Juicy Gossip

No matter what you read from here on in this blog, remember this: I am 100% healthy. Anyone who says anything else is feeding you some juicy gossip.

To refresh your memory, Bernie and I went to the States on May 16 for a second opinion about the kidney cancer treatment I’d had in Japan and to hear any recommendations for the future. There was the possibility that I might remain in Indiana for further treatment, but since the results of a PET scan in May showed no metastasis, the likelihood of that was very slim. As anticipated, the American doctor concurred with my clean bill of health and agreed that I only need to have regular checkups from now. Feeling like gold medalists in a marathon, Bernie and I returned to Japan according to plan and made my next appointment with the same doctor who removed my kidney on April 6. I’m feeling great and last week started exercising regularly once again. It’s almost as if I never had cancer at all.

Imagine my surprise when I called a friend in southern Japan and discovered that the news she’d heard was completely different.

“It must be really difficult, isn’t it?” she asked, her voice full of concern. I had no idea what she was talking about and told her so.

“What?” she replied, obviously startled by my puzzlement. “Where are you?”

“In Tokyo,” I laughed, wondering where the conversation was going.

“I thought you were in America getting treatment,” she explained. We were both completely confused by now.

Slowly I began to unravel the puzzle. Yes, there had been an unexplained spot on my lung, and yes, it had concerned me a little. But the doctor in Indiana identified it immediately as the aftermath of histoplasmosis, an environmental disease common in my birth state and its neighboring state to the east, Ohio. In most cases, like mine, the “victim” never even knows she’s contracted it since the body heals itself. The only evidence is calcium that is left behind after healing. Although this news had been shared happily with friends all around the world, somehow the story hadn’t been able to travel the 565 miles (900 kilometers) between Tokyo and Saga without morphing into a new version: I was battling for my life in the United States. Would I ever be able to return to Japan? I could only shake my head in wonder.

In my case, what happened with my cancer story was completely harmless. In fact, it made for a good laugh. But it’s not always so simple. Careless words and juicy gossip often wreak havoc and can cause pain for a lifetime. No wonder the Bible cautions, “Consider what a great forest is set on fire by a small spark. The tongue also is a fire . . . [and] no man can tame the tongue. It is a restless evil, full of deadly poison” (James 3:5, 6, 8).

Even a Weed

Flowering weeds paint an otherwise barren lot in Jiyugaoka

I saw him again this morning. He was sorely in need of a bath and a comb (minimally), and wearing clothes that hadn’t seen a washing machine in months, if not years. Suddenly I remembered a Sunday morning last month.

I was riding a train from Shibuya to Takadanobaba. With no seats available, I was standing, holding onto the strap in order to keep my balance as the train started and stopped at stations along the Yamanote Line. While looking out the window at the mostly building-crowded landscape that characterizes the world’s most populated metropolitan area (28 to 33 million people, depending upon the list you consult), I was surprised when a flowered slope came into view. Actually, the open space was little more than the railway right of way, but it was beautifully decorated in purple and white, thanks to the daisy-like flowers in bloom there. Although in reality they were weeds, the scene was a breath of fresh air to my dulled senses.

It’s amazing what your eyes can digest in a split second. As the train passed my new-found flower garden, my eyes focused on a bee at a nectar banquet in the otherwise unattended and unsightly patch of ground. Even a weed has a purpose, I thought, remembering the same kind of weeds I’d seen the day before on an empty lot near our apartment in Jiyugaoka. Then as well, I’d realized that even though they were only weeds, they’d brightened up the emptiness with a splashing of cheerful color.

The painted right of way was long gone by now, but my mind was still awhirl as I remembered, “He has made everything beautiful in its time,” words from the Old Testament about our Creator God. Yes, God has given everything a purpose and it is beautiful, I agreed with the writer of Ecclesiastes. (I’m always pleased when I agree with God. It makes me feel so, well, holy.)

My happy-all-over feeling was challenged quickly, however, when I suddenly remembered the homeless man in Jiyugaoka. I could see his long stringy hair, usually tied in a ponytail, and his shoes that were little more than soles. If you’re close enough to hear him when you pass by, he’s usually mumbling something incoherent to himself. But I usually don’t come that close because of his smell.

“What about him? What’s his beautiful purpose?” I challenged the Lord in my thoughts.

“That’s for you to find out,” God answered me calmly, yet firmly, his words a sword delivering a “take that” thrust into my cocky confrontation.

I didn’t like his answer. It meant I couldn’t just look the other way anymore. I’d never been unkind to this man—at least not directly. But I’d ignored him as if he weren’t there, as if he weren’t created and loved by God, even as I am. What was I to do with him now? Even as a weed has a purpose. It was up to me to change my thinking. Changed thinking results in changed actions. I’d been confronted by the Lord and I had to respond.

Today, weeks later, I realize I’ve done nothing other than to smile at this mystery man when he uncharacteristically looked my way one day. To my surprise, he smiled back. But a start is not enough.

Even a weed . . . .

Our Golden Tickets

Incognito Bernie during his "quarantine"

If you’re an “American Idol” fan, you know what that coveted golden ticket means—a trip to Hollywood and a chance to become America’s next singing idol.

If you’ve recently flown to Japan from the United States, Canada, or Mexico, however, a golden ticket has an entirely different significance. It means you passed the mandatory health inspection on your aircraft and were allowed to deplane rather than being quarantined for up to ten days. You didn’t have a fever (checked by heat sensors aimed like pistols over row after row of seats throughout the airplane), so you earned your golden ticket to freedom. In our case, it took 70 minutes after landing before we were actually free to set foot in Japan.

Shortly before arriving, questionnaires were distributed so that we could inform the health department about our physical condition. Sneezing? Coughing? Fever? Sore throat? Any other symptoms that might indicate the dreaded swine flu? Unfortunately, some of the English was so undecipherable that we had to read the questionnaire in Japanese to understand what was being asked!

Once we landed, we were instructed to lower all the window shades. Was something about to happen that officials wanted to make sure couldn’t be seen from the outside? Or maybe it was so no passenger could send S.O.S. signals. Soon the plane was boarded by a team of men and women covered protectively from head to toe and wearing heavy-duty masks that might have saved them from poison gas. When we didn’t have fevers and our questionnaires were approved, we were awarded golden tickets—sheets of standard-sized bright yellow paper on which were written, “This document is to certify that you have passed quarantine inspection.” Interestingly, it was noted in bold face type that these were “for travelers [who] stayed in any country where Pandemic Influenza occurs.” We’d not heard that the World Health Organization had declared a pandemic.

But not everyone was as lucky as we were. One man in our row—four seats and an aisle from me—lit up the heat sensor. An underarm thermometer was quickly passed to him. Shortly, seven rows—three in front of him, three in back, and his—were all marked with yellow tags (a different kind of golden ticket). Apparently the aisle was enough distance to keep those of us in the middle section safe from his germs, but I was certainly closer to him than many of those tagged. He would have needed to pass right by me to leave his seat. Nevertheless, we didn't argue when we were allowed to deplane.

From that moment, although we didn’t jump and scream like “American Idol” contestants, we did wave our golden tickets at everyone we passed—most of whom were wearing masks like the ones we received shortly before deplaning. “It’s a little late to give us masks now,” I commented to Bernie, thinking how we’d just spent 14 hours encapsulated in such a tiny space that almost anyone would turn claustrophobic. But suddenly I realized my mistake. Japan wasn’t worried that we’d infect one another, but maybe we’d infect Japan. Thus the masks came after we arrived. Could anyone be that worried?

Yes. Without all the details, let me just say that Bernie was “asked” not to come to school the next day, even though the special Friday meeting was the very reason we’d squeezed our trip to the States into less than one week. In effect, we were quarantined after all—sort of—until the following Tuesday.

As a sideline, Bernie used some of his unexpected free time on research. He discovered that an average of 41,400 people succumb to seasonal flu every year in the United States. (There are 11,000 annual flu deaths in Japan.) Considering these statistics, I wonder why all airplanes from America aren’t routinely subject to the kind of health inspections now being conducted at Japanese international airports. Hmmm. I’d better be careful what I write. Someone might think this is a good idea—and maybe the next time I return, I won’t win my golden ticket.