again able to return to her embrace.

What was it that created this tragedy, forcing a young mother to leave her own flesh and blood and sit in a gloomy prison for five long years, experiencing torment to both her physical and mental well-being? During those turbulent years, with China fighting through a seemingly interminable class struggle, I was never given a single explanation.

When my mother died in China 25 years ago, I began investigating the secret of that tragic experience from our past; after some effort, I finally managed to uncover the startling secret of the day of my birth.

In the early 1950’s, aside from raising children and being a housewife, my mother also gave sermons at “God’s Church”, a small Christian church on Guangyao Road (now Dengzhou Road) in Qingdao. One Sabbath Sunday, an elder of the church brought an unfamiliar youth to meet her after she’d finished her sermon. This youth claimed to be a student at Qingdao’s naval academy, and needed 30 yuan for train tickets to visit his elderly, ailing mother in Sichuan province. My kindhearted mother felt no suspicion at all, promptly donating 30 yuan to this youth she’d never met before.

According to the sentence the Qingdao People’s Court gave to my mother at the time, this youth was actually someone who’d been conscripted by the Nationalist Party and sent to the Qingdao Naval Academy. The Communist People’s Liberation Army had taken over this national military academy after establishing themselves in Qingdao in 1949, but this youth who’d been forcefully conscripted into the army was unable to bear the torment of homesickness, and had come up with the idea of abandoning his post to return home. This naive young man never would have imagined that with this hasty action, not only would he have committed the “heinous” crime of desertion, but would also involve my mother, who’d so kindly donated his travel fare.

Just like this, because my mother had given a stranger an insignificant 30 yuan (approximately equal to 5 US dollars today), she received a criminal charge of “Undermining the Chinese People’s Navy” and a sentence of five years in prison. And I, sitting in her womb, spent most of my ten months as a fetus in that gloomy and terrifying Licun Prison.

My mother, because she’d donated five dollars, suffered five years in prison. Having followed her in as a fetus, I was separated from her embrace immediately after birth, unable to see her for the first five years of my life. It’s hard to say how many similarly unbelievable tragedies happened during the years of that “red terror”...

Coincidentally, this same day five years ago was also the day I left the hospital after my very first surgery to remove my left kidney, as well as my first post-surgery birthday. From that point onward I’ve treated this day as my second birth, the day I began a new life. And the seasons have now passed five times in this new life.

At first, the surgeon had surgically removed both a fist-sized malignant tumor and my left kidney, all in one sweep. Unexpectedly, my fate was to be an unfortunate one; barely four months after the first surgery, the cancer tumors rapidly spread again, soon invading upon one of the most important organs in the human body—my pancreas. When Dr. Smith, the head surgeon at UCLA’s urology department, told me the grievous news that the cancer had spread to my pancreas, I burst into tears, my mind flooded with grief.

The overwhelming majority of patients diagnosed with pancreatic cancer are already in the late stages, beyond any viable help, and can do nothing but wait helplessly for death. Over 90% of patients will die within the year, with only 10-25% of them being lucky enough for the doctor to consider surgery - though the recovery rate for those who do get surgery is very low. As I took my first step towards death, God extended a hand of His compassion. In the City of Hope Hospital, a surgeon, Doctor Eilenhower, consented to perform a complex surgery known as the Whipple procedure on me. Dr. Eilenhower was candid with me about this Whipple procedure, which has a five year survival rate of up to 25%.  Because the pancreas was hidden deep in a person’s upper-left abdominal cavity, surgical removal of the organ was extremely difficult; throughout the history of his own surgical career, he’d only performed Whipple surgery for pancreatic tumors eight or nine times. Although he didn’t have an absolute handle of the situation, he was still willing to exhaust all his knowledge and experience in putting me under his care.

This was both an extremely difficult and extremely dangerous surgery. Dr. Eilenhower displayed his top-grade surgical skills and plentiful clinical experience during an operation which extended to become six hours long. The pancreas is a long, flat gland of tiny size, around 12cm in length and 2.5cm in width. It weighs only 80 grams. Because it’s positioned in the back of the abdomen’s upper-left side, a pancreatectomy is like penetrating into a tiger’s den, faced with a myriad of difficult challenges as you cross the liver, stomach, duodenum, spleen—layer upon layer of internal organs. To get straight to the point, Dr. Eilenhower needed to fish out all my innards in order to reach that position deep in the back of my abdominal cavity, just to start the task of removing my pancreas.

Just like that, one morning around six months after my first surgery, my naked body was once more pushed onto a cold and frightening operating table. As the anesthetist began administering anesthesia, I couldn’t resist silently letting out a tearful sigh: When I was a baby, I arrived wailing and naked in this world; after experiencing a short and bumpy series of changes in this mortal life, I was now naked and lingering around the valley of death.

The anesthesia slowly flowed into my veins. As I was on the verge of sinking into unconsciousness, a solemn Bible verse appeared within my head: “My Father, if it is possible, may this cup be taken from me. Yet not as I will, but as you will.” (Matthew 26:39)

Through the haze, I could feel myself slowly recovering consciousness. I woke from my anesthesia-induced sleep to find myself in the intensive care ward of the surgical unit. The first thing to appear in my cloudy vision was what appeared to be a pair of angelic silhouettes in red. As the blurry images gradually became clearer, I saw that it was my wife and my sister Angela, wearing red clothes and smiling. The clock hanging on the wall behind them silently pointed out that six hours had passed. My sixth sense immediately told me that God’s graceful hand had not taken my “cup” away. I was still alive: The surgery was a success!

Sixty-one years ago today, my wrongfully imprisoned mother gave birth to me, and the two of us suffered through five years of separation. Five years ago today, God guided me out of the valley of death, giving me a second chance at life, and caused the doctor’s original one-year sentence to extend all the way to today. Having experienced the unrestrained ups and downs of life, I now hold a profound belief—that enlightenment is everywhere, and that this day is no coincidence.

Five years have passed, and most of my fellow kidney cancer patients have since left this mortal coil, making me an incredibly rare surviving “endangered species” in the eyes of the doctors. My case has become a never-before-seen spectacle among clinical trial reports.

This morning, as I was getting an IV for the latest clinical trial medication, I remembered the conversation I’d had with my co-worker Vickie the night before: How should I celebrate the day that’s given me two different chances at life? A powerful desire to write suddenly arose within me. So I wrote this entire essay in one go while still in the hospital - partly in remembrance of my beloved mother, as well as that previous generation of faithful servants of God who, together with her, had lived through those same preposterous years of being forced to suffer because of their faith; but also in part to recount the amazing grace that the Lord has bestowed upon me, encouraging me to appreciate every day that God has allowed me to stay on this earth, passing on God’s love with the best of my ability to all around me who may be in need of it, and sowing seeds of hope and faith within their hearts.

Originally written in Chinese by Joseph Chang on July 24, 2013

Translated to English by Ida von Mizaner on July 16, 2019

Edited by Joseph Chang on July 24, 2019

A Casual Essay of Father’s Day

The week before Father’s Day, my wife and I spent the weekend in a seaside apartment in San Diego, also taking the opportunity to celebrate an early Father’s Day with my oldest son Luke, who works in the area. I very much treasure every beautiful moment I get to spend with my children like this.

We had lunch at Mimi’s Cafe. It’s an American chain restaurant we used to visit quite often, because we enjoy its French aesthetic and food. The restaurant was originally founded by an American aviator named Arthur Simms, who’d been stationed in France during World War II. After France’s liberation, he ran into a French girl named Mimi at a party, and thus christened his cafe in her name. Coming back to the present, this restaurant chain has now extended across 24 states in the US.

There weren’t many people there for lunch that day; I contentedly sat in the spacious, brightly-lit restaurant, cracked open the menu, and picked out a seafood pasta, while my wife ordered a salad. The person serving us was a beautiful young waitress. She had a refined and courteous way of speaking and always had a smile on her face, giving off a feeling of friendly familiarity. There was a little lapel badge on her chest that said Trainer; apparently, despite her young age, she was already a senior employee in this job.

I casually turned to Luke and said, “This girl is very sweet. She’s both good-looking and capable, it makes this place feel like a home away from home for us customers.” I didn’t say this expecting any particular kind of reaction from Luke; I was just trying to express how cheerful I was feeling at that particular moment in time.

But my son apparently didn’t quite agree with my opinion, showing what seemed to be doubt towards my aesthetic sense and judgmental abilities. He smiled and said, “Dad, you’re always saying things like this. No matter where you go, I’ve never once heard you say a single negative thing about others. When you were staying in the hospital, you constantly praised the nurses; when we went to get medicine at the pharmacy, you had unending praise for the pharmacist; now here you are in this restaurant, praising the waitress.”

Caught off-guard by hearing these words from my own son, I was for a moment entirely unable to think of a reply.  Was there a problem with my judgment? These past few years my health has been getting increasingly worse due to the constant torment from cancer, and my mind has been getting more slow-witted along with it. At home I’ve changed from being the head of the household to the “tail” of it; fortunately I still know myself perfectly well; whenever anything comes up at home I always listen to my wife and children’s decisions.

Seeing my delay in answering him, Luke quickly moved to smooth things over so that his old man wouldn’t feel embarrassed: “To tell the truth, a lot of my coworkers and friends from church say the same thing about me.”

I curiously asked him, “What do they say about you?”

“Their comments about me are about the same as what I just said about you: I’m always saying good things about people. They say they always have to “minus 3” from my words to figure out the truth about whoever I’m evaluating.” This was the first time I’d ever heard my son mention other people describing him this way. Noticing my great interest in the topic, he continued, “If people need to “minus 3” of what I’m saying, then for you it’d be more like ‘minus 7’ ..”

Ancient Chinese writer Yan Zhitui wrote in his book Yanshi Jiaxun: “When one is still young, their personality and worldview have yet to settle; ...the influence of their surroundings will naturally shape them in imperceptible ways.” Although at the time I couldn’t be certain if the truth hidden in my son’s words was doubting my ability to judge, or half-jokingly praising me, one thing I could be certain of was that he was saying my words and actions had created an imperceptible influence upon him.

Thinking carefully, being that kind of person whose friends can jokingly say they need to “minus 3” is no easy task. Someone whose words are “always saying good things about others” must by necessity have a great heart of his own; he must be overflowing with joy in order to reach such a level that he can continue to do that, even if he is going through suffering at the same time. Someone whose heart is filled with dissatisfaction isn’t very likely to harbor gratitude and praise towards others.

I was quietly happy for my son; who gains such high praise from his friends and coworkers, to be called a young man whose kind words needed a “minus 3”! What better present could I have asked for, this Father’s Day? Thinking about how my cancer had recently come back again, this could very well be the last Father’s Day we spent together - but knowing my child can live with a heart full of gratitude and joy, I really feel as if I could leave this world with no regrets.

What Luke said here reminded me of the grandfather he’d never met, my father Chang Zihua. If according to my son’s words I was someone whose words needed a “minus 7”, then this merit of mine should give credit to my father, because when I was still a youth whose “personality and worldview had yet to settle”, he was the one who gave me the greatest influence.

I’ll never forget when my father was kicked out of his house by the Red Guards during the Cultural Revolution Movement in 1960s. All of his properties were confiscated by communists, and they drove him and my mother away to live in a few dark and musty little rooms behind a villa on 32 Longjiang Street, Qingdao. During that difficult period of our lives, he sang the same hymn every day: “Let us rejoice and be glad and give Him glory. For the wedding of the Lamb has come, and his bride has made herself ready. Fine linen, bright and clean, was given her to wear.” (Revelation 19:7-8)

I was only fourteen years old back then. As I listened to my father sing this song every day, constantly wondered: How could my father - who’d lost everything he owned, lived in a damp prison-like shed, was treated like Public Enemy Number One by the communist sub-district officers, forced to daily sweep the road outside the door of 32 Longjiang Street, and was ridiculed and humiliated in a thousand different ways - still be able to sing “Rejoice and be glad” every day? Besides that, I didn’t understand a word of the lyrics to this song (back then I didn’t know the lyrics were taken from a passage of Revelation in Bible). Why was a lamb having a wedding? Who was the bride? Why did the bride have to wear linen? I never asked my father any of these questions while he was alive.

Me and my father Chang Zihua. Taken February 1973, in the back yard of 32 Longjiang Street, Qingdao.

But all throughout those torturous days, my father never stopped singing that song. His voice was soft and pleasant when he sang, the music lingering in the air long after he was done; the expression on his face was as pure as that of a child, almost as if he were in an entirely different world. He would sing this song first thing every morning, as he and my mother moved the damp bedding out to the front yard to dry. Whenever Qingdao’s rainy season came, with heavy rain outdoors and a light drizzle in the house, he’d sing this song while placing washbasins to catch raindrops from our leaky rafters. The tiles of our little roof had actually been intentionally destroyed by our young ruffian neighbors, harboring hatred of the class struggle. He’d sing this song whenever he climbed up to fix the tiles. When he was diagnosed with cancer, he and my mother moved to a little house a few square meters wide, in the rear court of No. 6 Xinlin Garden at my older sister’s home in Qinghua University. As my father whiled away the last days of his life in this little house, he continued, as always, to sing this song.

My father Chang Zihua teaching his granddaughter to sing a hymn at Qinghua University’s No. 6 Xinlin Garden. Taken December 1974, four months before he died.

In 1984, ten years after he passed away, I was studying at Biola University in America. That year I took a Bible course focusing on the Book of Revelation, and found to my surprise that the song my father used to sing had originally come from Chapter 19, verse 7-8. It was then that I suddenly understood why he’d continued to sing this song through all his trials and tribulations, as well as the meaning hidden behind those words. This piece of scripture celebrates a grand wedding, a metaphor for the praises those who are redeemed will give to the Lord. Within this metaphor, the Lamb represents the Lord Jesus Christ, and the bride represents the church and all the people who are redeemed by Him. And the bride’s “fine linen, bright and clean”, is a beautiful white wedding dress, representing purity and honesty. This wedding of the Lamb, therefore, is the final union of Jesus Christ and the church at the end of days.

This piece of scripture revealed to me what my father’s inner thoughts had been as he sang it. It turns out that the reason he was able to have a heart full of joy during his times of tribulation was because through this scripture, he saw God’s wonderful promise and the hope that He gave to him: that the marriage between Christ and his people would be everlasting. His singing this song was letting out a voice of praise and admiration to our Father in heaven, expressing his faith and reliance in Him.

My father’s natural voice accompanied me all my life, leaving an imperceptible influence upon me. No matter where I go, I can always hear the lingering sound of his singing voice echoing in my ears. Especially as I approach my eleventh year with late-stage cancer, his angelic song has given me enormous comfort and delight; his words and actions, always so full of happiness and joy, have become the example by which I have modeled my entire life.

As I was immersed in thoughts of my father, a total stranger from the neighboring table suddenly walked over to us, interrupting my contemplation. She gave us two gift cards for Mimi’s Cafe, saying that they could take off twelve dollars each. Because of my delayed reaction to this unexpected gift, by the time I realized what had happened, the stranger had already left the restaurant; luckily my son and wife were quicker to react, and had made sure to express their thanks to her.

I carefully read over the two gift cards: apparently we needed to hand them to the waitress before ordering if we wanted to get those twelve dollars off my meal. I said, “It looks like we aren’t destined to use these gift cards today.”

“You really like that waitress, right? Let’s give a card to her later, and see if she really is as good as you said she is.” Luke showed me a crafty smile as he spoke, as if seeking to prove his theory that you needed to “minus 7” of my praises to approach the truth of the people I mentioned.

“Won’t this cause trouble for her?” I felt as if doing things this way would be a bother to others.

“It doesn’t matter if we can’t use it today, it was a surprise present to begin with,” said my wife, joining in the conversation.

“That’s right, all we’re doing is asking a little question. Don’t worry, we won’t be bothering anyone,” my son agreed, comforting me.

After a while, that young waitress came back to our table, amiably asked how we were doing, refilled our drinks, and asked if there was anything else we needed. Her voice as she spoke was gentle and soft, always keeping up the same “trademark” smile. Just then, her sharp eyes caught the Mimi’s Cafe gift cards in my son’s hand. Quickly taking one, she didn’t wait for him to open his mouth before saying, “Did you want to use this gift card today? No problem, I’ll use it to deduct twelve dollars from your check.”

“My powers of insight and judgment aren’t too bad, huh?” I proudly said to Luke, after the waitress had left.

As we were leaving the restaurant, Luke took the remaining gift card and gave it to a pair of strangers at another table. I stood at a distance, watching him chat with the two women; their faces showed the same pleasantly surprised expression I’d made myself, not too long ago.

That night, I slept in the seaside apartment. Midnight was the time for high tide; the rhythmic sound of the waves against the sand was like a lullaby playing outside my window, lulling me slowly into the land of dreams. I dreamed of my father, and said to him, “Dad, thank you for following me with your song all these years. Before I reunite with you in the Kingdom of Heaven, I’d like to happily say that your grandson Luke will continue your legacy of singing your most favorite song.”

Original written by Joseph Chang in Chinese on June 9, 2019

In a seaside apartment at Pacific Beach, San Diego

Translated by Ida von Mizener on June 16, 2019

Edited by Joseph Chang on June 20, 2019  

A Brief Meeting

Over the eleven years I’ve had late-stage kidney cancer, I’ve lived in seclusion, spending most of my time convalescing at home and barely ever going out to visit friends. Especially with my increasingly worsening condition in recent years, including a lowered immunity to disease, the doctor’s recommendation is that I keep my distance from crowded areas. However, last week I went to Arizona to attend my son Mark’s medical school graduation ceremony, after which I made an exception to the rules by visiting an online friend in Phoenix. I knew this friend, a female author, on a site called Overseas Window a few years ago; to tell the truth I don’t actually know her real name, just that she has a very beautiful pen name: Bird of Paradise.

Last August I sent Bird of Paradise a private message online: “Time really flies, my youngest son will be graduating from medical school next May. If I’m still alive then, we’ll be going to your city to attend the graduation ceremony - I might even get to meet up with you.”

Bird of Paradise immediately replied: “Phoenix welcomes you! I’ll look forward to getting to congratulate you in person, too. Do your best with God’s blessings, Joseph! I’m praying for you.”

But in the nine months after making that promise with Bird of Paradise, I had two visits to the emergency room, three hospital stays, and two surgeries. Although Mark had long since booked a hotel for us near his school, it wasn’t until a week before his graduation that anyone could predict whether I, who had just undergone heart surgery, would be in good enough condition to travel. After all, Phoenix, Arizona is 360 miles away from where we live, and it’s difficult to say what sort of ill effects a bumpy 6-hour drive could have on a weak heart.

It was five days before our scheduled departure when I began to feel like I’d pretty much recovered, and we finally settled our plans into concrete form. Bird of Paradise and I decided I would go to her house for a visit the day after Mark’s graduation, on May 29th in the morning. I checked a map online: it wasn’t far from our hotel to Bird of Paradise’s house, only about a thirty-minute drive. Before I left the hotel, I told Bird of Paradise that I wouldn’t take up too much of her time, no more than half an hour, because we’d have to drive the long trip back to California afterwards.

My chauffeur for this trip was my older son, Luke. On the way there, he curiously asked me why I, a man with incurable disease who never goes out to visit his friends, would make an exception to go visiting an online friend in Arizona whose real name he doesn’t even know. I explained to him that this wasn’t an ordinary online friend; she’d come to California to visit me twice before, and each time had written sincerely touching articles about the visit afterwards. In all my life, this was the first time I’d ever met someone who’d write two entire essays about me after only meeting me twice. Based on the pictures she’d posted in her social media, I knew she had two outstanding daughters, the older of which was studying at America’s famous George Washington University of Medicine and Science. This is the medical school with the hardest entrance exams in the country, with only a 1% acceptance rate for new admissions. Her second daughter isn’t one to be trifled with either, having gotten into one of America’s eight elite Ivy League schools, Brown University, where she was an editor for the school’s Daily Herald newspaper. Many alumni of the Daily Herald have gone on to enter news-related careers, often earning Pulitzer Prizes for their accomplishments. Bird of Paradise herself had graduated from China’s Jinan University with a degree in journalism; it looks like her younger daughter is leaning towards inheriting her legacy. For a mother to be able to raise two such excellent children is something that fills me with nothing but respect.

Our car turned off the 10 freeway and onto the 51, continuing the drive north. Luke chatted with me as he drove, while I spent the trip enjoying the view outside the window, amazed by this city built within the vast desert. As our car was approaching the freeway exit, I received a text from Bird of Paradise: “Make sure your son is mentally prepared for a very big slope. Just be careful coming up, cars at the top can make U-turns.”

“Phoenix has hills?” I asked myself seeing her text. After all, the only thing I’d seen throughout this trip was a flat desert vista dotted with buildings and streets.

“Dad, look, there’s a mountain up ahead!” Following the instructions from his cellphone’s satellite navigation, Luke turned the car off the freeway, speeding towards the foot of a dark mountain.

I looked in the direction Luke was pointing: This black rock mountain range that jutted out of the earth wasn’t particularly high, but it did look precipitously steep, with a few beautifully-designed homes visible around its midsection.

“The person we’re visiting doesn’t live in one of the mansions on that mountain, does she?” I wondered, thinking back to the text Bird of Paradise had sent me not long before.

“We’ll be arriving at the entrance to her house soon,” said Luke as he drove the car onto a narrow mountain road. It was here that I realized what Bird of Paradise had meant when reminding us to be “mentally prepared”. This slope was probably around a 45 degree angle, and from my position in the car it felt as if I was in an airplane in the process of taking off. Luckily the slope was a short one, and it wasn’t long before we reached a private parking lot situated halfway up the mountain.

The moment I got out of the car, my attention was drawn in by the surrounding view; from this spot halfway up the mountain, I had a panoramic view of practically the entirety of the city of Phoenix. Add to that the gently blowing mountain breeze, clean air entering my lungs, and I couldn’t help but feel relaxed. I turned to Luke and said, “This place is like a tourist attraction - it’s really added some color to our trip.”

Bird of Paradise came out of her house and walked down to the parking lot to welcome us. Between this parking lot and her front door was a stone staircase of more than 20 steps. Looking at this distressingly long flight of stairs, I felt a bit of cowardice overcome me, worried that my heart - still fresh from surgery - would be unable to bear such a level of “strenuous exercise”. So I asked her: “Can we take the elevator in your garage to get up?” I worded my question in this way because I’d noticed that her house seemed to have been built following the topography of the mountain; looking from the outside, the first floor appeared to be a garage, the second was probably the living room and kitchen, and the third most likely held the bedrooms. But she somewhat apologetically replied, “I’m really sorry, our house doesn’t have an elevator.”

“Will you be able to walk up these stairs?” Bird of Paradise asked me, seeming deeply concerned. “I can handle it! I’m feeling pretty good today.” I gathered my courage, and without other’s support, clenched my teeth and climbed those twenty-plus stairs to the top.

Upon entering her home, I felt like the Lady Liu entering the Grand View Garden for the first time in Dream of the Red Chamber; in the 30+ years I’ve lived in America, I’d never before seen such a uniquely-designed, spacious and bright, ultra-huge living room. The south wall of this enormous living room had four huge floor to ceiling windows, through which one could look out and see the entire city spread out like a beautiful picture scroll. I couldn’t help but remember a famous verse by the poet Du Fu: “When reaching the great peak of Mount Tai, we hold all mountains in a single glance.” The living room’s north side had a gigantic floor to ceiling window as well, one with a glass door. Through it, we could see a garden full of tropical plants and a swimming pool, as well as a beautiful husky dog excitedly greeting us from the other side of the glass. We played with Suki the dog for a while, then returned to the living room to chat.

Bird of Paradise was clearly very happy at our visit as she enthusiastically steeped a pot of tea for us. Looking at the fine teacup placed before me and smelling the rich scent wafting from the tea within it, I - who, due to doctor’s orders, never drank tea - was unable to resist its allure. I lifted the cup and delicately tasted a sip. Jokingly, I turned to her and said, “I’m breaking all sorts of records on this visit today!”

“That’s right, I heard you only just had heart surgery - I was actually afraid you might not be able to come.”

“It’s a good thing I insisted on coming, or else I’d never have had the chance to see the beautiful view of Phoenix from your house,” I cheerfully replied.

“The view here really is nice, you can watch the sunset every day.” Seeing how interested I was in this unique house’s design, Bird of Paradise began to tell me how it was designed by a famous Arizona architect named Vernon D. Swayback. No wonder I’d smelled the strong scent of culture when I entered her home, as if I were in a modernist museum. Once I heard her talk, I finally understood.

From our idle chatter, I came to understand that Bird of Paradise’s father was a famous senior poet in an author’s association in China; she gave me three books of his poetry collections as well. As I took the books from her hands, I told her that I myself was preparing to pick out a few of my articles to collect into a book, and that it would be titled “My Eleven-Year Dance With Cancer”. I wanted to get her permission, in person, to include one of the articles she’d written after a visit with me - “In the Evening Wind”. I said to her that every time I reread this article, I was always moved to tears. She cheerfully consented to my request.

Another thing I said was that we might actually have some sort of telepathic link, because on the second page of my soon-to-be-published book, I’d chosen to include my favorite and most poetic Bible verse, which happened to be the exact same verse she’d written in a card when she visited me in South California last fall:

“I had only heard you before, but now I have seen you with my own eyes.” (Book of Job 42:5)

To be honest, this might not actually have been a complete coincidence. Bird of Paradise and I share many similarities in our faith, life philosophies, and interests: We’re both Christian, and like writing about religious experiences in our daily lives to share with our readers. We both like animals - she has a husky, and my family has one too, the only difference being their breed. We both love the natural world which God created - she often posts pictures of her tropical plants in social media, a hobby I share as well.

As for our parenting ideologies, she greatly respects her children’s decisions. Her older daughter has had good grades all throughout medical school, and when taking the all-important Step One USMLE test, got scores high enough to qualify her as a brain surgeon; on top of that, her score in the surgery field was the highest available “Honor Passed”. But this daughter went on to say that what society needs is family doctors, and that being a family doctor can be a distinguished and rewarding career. She was even considering joining Doctors Without Borders, out in Africa. Upon hearing her daughter’s decision, her only reaction was to jokingly say, “If all you want is to be a family doctor, then getting such high scores was really a waste.” While my son’s scores aren’t as high as her daughter’s, I’ve never interfered with choosing his field of study, either. We both hold a similar viewpoint, that these are our children’s lives, and that we should trust that each of their decisions was made with careful deliberation.

Before we noticed, half an hour had passed, and it was time for us to part. As I was leaving, she told me how grateful she was that I was able to come and visit her; she and her husband are most likely going to be selling this house in the near future, because with both daughters studying out-of-state, it felt a little too big for just the two of them.

Having said goodbye to Bird of Paradise, Luke slowly and carefully drove the car down that 45-degree slope. Once he’d gotten us onto the freeway, my wise son said to me, “I understand now why you wanted to visit this online friend whose real name you don’t even know. Your friendship isn’t built on worldly matters; you’re connected through spirit.”

That afternoon, as Luke drove us down the 10 Freeway towards California, I noticed that Bird of Paradise had posted a new message online: “An arrangement made last August finally became reality today. This morning I welcomed some rare guests into my home, Joseph and his oldest son. Joseph was in town yesterday for his younger son’s medical school graduation ceremony, and stopped by here on his way home today. Before this, neither of us knew whether or not we’d be able to meet this time. He’s been fighting cancer for eleven years, and even had a heart surgery three weeks ago.  What a miracle of God it is that, despite it all, he can still manage to travel across states to appear at his son’s graduation ceremony! His cup is brimming with good fortune.”

Written on May 31, 2019

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Appendix

In the Evening Wind 晚风中

Author: Bird of Paradise 鹤望蓝

That Monday evening, I looked out upon the falling darkness of the coming night. There was surprisingly no blood-red sun gracing the desert horizon. My thoughts fluttered along with the October evening wind. I thought back to the conversation I had with my friend Wei Yu earlier that day, about our respected friend Brother Joseph Chang; his cancer had come back for the sixth time.

To be honest, this wasn’t anything new. Eight years ago the doctor had announced that he had late-stage cancer, and only had a year left to live. But Brother Joseph has continued to dance with cancer up to this day. This July, he went back to the hospital for another examination. After his meeting with the doctor, he and his wife went to a restaurant to eat. He then humorously posted pictures online and let his friends guess what the results of his exam might have been. What everyone saw was the couple’s gentle smiles paired with a splendidly red restaurant for a backdrop, looking entirely happy and at peace. One after another we all guessed it must have been good news that Joseph’s cancer cells were still in hibernation. Sadly, that turned out to just be wishful thinking on our part. In fact, Joseph went in for another surgery on September 1st. All the nurses in the hospital ceaselessly praised him as a professional patient. His sons were moved as well, calling their father a superhero. Joseph then humbly said, “I know in my heart, without our Heavnly Father’s mercy and grace, how could I manage to live to today?” That’s right, our Heavenly Father has grace to spare. But it’s also important to be able to let go of yourself, and place your life in His hands with full trust. After having fought against cancer for eight years now, Joseph is truly undergoing a journey filled with faith and heavenly grace.

These eight years, he’s lived in seclusion, yet written a shocking amount on the internet and a variety of other forms of media, relying on them as evidence of his experiences. His articles “Dancing With Cancer”, “Where Does My Help Come From?”, “The Heart of Joy is a Good Remedy—Writing During A Fifth Recurrence of Cancer”, among others, have garnered countless views online, encouraging more people than I can reasonably imagine. His writing is able to strengthen many people’s faith, and turn their lives around. He’s truly living bathed in the Lord’s glory, like a modern-day Jesus Christ. I’ve gotten used to seeing his daily messages online, as well. They’re filled with insight from an extraordinary man who’s gone through multiple life-or-death experiences. Before and after his fifth surgery, he didn’t forget to share the news with his friends. Reading his calm and optimistic words, seeing the daily photos of his recovery, we all gradually felt relieved. But after October, his posts rarely mentioned himself, and came up less and less often. Not knowing why, I asked my friend Wei Yu, who also lives in South California, about Joseph’s current situation. It wasn’t long before that I’d heard her say the ever-helpful Joseph knew how much of a headache all the proposals and ballot’s this year’s general elections were giving her, and had warmheartedly shared with her some insight he’d gained from his time as an inpatient. It’s really moving to hear, and makes us perfectly-healthy couch potatoes feel ashamed of ourselves. Upon inquiring, Wei Yu told me unexpected news: Joseph, after his fifth surgery, had now discovered a brand new tumor. Wasn’t that too soon…?

Joseph and I have met in person once. Suddenly I thought to myself, what if that once is the only meeting we ever get? Usually I simply enjoy interacting with him online; I’d never thought to worry about his physical health before. You could say that I’m a poor speaker, struggling over how to word my thoughts. This was someone else’s personal matters, would it be rude of me to talk about it? In the end I still summoned my courage and sent Joseph a message. I’d only just said hello, and he replied almost immediately, “Hi, is something wrong?” All my hesitation dissolved at that, and I promptly told him all the questions I’d been holding back. His reply was as open-minded and magnanimous as ever: “It isn’t very good news. My cancer cells have reappeared a sixth time. They’re growing fast this time; my sixth sense is telling me our Heavenly Father is calling out to me to return to Heaven. I’ve been busying myself with withdrawing from the social media group these past few days...I was thinking I wouldn’t tell my friends until after the doctor tells me the treatment program.” It was just as I’d imagined: He was withdrawing from our social circle and putting together funeral arrangements!

I got to know Joseph through reading his article “Life and Death in the Waiting Room” on the Overseas Window website. The article is a written account of what he experienced in the third floor waiting room of City of Hope Hospital in Southern California. Those who come here are all patients diagnosed with incurable terminal cancer. Their last hope is to go through experimental clinical trials, using new drugs still in development which have yet to be approved by the FDA. As you can imagine, every patient awaiting treatment here clearly recognizes that death is heading towards them like a speeding car. Nobody knows how much longer they’ll last. According to Joseph’s observations, they simply wait peacefully for their departure, quietly disappearing within an average of around 4-6 months. But Joseph managed to persevere for seven years. And it’s precisely because he was a record-breaking frequent visitor in this waiting room that he was able to recognize every new face that came in. In this dismal and depressing waiting room, Joseph still refused to let the people he cares for lose heart. It was in this very life-or-death waiting room that Joseph met Matthew II Smith and his father, and built an unforgettable friendship. He selflessly shared his own experiences in the fight against cancer, using this to motivate his fellow cancer friend in running from the grim reaper, and prayed to God Almighty to placate young Matthew’s spirit. The article wasn’t long, but tears obscured my field of vision several times as I read it. What a strong and loving heart he must have, to be able to write such moving words!

To be honest, I’d read another of Joseph’s works before that, one about his daughter’s graduation ceremony. At the time I hadn’t paid much attention to all the descriptions of the spirit and tradition of the USC campus; what left the greatest impression on me was the “weak and sickly body” mentioned at the beginning of the article. He’d originally believed he’d be too weak even to participate in his daughter’s graduation ceremony. It was only at the moment his wife was leaving that he decided to brace himself and make an appearance. I couldn’t help but wonder, what kind of person is this writer? Is he a sickly man who’s been bedridden for years? It wasn’t until I read “Life and Death in the Waiting Room” that I learned the story behind his words. After that I looked up more of Joseph’s writings, and found myself falling more and more in love with reading them. Joseph doesn’t only write about serious and depressing topics, either. He’ll also write about the fishpond at his house, and the beloved family dog. This is too much of a coincidence; my family has a fishpond and a dog as well. He’ll even write stories about his homeland of Qingdao, or about his children’s growth and his feelings as a father. I learned from his writings that he lives in South California. Isn’t that a place I go to often? Thus the desire to meet him sprouted within me.

Just when my thoughts began to stray as I watched the changing red clouds on the horizon, I noticed the chairman of the Overseas Window Authors’ Association had posted a new message online: “Sent to him, a man I respect.” Ms. Hai-yun didn’t mention in this message who it was that had brought her to tears. Intuition told me it was the same man I was currently thinking about. I was filled with distress. Suddenly I realized how weak I was, and couldn’t help giving Wei Yu another call: Had the doctor said something? Had Ms. Hai-yun learned even worse news? Wei Yu explained that she’d told Hai-yun the same thing she told me. Who would have expected that she’d burst into tears the moment she heard the news? At this very moment in time, there were no words that could adequately express our feelings; anything we could say felt meaningless.

January 1st of this year was the day the three of us had the good fortune to meet Joseph Chang. I was only an extra guest on this visit. It was all because of Ms. Hai-yun’s reputation and Wei Yu’s friendship that I was lucky enough to form ties with Joseph. After our meeting, he even wrote a new article titled “New Year’s Day Guests”. A few months later, this article was even turned into an audio program for the radio. Chatting with Joseph in his living room, I saw that he was just like I’d imagined from his writings: calm, easygoing, wise, and generous. The first time we met, our cheerful conversation had occasionally made reference to the topic of life and death. What I remember most is the music room at their house, which contained an enormous glass window. Through it, the passionately cheerful sun lit up the entire room, just as Joseph’s tenacious vitality energetically showed itself before us. Looking out that window, I could see the backyard. There was the fishpond he’d written about, and his beloved loyal guard dog, Snowy. Before we parted, Joseph took us to see his special room. He’d prepared a little room in a secluded part of the house, where he would spend his final days. The idea was that before he left this world, he would no longer have the energy to climb the stairs to his bedroom - so he arranged a little bed here, where he could pass his days in peace. Unexpectedly, as time passed and the Grim Reaper failed to grace him with his presence, this little empty space transformed into the study from which he’d write and publish all his works. It was right here that the written chronicles of his life moved the hearts of thousands, giving hope and consolation to countless people. And it was right here that God blessed His loyal servant, granting him light in a time of darkness.

I pray that God stays with him, and that we can witness together God’s grace upon him.

Written on November 14, 2016

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Translated to English by Ida van Mizener on June 6, 2019
Edited by Joseph Chang on June 6, 2019

Diaries: “You Surpass Them All”

I. Monday, April 23, 2018 - A meeting with a surgeon

“You are so handsome,” my wife whispers to me with affection.

She has been saying this sort of thing often to me lately, maybe because my health has been getting worse. We are sitting across from each other in a surgery consulting room on the second floor of City of Hope Hospital, California. This consulting room is very small, with barely enough space to allow a single computer, a pair of chairs, a set of medical equipment, and a small table--atop of which are arranged a few intimidatingly shiny surgical knives. This isn’t the ideal location for a couple to be expressing intimate romance.

We came here today clinging to a thread of hope that this surgeon might be willing to operate on me and remove the two tumors in my neck that are growing larger by the day. These tumors were discovered during a CT scan on April 4, 2108, but I didn’t learn about them myself until visiting my oncologist Dr. Sumanta Pal a week later, on April 11. Knowing there was nothing good about the tumors, once I got home that day I sent out a social media message to all my friends: “Everyone, if in a few days I disappear from the chat, please don’t worry about me…”

The person who walks into the consulting room is Dr. Ellie Maghami, a surgeon who specializes in head and neck tumors. She gets straight to the point, bluntly telling me the facts of the situation: The cancer tumor in the back of my neck has already invaded my trachea and vocal cords, making it too dangerous to perform local surgery; trying to surgically remove it could cause permanent damage. Another option is to remove my trachea along with the tumor, then create a separate opening in my chest and insert a tube connecting to my lungs in order for me to breathe. This method will have a serious effect on my quality of life. In addition, there are still a lot of cancer tumors in other parts of my body, like timed bombs ready to explode at any moment; the surgeon therefore believes that making a big fuss over operating on such a sensitive area will be a high-risk operation, with more losses than gains.

Dr. Maghami’s words shatter my last remaining strand of hope. Ten years of experience living with cancer have taught me that if a surgeon refuses to operate when the anti-cancer medication has stopped working and the tumors are growing at a rapid pace, the patient in question won’t have much longer to live. When she mentioned threading a tube through my chest to help me breathe, I couldn’t help but shudder, remembering a tear-jerking movie I'd watched with my wife over the weekend: Breathe. (1) In that movie the protagonist, Robin Cavendish, had had that sort of breathing tube stuck in his chest. He was the longest-lasting patient in English history to have relied on a ventilator for survival. His wife, who’d stayed by his side and taken care of him throughout the years, coincidentally had the same name as my wife beside me - Diana. She’d sacrificed years of her life, devoting all her energy to tending her fully-paralyzed, ventilator-dependent husband. The film realistically portrayed the difficulty the protagonist had in trying to breathe through the tube in his chest, as well as the terrifying image of great amounts of blood flooding out from the area where the tube was inserted. Inwardly I think to myself that using this method to struggle at death’s door would be much too unfair to my wife, who has already taken care of me for so long.

As we are parting with Dr. Maghami, she takes the initiative to hug me and my wife Diana, telling us that her own father had died from the same kind of cancer I have, and that she feels great compassion and sympathy towards my plight.

II. A conversation in the hospital hallway

We sit down in a corner of the hospital hallway to eat breakfast: a small box of oatmeal, a small container of fruit, and a banana. As I swallow bite after bite of oatmeal, I think about how I might soon lose the ability even to do such basic physiological functions as swallow food, talk, or breathe through my nose, and tears begin to stream down my face. In my countless narrow escapes from death over the past ten years, I have always been prepared for this moment to come - but now that the moment has arrived, and I've learned how miserable my coming death will be, I've lost the desire to survive. All I want is for God to take me away before all that can happen, so that Diana won’t have to sink to such an extreme level of suffering, watching as venomous tumors slowly torture and swallow me. In the past ten years, she’s already sacrificed too much for me.

I tearfully turn to Diana, saying, “I don't want to continue putting you through so much trouble for my sake.”

“I don’t think it’s much trouble at all!” She pulls a handkerchief from out of her pocket, softly wiping away the tears on my face as she consoles me in her gentle voice: “I have it a lot easier compared to the Diana in that movie we watched last weekend. She had to take care of her husband for over thirty years, and I’ve only done this for ten; back then they didn’t have washing machines, so she had to use her hands to wash all those bloody sheets, but we now live in a time where washing machines are available…”

Seeing that I am still unable to speak through my sobs, she continues to say, “You have to know you’re not living just for yourself - you still have me, and your three children, and the grandchildren you’ve yet to meet.” Her words are calm as still water, seeming almost as if she hadn’t heard the horrifically bad news the surgeon told us just moments ago.

Live to see my grandchildren? How could that be possible? I think back to the CT scans we'd looked at in the surgeon’s office, the tumor constricting my trachea to the point of making a dent in it, seeming to leave me a quarter of the breathing space I once had. If this tumor continues to grow at the same pace, it won’t be long before it blocks my windpipe entirely, causing me to suffocate to death. Plus my daughter just got married last August, and the newlyweds don't seem like they're planning to have any kids in the near future. Our two twin sons have even less chance of that happening, considering they don't even have girlfriends yet.

“I won’t be able to see them, it's too late,” I mumble quietly to myself.

“Do you still remember what I prayed to God ten years ago?” she reminds me in a soft and tender voice. Ten years ago, when I went through two surgeries over the course of six months and the doctors said I’d only have one year to live, I was bogged down in a hopeless desperation. But she said to me: “I’ve prayed to God to let you live another fifteen years.” At the time I hadn’t taken her words seriously - live another fifteen years? To me, lying on the verge of death, such a possibility was an unattainable dream.

The fifteen years my wife mentioned was referring to a revelation she obtained from a Bible verse: “I have heard your prayer and seen your tears; I will add fifteen years to your life.” (2)  This is a line that God passed down through the prophet Isaiah to Hezekiah, king of Judah of Israel, during the final years of his reign. The name Hezekiah came from the Hebrew “חזקיה”, meaning “God is my strength”. He was a king during the final years of Judah in BC-era Israel, and was the king most loyal to God in the history of the kingdom of Judah, ruling for 29 years before he died at the age of 54.

I don’t have as much faith as Diana does. I can’t in any capacity place myself on par with Hezekiah in the Bible. He’d held an illustrious position, second only to King David as the king most loved by God, was 39 years old - right in the prime of his life - when he contracted an incurable disease, and God had heard his prayers. I, meanwhile, was already 56 when I was diagnosed with state IV kidney cancer ten years ago, seventeen years older than he had been at the time; why would God bother extending my insignificant lifespan?

But Diana has reiterated it to me every year, and now ten years have passed. Over the course of these ten years I’ve gone through six surgeries due to the cancer recurring, and every time before I am pushed into the operating room, not knowing whether or not I’ll come out alive, she always leans over by my ear and gently says, “You haven’t reached fifteen years yet; I’ll be waiting for you outside.”

III. Thursday, April 26th - A meeting with the radiologist

Since removing the tumors through surgery is no longer an option, my oncologist Dr. Pal suggests I try radiotherapy instead. Three days later, Diana accompanies me to an underground room of the hospital, where we meet a radiologist named Dr. Almini; he's a handsome young man, who can’t resist expressing his great amazement at the fact that I, a ten-year stage IV kidney cancer patient, have never undergone radiotherapy before. I half-jokingly say to him, “This underground radiotherapy room of yours is the one place in this hospital I least want to visit.”

Dr. Almini smiles and nods, showing his understanding of a patient who is unwilling to meet him, and gives us a brief introduction to the radiotherapy program. These past few years, he says, America’s radiotherapy techniques have had a lot of revolutionary breakthroughs; unlike traditional radiotherapy, they only focus a single ray of radiation on the tumor, and with image-guided radiotherapy, he can use computer images to have 360-degree control over the radiation target. In order to achieve precise positioning, he first needs to custom-create a face mask which will hold me in place.

Listening to this radiologist energetically divulging so much radiation-related information, I ask, half-doubtfully: “Can this 360-degree radiation really kill the tumors in my neck?”

“Because what you have is renal cell carcinoma (RCC), traditional radiation won’t be able to kill it; if we use the new 360-degree radiotherapy technique I just mentioned though, it will have a very strong healing effect. Of course, the dead tumor cells won’t disappear, so they’ll stay there in your neck the rest of your life.”

“Are there great side effects to radiotherapy?” I cautiously ask.

“That’s the question every radiotherapy patient who comes here is most concerned about.” It seems as if Dr. Almini was expecting me to ask this, as he quickly explains: “Radiotherapy’s side effects are much stronger than your previous targeted therapy and immunotherapy medications, especially because your tumors have already begun to constrict your trachea, so we can’t avoid the radiation causing some damage to your trachea and vocal cords. This means that for a few months you won’t be able to swallow food, and you might not even be able to speak. Besides that, the side effects of radiotherapy are long-lasting ones, so your trachea might atrophy and stick together in a year’s time. There’s no need to worry though, because when the time comes we’ll attempt to stick an object like a little balloon in there to push it back open.”

I don’t quite catch the doctor’s last line, neither do I ask about it. He pauses a moment, catching his breath before continuing: “The most serious side effect is that radiotherapy in itself has a chance of causing cancer, but that can take many years to occur - so as far as you’re concerned, it’s not a factor you really need to consider.”

At that point, the three of us share a smile of mutual understanding. It goes without saying that this serious side effect has no chance of happening to me, because the tumor currently growing within my neck won’t allow me to live that long.

“Are there any questions you’d like to ask me?” asks Dr. Almini.

“No. I’ve lived all these years by relying on faith,” my wife blurts out.

Hearing an answer he hadn't expected, this prize-winning expert in the radiology sphere is momentarily at a loss for words. After a pause, he nods and says with a smile, “You’re right, science and faith are both necessary here.”

“Go home and talk it over, there’s no need to rush your decision. If you agree to do radiotherapy, go ahead and sign your name on this document,” says Dr. Almini as he hands me the consent form. I take the form from his hands, signing my name without a moment’s hesitation. At this critical moment, it seems as if I have no other choice.

As we are leaving, Dr. Almini has his nurse prepare a radiotherapy schedule for me: I have to undergo the procedure five times total, starting May 8, 2018. Before that, I have to come to the hospital’s underground room tomorrow to make preparations: the technical staff need to measure me for a face mask, as well as doing a CAT-scan.

IV. Eating Juicy Dumplings (小笼包)

We leave the hospital building, heading towards the parking lot. I walk very slowly, counting the days in my head: there’s still 12 days before May 8th… Once we are inside the car, I quietly watch as Diana drives us slowly out of the hospital parking lot. Unexpectedly, she doesn’t drive us in the direction of our home.

“Aren’t we heading home? Where are you going?” I ask her, bewildered.

“Let’s go to Din Tai Fung to eat juicy dumplings.”

“Right now?” All those intimidating explanations we just heard from the radiologist are still lingering in my ears, where am I going to find the appetite to eat juicy dumplings? But she won’t allow me to say a word against her, insisting on driving to the Din Tai Fung not far from the hospital. This restaurant chain is famous for its steamed juicy dumplings; because of the fine food and high-quality service, it has been overflowing with customers ever since it opened.

After the waiter places our steaming hot serving on the table, I look at the tiny and delicate juicy dumplings, characteristically made in the “golden 18-fold” style, and suddenly regain my appetite. Diana turns to look at me as she says, “You need to eat more. I’m going to make you tasty food at home every day until May 8th, so we can help you put on some weight - that way you’ll have the strength to go through radiotherapy.” These past few months, I've had nausea and vomiting quite often, losing around ten pounds in weight. In a painstaking effort to tantalize my appetite, Diana has been making all sorts of different kinds of delicious dishes for me at home.

I savor the juicy dumplings’ taste: The thin skin, the delicious broth, the flavorful meat filling - I eat quietly, cherishing every bite.

“I didn’t hear clearly earlier, do you remember what Dr. Almini said he’d put in my trachea to help me breathe a year from now?” The radiologist’s explanation is still swimming through my head as I eat.

“To tell the truth, when he talked about all those side effects, I wasn’t listening at all,” my wife confesses. “I’m very much at peace right now, and I don’t want to hear a word of those side effects; you still haven’t lived the fifteen years God promised me yet.”

V. Friday, April 27, 2018 - The face mask

As we're eating breakfast, Diana asks me, “Are you sure you can drive to the hospital on your own today? I can rearrange my afternoon classes and drive you there if you want.”

“It’s no problem, I can do it myself,” I confidently reply.

Over the past ten years Diana has “confiscated” my driver’s license and made herself my full-time chauffeur out of the fear that I won’t be able to concentrate my mind while driving and get myself into a crash. But a year ago she suddenly changed her mind, allowing me to drive myself to the hospital for treatment if I felt up to it. She once told me, “I need to treat you like a normal, cancer-free person.” Deep down, I know that this is her way of encouraging my desire to live.

“I’m not doing any sort of treatments today anyway, it’s just a CAT-scan and some measurements for a face mask. Don’t worry, I’ll be fine,” I tell her as I head out the door.

I reach the hospital’s underground room at 12:00PM, right on schedule. One of the medical personnel leads me to a room with a CAT-scan machine, where the staff have me take off my shirt, lying half-naked on the long table before the machine. I feel suspicion well up in my heart: I've undergone countless CT-scans in a different radiology department of the hospital, and they never asked me to undress—why am I required to leave my top half exposed in this underground radiology room?

I lie supine on the long table in front of the apparatus, waiting to be pushed into the CAT-scan machine. My gaze focuses on the ceiling above me, upon which is affixed a beautifully unique photograph: An azure sky, purple flowers in full bloom, green leafy branches, a vividly lifelike image that brings a sense of visual beauty.

Just as I am admiring this beautiful picture, a red-hot, wet object comes down over my head, plunging my vision into darkness; I can’t open my eyes, nor can I breathe through my nose or mouth. Following that I feel a hefty, heavy body press down on my head, neck, shoulders, and chest; he continuously constricts me while simultaneously using his hands to press, trying to get this burning hot object stuck as tight as possible to my body. I sink into a sense of overwhelming panic.

I hold my breath as long as I can, finally letting out a gasp once someone cuts holes in the spaces over my eyes and nose. It's then that I notice the hot thing covering me is slowly cooling down; once it begins to harden, I feel my throat jam up, unable to swallow a drop of saliva. I want to tell the people operating the CAT-scan machine, but my voice won’t come out; I want to wave my hands to signal that I need help, but discover that both arms are firmly tied to wooden boards, unable to move an inch. It feels as if I’ve been strapped to some sort of torture instrument and am suffering through countless torments, every second its own interminable ordeal.

When someone finally takes the “torture instrument” from off of my head, I greedily suck in a breath of air like someone newly-escaped from a moment of absolute terror. I am then helped down from the table, at which point I see that a thick, straight line has been painted in blue down my naked chest, with a clear layer of tape covering it. This is probably a mark the staff will be using for the session a week from now, when I’ll come back to put this mask back on and go through the radiotherapy. I sit there, battered and exhausted, and begin to cry. This is the first time in my life I’ve ever had anyone scribble lines on my naked body; I feel as if I’ve lost my dignity, fear and humiliation interweaving together to gnaw at my heart and cause a nervous breakdown.

I leave the hospital, crying all the way, making the drive home particularly difficult. This was my first time crying like this in all the ten years I've had stage IV cancer; I’ve never felt so weak as I did at this moment.

As soon as I enter the house, the melodious sound of the violin comes drifting from the music studio where Diana teaches violin lessons. When compared with the horror and fear I’d gone through in the hospital’s underground room not long before, it's like the difference between heaven and hell. I don’t interrupt her work, instead heading straight to the upstairs bedroom and cracking open the Bible to read the Book of Job. I read up to Job lamenting to God as he suffered: “They wait for death, but it never comes; they prefer a grave to any treasure. They are not happy till they are dead and buried…….Everything I fear and dread comes true.” (3) I lament to God as well: “Lord, I earnestly pray you come take me to your heavenly home soon…” Reading the Book of Job helps me to calm down somewhat; I wipe my tears and head downstairs to get started making dinner.

At dinnertime, I put my finished dishes on the table. Once Diana enters the kitchen after finishing her lessons, she says, “You’re amazing, driving home safely on your own. How was your visit to the hospital today?”

I don’t answer her, instead stepping forward to hug her tightly as I begin to cry again. She gently pets my shoulders as she says, “You must have suffered a lot at the hospital - you need to remember that right now you aren't fighting cancer alone, you have God fighting it for you. I’ve entrusted you to our Father in heaven; if he doesn’t want to continue the fight, then he’ll take you up to heaven with him.”

After we eat, I receive a call from my oncologist Dr. Pal, who says he is currently at an international cancer seminar in Prague, the capital of the Czech Republic. He feeds me a verbal tranquilizer through the phone, telling me that I have no reason to worry or be afraid, because he plans to prescribe me a new anti-cancer medication after I’ve finished with the radiotherapy.

For this world-eminent kidney cancer doctor to think of a patient while he is at an international conference in another country — Diana and I are deeply moved. After expressing my gratitude, I say to him, “Prague is a beautiful city - my daughter went there for a summer music camp once. Will you have the chance to explore?”

“I ran straight to the conference the minute I got off the plane; there’s really not enough time for me to wander outside this time around, so it’ll have to wait for next time.”  Dr. Pal has become a “frequent flyer” in recent years, constantly getting invited to academic lectures around the world.

VI. Sunday, April 29, 2018 - “You surpass them all”

11:15AM, just as Diana and I are attentively listening to a pastor named Dr. Stanley give a sermon on Channel 5 TV, my cellphone rings; it's Dr. Pal. This is the second time in three days that he's called me.

“Are you still at that conference in Prague?” I curiously ask.

“I’ve already returned. Right now I’m at the mall, shopping with my wife.”

“Whoa, you really are a frequent flyer!” I exclaim in astonishment - it seems Dr. Pal has been thinking of me regardless of where he goes these past few days.

“I’ve decided to postpone your radiation schedule, so I can have you try a new medication first.”

I can’t believe my ears, questioning him: “Does that mean I don’t need to go to the hospital on May 8th for radiotherapy?”

“That’s right,” Dr. Pal confirms from the other end of the line. “I’ve already canceled your May 8th appointment.”

Hearing that I no longer need to put on that torture device of a mask and suffer through radiotherapy is a huge weight off my mind, and I let out a long sigh of relief. Diana beside me is in tears as she says, “In the scope of things a person is capable of doing, you’re just like that woman in the Bible who bled for twelve years, having lost all hope a long time ago. All I could do is rely on faith like she did, tightly grabbing onto the edge of the Lord Jesus’s robe, praying that God can perform another miracle on you, so you can live for fifteen years.” (4)

Looking at my normally strong and tranquil wife now gushing with tears, my clumsy mind can only come up with a single line: “Many women do noble things, but you surpass them all.” (5)

Annotations:

1.    Breathe is a 2017 American biographical film, directed by Andy Serkis and written by William Nicholson. The plot revolves around polio victim Robin Cavendish and his slow recovery from the shadow of illness with the help of his wife’s care.

2.    Isaiah 38:15

3.    Job 3: 21 and 25

4.    According to the New Testament, Matthew 9:18-26: A woman with a disease that had caused her to bleed for twelve years squeezed her way through the crowd to try to touch the edge of Jesus’s robe. Upon noticing her, Jesus turned around and said, “Take heart, daughter, your faith has healed you.”

5.    Proverbs 31:29

Original written in Chinese by Joseph Chang, June 4, 2018

Translated to English by Ida von Mizener,  May 20, 2019

Edited by Joseph Chang,  May 22, 2019