limited time

It's been a long time since I wrote last.  I actually glanced through my last couple of entries, and to tell the truth, I feel a bit embarrassed.  If anyone is still reading this blog, I really appreciate it that you took time to read even my whiny posts.

I passed a test in February and am now training in the hospital as a student doctor.  So far, I have trained at the radiology department, the urology department, and am now in the gastrointestinal department.  There are probably a lot of important things I should be writing about, but in short, I'm learning every day that the human body is a miracle.  And every medical knowledge that humans have accumulated over time to maintain the miracle when anything goes wrong, is a miracle.  I am amazed by the smallest invention, the smallest discovery that supports the medical services we can provide to patients.  And before I forget, it's another miracle that you can sit down.  After hours of standing still in surgeries, every chair you see looks like its shining at you.  Seriously.

The reason I wanted to write today was because I was greatly moved by a story I heard yesterday about a shogi (Japanese chess) player who died at the age of 29: Satoshi Murayama.  He suffered from nephrosis from a very young age, and it was while he was hospitalized that his father introduced him to the world of shogi.  He soon got absorbed in it and started studying it by himself.  By the time he became thirteen years old, he had won all local tournaments and was willing to study under a shogi master in Osaka to become a professional player.  His parents worried about his health and opposed to the idea of their son having to live away from them, but in the end, decided to respect his decision because he insisted he didn't have time.

Murayama's talent bloomed, and he became a professional shogi player in less than three years.  He won tournament after tournament, but at the same time, his illness worsened, and he would call his mother to take care of him after every game when he would suffer from high fever.  He didn't like the thought of having to depend upon his mother, and would occasionally treat her coldly, but his mother never said anything about it because she had always thought it was her fault that her son had become sick, and she thought there was nothing she could do to make amends to him.  She never watched her son's game because she believed shogi was worsening his illness, and she secretly wished he would stop playing.

By age 25, Murayama had become one of the top ten shogi players, but soon found out he had bladder cancer.  He refused to go through surgery because it meant he would lose his sexual function, and he was afraid he would not be able to have his own family.  In the end though, he was persuaded to have a bladderectomy, and devoted the rest of his life to his only dream that was left now, which was becoming a "meijin" (master of shogi).  He returned to the tournaments a month after his surgery, and soon regained his previous rank as one of the top ten players.

However, a couple days before the final match (against Habu -- the most famous shogi player to date) he was told that his cancer had relapsed.  He silently watched his mother burst into tears, and after a while, suggested they go out to eat udon (Japanese noodles).  On the way, he said he wondered if he could win the game.  He told his mother that he really wanted to win, and she was surprised that the match still mattered to him when he was dying.  She realized that his focus was only on the present, and she thought that if he was living for today, she should do the same -- that she should stop running away.  And finally, when she decided to support her son from the bottom of her heart, her sense of guilt melted away.

The final match started out with Murayama taking control, and he was dominant until he was only a couple of moves away from becoming a meijin, when he suddenly made a poor move.  The countdown had started, and he moved a random piece in a rush.  It was the kind of mistake he had never made before.  The piece he moved lay crooked on the board, and it was fatal.  Murayama lost all too soon.  But during the interview after the match, he appeared with a radiant face.  He had done everything he could.  It was five months later that he passed away.

Life doesn't always give us what we want.  We all have regrets, and we all worry about the future.   But maybe that's only because we're not living in the present.  Murayama always knew he didn't have enough time.  It reminded me of what Yuzuru Hanyu had said when he was asked why he didn't take some time off after he was injured during a rehearsal.  After all, he was already a world champion.  He said he wanted to keep on skating because he was aware that his time as an athlete was limited.  Some day, his quadruple jumps won't be perfect anymore, and one day, the crowd won't remember his name.

But of course, nothing lasts forever.  No matter how many miracles occur, and how much medicine advances, we're all going to grow old; our legs will stop working like they used to, our sweetest memories will fade, and one day, we will die.  Our time is limited.  So until then, I hope to live like Murayama -- free from past regrets, free from future fears, only focusing on the present and every moment I'm allowed to have.