Two Lucky

Cooking macrobiotic food is simple enough. You arm yourself with good, clean ingredients and proceed with little else: water, salt and miso. Its central philosophy is that there are no extreme flavors: A delicate balance of Yin and Yang cooking, if you will. I roll my eyes when Rusty tells me this. To me, it’s plain bland.

I am unused to limiting my palatte to such pared-down essentials. In every meal, there is always a miso- or vegetable-based soup. No beef, lamb, pork or poultry are allowed. Protein is wrought from beans, soy and white fish. Most food is cooked gently - steamed, boiled or quickly sauteed - if not served raw.

So far, some of my more successful attempts at macrobiotic cooking include: For breakfast, a bowl of steamed barley, cooled, then mixed with cut melon and raisins. For lunch, steamed butternut squash with edamame, 15-grain rice boiled in miso soup, and a broccoli-shitake mushroom stir-fry with sesame. Dinner is a steamed fillet of cod on a bed of scallions, topped with ginger, whole-grain brown rice, and a sweet onion soup with seaweed and tofu.

After three days of this diet, I can attest to one real (and important) benefit to taking in all that macrobiotic goodness. You shit really easy.

Every last night I spend with Rusty is surprisingly difficult. You would think that after six months of coming and going, we would fall into a habit. Tonight, as he sleeps, I sit up and hold his hand in mine. His fingers are longer, obviously, but his nails seem abnormally large to me.

It is quite a beautiful night, actually. Our bed is right by the window, which, stretching across the length of the wall, and only a few feet from the wood-panelled floor, provides a spectacular view.

With the exception of one or two tall buildings, the deep-purple night is brushed with thick trees that frame the streets below us. Mountains push up in peaks and dips in the background. A lonely Korean palace sits in the centre, quiet and regal. In the wee hours of the morning, it almost looks like a painting.

In the moonlight, Rusty’s skin seems to glow, even though I know it is pale from all the chemotherapy. There is a forgotten lash near his right eye. His bald head is like an infant’s. Not wanting to wake him, I resist the urge to stroke it. I do not know how long I stay like this, sitting next to him, watching him, watching the window. But soon, I fall asleep too.

Making sense

It is past midnight and Rusty is asleep. I am not. It’s been a few strange days since I arrived in Seoul on Saturday. During the week, we’ve settled into a easy, if not awkward routine.

We wake up in the morning, have breakfast, and he goes to work. We meet for lunch. I come home, work on a few columns, wait for him at the apartment. Sometimes we meet again outside for dinner. Other times, like today, we stay home and order in. We watch television. We chit chat. He falls asleep and soon, I follow. The day restarts.

It’s not a bad life. There are moments when it all makes sense. Like tonight, when apparently out of the blue, he takes my hand and says he loves me. His eyes are on the television but I know he sees me. I squeeze his hand, and even though I say nothing, we are completely understood.

But there are also moments when nothing makes sense. Like right now, as he is lying in bed, the knowledge that tomorrow will be our last night together weighs heavily on my mind.

Last night, Rusty and I had dinner with a friend of his, Jakub, a cute 26-year-old Polish guy who looks like he’s 14. Scruffy blonde hair, a button nose and a puppy-like attention span. He works at Sony too, but he says he is leaving the city next month. He wants to join his boyfriend Tero in Finland.

“What are you going to do when you get there?” I ask. He answers me with a grin: “Fuck?” We laugh.

I can tell Rusty likes him a lot. He says to me later in the cab ride back that Jakub is his “little spot of sunshine” in this city. Of course, I feel a green twinge, but decide to be happy for him. We all need a fix of sunshine when we’re away from our loved ones.

In about 12 hours I will be back at Seoul airport waiting to board my flight home. It has been a good weekend, but it is never enough. The past few months, we have seen ourselves go through so many teary goodbyes at train stations, bus stops and airport terminals.

What I crave is some permanence. A home to share, days to start and end together.

That may come soon. Rusty is petitioning for the company to move him down to Singapore. When that happens, even the darkest days will be bearable. We will be all the sunshine we need for each other.

Bring on the Taxotere, by Phil and Pam

A quiet evening

It’s not easy getting chemotherapy in a country where you barely speak the language. But this is the best decision for now. If Jesse quits his job, he will lose his insurance. If I quit mine, I will be in debt for nearly half a million dollars.

There is a lot of truth in what people say about money. It is freedom.

From 8am till 4pm, I stay with Jesse in the ambulatory outpatient unit of the hospital in Paris. It is like the old bio-chemo times at the hospital of UPenn, but much easier. No puking, no chills, no fever. The nurses warn us that that may kick in later but so far, so good. Jesse is unimpressed, my dear boy.

Dinner is light. We eat at home, a simple spread of multi-grain bread with grapes, cheese and prosciutto. No wine, but sparkling water with fresh lemon. Entertainment? Our favorite comedy TV show, Saturday Night Live. “I hope Debby Downer comes on tonight,” Jesse says.

It is so comforting to be sated simply, to know that it takes only this much to feel loved, to feel fulfilled. Why did it have to take such particular hardship for us to find our way?

What a day. I landed in Paris a little after 6am, and after some walking, finally found the bus that would take me to Jesse’s apartment. He opens the door for me, and without missing a beat, I am in bed with him.

It is still early, around 8am by the time I get to his place. Looking at his barely woken face, lying next to him, I feel like I have been watching him the whole night.

The morning goes by quickly. It’s 11am and we’re at the hospital. Without further tests we don’t know what’s wrong with his shoulder. Dr Kim orders a PET scan and we visit another oncologist to schedule chemotherapy.

Tomorrow, 8:30am. We start on chemo buddies Taxol and Carboplatin. Dr Kim warns that the hair will go and increased muscle pain will require regular painkillers. Jesse is unimpressed, my dear boy.

The big issue now is his insurance. Over lunch, Jesse decides that if he can keep his insurance and disability, he may move down to Singapore. We talk with his company insurance department. They say it is unclear if he will get to keep his benefits if he goes on extended sick leave.

Apart from all the chemo talk, it is just like old times.

We sit on the couch, drink Orangina and watch silly movies. Mrs Doubtfire just ended and Dodgeball is coming on. As usual, Jesse tries to educate me on the finer points on American culture during the movie.

The phone rings, I stand up to get another drink. We are almost out of soy milk for breakfast tomorrow. It’s Uncle Ernie on the phone. I turn down the TV. Jesse puts his feet up on the coffee table (”Someone needs to take a bathy!”).