CHAPTER 126

2026-01-30

When one speaks of a scalpel, one is reminded of the Japanese sword—once the blade is drawn, there is no turning back.

Both the scalpel and the Japanese sword are incomparably sharp. Each strike is precise, restrained rather than flamboyant, decisive and merciless—one cut, and blood is drawn. The difference is this: the former spares life under the blade, while the latter sheds blood without mercy.

Surgeons and swordsmen alike draw their blades for a reason—one to save lives, the other to protect oneself. Neither acts carelessly.

To reach the state where person and blade become one requires countless rounds of tempering and practice. Rash action, in the former case, causes suffering to the patient; in the latter, it amounts to kindness toward one’s enemy.

In the 2017 Japanese TV drama A Life for Love, starring the late Yuko Takeuchi (d. 2020) and Takuya Kimura, Kimura’s character—the renowned physician Matsuda Ikko—delivers a memorable line in spirit as:

“Exquisite medical skill is the result of relentless repetition.”

This insistence on precision, usefulness, and efficiency, together with unceasing practice, shapes the surgeon’s way of working—something I experienced firsthand during my treatment.

After my liver transplant, I spent three days in the intensive care unit. During rounds, a team of three on-duty doctors came by, removed the large dressing covering my wound, and examined an incision shaped like a distorted Mercedes-Benz emblem. At the time it had not yet been stitched, sealed only with adhesive tape (so that if my condition changed and reoperation became necessary, there would be no need to remove staples). After a single look, they concluded that the surgery was flawless—certainly the work of a master surgeon. The three nodded in agreement.

This is what one might call a signature piece. It was like a scene from a martial arts film, where an imperial guard can identify the weapon used, the assassin’s school, and even the individual responsible merely by examining the victim’s wounds.

There was no mystery to it. In the entire province, only a handful of surgeons are capable of performing liver transplants. Given the layout and precision of the incision, how many could it be? Though I lay immobile in bed, I felt deeply reassured.

Later, comparing this with my appendectomy at age twenty-four, the old scar—though now faint—was still a bit rougher than the liver transplant scar from when I was fifty-three. Hmnn!

The same surgeon had operated on me at forty-five to remove liver cancer. Afterward, I had follow-ups every three months. He stated plainly that if there was no recurrence for two years, follow-ups could be reduced to once every six months.

Unexpectedly, two years later the cancer returned, and I had to be referred immediately to the BC Cancer Agency. Upon hearing the news, I anxiously asked the doctor about my “prognosis”—that is, the expected course and outlook of the disease. Slightly impatient, he replied with just one sentence: “Deal with one thing at a time.” He was blunt and direct, and he hit the mark. That line later became my personal motto.

Beyond being swift and precise, doctors who possess a sense of humor can also ease a patient’s excessive anxiety.

At my first visit to the oncologist, I gave him a detailed account of my medical history—it was quite extensive. Smiling, he asked, “Any more?” I replied, “Do you want more?” We looked at each other and laughed.