[HMS: Medical Human Story–Episode 72]-Part III: On the Day Chemotherapy Began, the Elderly Couple Cried in Front of Each Other for the First Time
[HMS: Medical Human Story–Episode 72]
Part III: On the Day Chemotherapy Began, the Elderly Couple Cried in Front of Each Other for the First Time
A Cold Morning Laden with the Scent of Treatment: The
Beginning
Hospitals in November carry a particular kind of coldness.
It is not only temperature—it is atmosphere.
The sterile scent of disinfectant. The dry stillness of waiting rooms. And
something more subtle, almost invisible: the smell of fear itself, mingled with
uncertainty.
As I walked toward the hematology-oncology ward, I exhaled slowly.
Today was the day Park Jun-ho would begin his first treatment.
I paused briefly outside his room.
A quiet worry surfaced—were they already collapsing inward under the
weight of disease?
But from inside, I heard something unexpected.
Laughter.
Soft, restrained, almost tender.
When I opened the door, I saw them sitting side by side by the window,
facing the winter sunlight.
They looked like a couple about to depart on a long journey.
In a way, they were.
But not toward a distant place.
Toward the long road of fighting disease.
"Professor, you’re here," he said with a calm smile.
"Surprisingly, I feel okay."
"Did you sleep last night?"
At my question, he shook his head with a faint, bitter smile.
"Honestly… I didn’t sleep at all."
His wife added softly,
"Me neither. I stayed awake the whole night."
Their hands remained tightly clasped.
They exchanged a long gaze—silent, steady.
Within that brief moment were 44 years of shared life and an unspoken
resolve to face what lay ahead together.
The Language of Treatment
I pulled a chair close to the bedside, so I could speak at eye level.
"Fortunately, your condition has a relatively favorable prognosis.
Colonic MALT lymphoma is a low-grade, slow-growing lymphoma. With early and
appropriate treatment, many patients can return to their normal daily
lives."
They nodded, listening intently.
"However, treatment is not without challenges. Fatigue may
accumulate. Your immune system may be temporarily weakened, increasing
susceptibility to infection. We will closely monitor your blood tests and
imaging throughout the process."
His wife hesitated, then asked quietly,
"Professor… will his hair fall out?"
I smiled gently.
"Not all treatments cause that. The medication we plan to use targets
cancer cells specifically while minimizing damage to normal cells. So you don’t
need to worry too much about that."
[Medical Insight]
[Figure Insert]
Tears After 44 Years: Emotions Finally Breaking Free
The nurse began preparing the medication.
The clear infusion bag slowly filled with drops of therapy.
Each drop seemed ordinary.
And yet, within it were invisible things:
Park Jun-ho’s wish to return to teaching.
His quiet dream of tending the garden with his wife.
The simple miracle of an ordinary future.
His wife held his hand tightly, staring out the window.
Then suddenly, she lowered her head and began to cry.
"I’m sorry… I should have brought you to the hospital earlier…"
Startled, he gripped her shoulder.
"Why are you saying that? This isn’t your fault."
"I should have paid closer attention… I kept believing you when you
said you were fine… I feel so foolish…"
Her sobbing filled the room.
For a moment, he said nothing.
Then, slowly, he reached out and took her trembling, weathered hands in
his.
"It’s not your fault," he said softly.
"If anything… you’re the reason I’m here today. Because you insisted,
we found this in time."
And then it happened.
For the first time, tears rolled down his face as well.
After 44 years of marriage, they had never broken down like this in front
of each other.
But now, before disease—something far larger than either of them—they
finally allowed themselves to fall apart together.
The Miracle Called an Ordinary Day
Watching them, I felt both the fragility of human life and the
extraordinary strength of love.
Disease breaks people.
But paradoxically, it also reveals what we forget to see.
The smell of morning coffee.
The sound of someone breathing beside us.
The quiet comfort of shared conversation.
Only when these things are threatened do we realize how miraculous they
truly are.
The Final Lesson: A Granddaughter’s Drawing
As the chemotherapy infused slowly into his vein, Park Jun-ho gazed out at
the winter sunlight and spoke quietly.
"Professor, I used to tell my students, ‘Today will never come
again.’ But I suppose I forgot that myself while living my own life."
His wife reached into her bag and took out a sheet of paper.
It was a drawing from their granddaughter.
A simple sketch: a grandfather and granddaughter holding hands, smiling
brightly.
Below it, in uneven handwriting, were the words:
“Grandpa, please don’t be sick. Let’s go to school together in spring.”
He stared at the drawing for a long time.
And then, silently, he cried again.
In that moment, I understood something fundamental.
What truly sustains a cancer patient is not only medical science.
It is the desire to meet someone again.
To live long enough to see another spring.
[Figure Insert]
The Paradoxical Wisdom of Cancer
That night, I approached him as he stood alone by the window.
"Are you feeling any discomfort?"
He shook his head.
Then said quietly,
"Professor… when does a person start thinking about death?"
"Today, for the first time, I thought about it seriously."
A pause.
"And I realized… I don’t want to die."
His words were simple.
But profoundly human.
Cancer strips away certainty—of health, of time, of the future.
Yet paradoxically, it also illuminates what it means to be alive.
Evidence of Hope: Follow-Up CT
Several weeks later, we performed a follow-up CT scan to assess treatment
response.
I scrolled through the images with a slightly trembling focus.
And then I saw it.
The previously evident circumferential wall thickening in the descending
colon had significantly regressed.
Lymph node enlargement had also markedly decreased.
"This is a good response," I said, smiling without realizing it.
In the outpatient room, when I showed them the images, his wife began to
cry even before I finished speaking.
The words “it is improving” became, for them, more precious than
any medicine.
[Medical Insight] Treatment Response Evaluation
[Figure Insert]
To Give Someone Spring Again
As the consultation ended, Park Jun-ho stopped at the door.
"Professor… will I be able to attend my granddaughter’s entrance
ceremony next spring?"
I smiled with quiet certainty.
"Yes. You will be there."
He bowed deeply.
As I watched him leave, I reflected once again on what medicine truly is.
Medicine is not merely the control of cellular proliferation.
It is the restoration of ordinary life.
It is the ability to return spring to someone who feared they might never
see it again.
Holding a granddaughter’s hand at a school gate may seem simple.
But in truth, it is everything.
[Medical Recommendations] – Part III
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The above content is a web novel adapted from the article
published on https://leesangbock.blogspot.com/2026/06/colonic-malt-lymphoma-ct-imaging-ai-healthcare.html. |
Part II: One Word in a Pathology Report—MALT Lymphoma☜ Previous Chapter
Next Chapter ☞Part IV: On the Day the Cherry Blossoms Bloomed, a Man Walked
His Granddaughter Back to School Holding Her Hand
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