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A full 10days have passed since the intimate party with my friends, with which I opened the next chapter of my life, and many “new things” have happened since then. I started taking watercolor lessons from an artist last Friday, and I worked four days this week, for example.

The job was with the Museum of Fine Arts, Boston, and its affiliated museum in Japan. Even though it was every other day (plus a half day on Tuesday,) the days were filled with back-to-back meetings from 9:00 to 5:30, sometimes till 6:30 without breaks. The muscles in my body as well as in the brain did not remember the pace and intensity on the first day, and the slight pain from the scar reminded me that I still could not run around and stand for a long time in the gallery like normal people. Even though I was exhausted, I could not sleep at night due to over stimulation, and I regretted that I took on the assignment too early and despaired that I could no longer get back to the “normal” pace.

However, strange things happened around the third day. My body started responding to the fast pace. I learned to swallow a piece of chocolate quickly to replenish the calories while walking swiftly between the galleries to change the meeting rooms. I also learned that the anti-anxiety pill that was prescribed during the chemotherapy for suppressing the nausea could help me fall asleep at night.

Mark and my son helped me with driving. It takes two hours to go to Boston during the rush hours, and driving alone can exhaust me. Mark woke up early with me to leave at 7:15, then my son drove me back home in the evening; on the way to the work I usually nibbled an energy bar, and I fell asleep on the way back. Without their help, I could not even think of resuming work. I cannot thank them enough. Also, I appreciate the curators for their patience, who understood and forgave some not-so-excellent moments.

Tomorrow, for the first time since the opening of the cancer saga, Mark will leave me and go to Japan for three weeks. It was last May when he was traveling in China that I learned I had cancer. It surprises me that here I am looking forward to the longer lights and the arrival of spring exactly like I used to do, just as though nothing had happened, happy that the winter solstice is behind me.

About a week ago Mark learned that one of his colleagues lost the battle to cancer. Yesterday, he heard that his colleague’s wife passed away because of an aggressive cancer. On Christmas day I learned that a minister in New York who went through the esophagectomy similar to mine lost his voice, because the surgery damaged one of his vocal cords.

We rarely think what it means when we hear or say that the life is a gift. It is a phrase that is so true and used heavily, and that in turn has become a cliche. However, it is painfully clear that this life I have now is a gift. I hope that I will never forget this and that be aware that I am living precious moments.

I have with me a letter written by my oncologist on May 18, 2006:

To Whom It May Concern:

Mayumi Lxxxxxx is a patient with recently diagnosed esophageal cancer. She is being evaluated and will begin assertive multimodality therapy with surgery, chemotherapy, and radiation therapy.

The continuous presence of her husband, Mark Lxxxxxx, is necessary for her to receive this therapy and manage toxicity of the disease and therapy. He is thus unable to travel away from this region until, at least, January, 2007.

Please contact me if there are any questions.

Sincerely,

XXXXX

The timeline that sounded like eternity and the treatment that felt utterly foreign and violent became the things of the past. I thank Mark for treading the unknown with me for the past 7 months. Have a good trip!