On May 1 the master sounded fully recovered, healthy, happy, cheerful, and back in business. In his monthly email announcement of upcoming temple events the master invited the sangha to the board meeting, to the World Peace Ceremony, to the Remembrance Ceremony, and to Ryaku Fusatsu, and the master expressed his delight in the beautiful spring weather.
Impermanence.
On May 10 an email from the master to the sangha—
Subject: "Me."
"The results of diagnostic surgery," the master informed us, "show that I have lung cancer."
The master explained that his cancer was non-small cell adenocarcinoma, a cancer more treatable than other kinds, that he had experienced no symptoms, and that he was feeling "great."
"I plan on finding the most aggressive treatment possible," the master declared, "on beating this into remission, and on living a full life for some time yet."
He added—
"Wish me luck!"
To my daily devotions again I added "Enmei Jukko Kannon Gyo."
Health—
Hope—
On June 1 I attended the Sunday midmorning zazen and service. The master looked good, maybe just a bit thinner. He sounded good. He sat the full period in the zendo. He conducted the Ceremony for World Peace and following it the master led the group discussion.
On June 21 an email from the master to the sangha.
"Hi all—"
Its purpose was to inform all those who might not have heard of his diagnosis.
Lung cancer.
"If you don't know this," the master wrote wryly—
"Surprise!"
The master related his schedule of chemotherapy and radiation and said that he had so far experienced only minimal side effects of treatment and still no major symptoms of the cancer.
"I have been very fortunate," the master said.
Gratitude.
"I am positive and hopeful."
The master explained that if and when therapy shrank the tumors his surgeon would perform a lower lobectomy on his right lung where the primary tumor was located. Then the master would receive more chemo and more radiation if needed to address the lymph node involvement higher in his chest.
In the lymph—
Uh oh.
"I'm enjoying life and I intend to do so until I can't anymore!" the master exclaimed. "When that will happen no one knows."
Hope.
"If things go well it could be years."
In the lymph—
Uh oh.
"Keep me on your health and well-being lists, keep your fingers crossed, pray, or whatever," the master requested. "I accept all prayers, good wishes, and expressions of compassion!"
On June 29—
The master was laughing, smiling, obviously enjoying the service.
The conversation.
Happy.
The master looked good.
On July 13—
In his dharma talk the master explained that real happiness, true happiness, is found only within and not without. Of his own personal search for contentment and peace in his twenties and thirties the master said again what I had heard him say so many times before.
"I thought if I could just get the right job, the right girl, and the right drug I would be happy."
But no—
"It seemed one of the three was always out of sync."
Yes.
Been there done that.
Amen.
The master had found zazen.
Meditation.
Buddhist practice.
The master offered a recapitulation of his life, the story of his many jobs, college teaching, his frustration, welding, his unemployment, his five years of marriage, the birth of his daughter, his anxiety, his divorce, his five-year relationship, his being dumped, his dependence on marijuana, his finding a teacher, his sitting, practice, monastery, temple, and then the summary of these terrible last two years, his diverticulitis, the removal of his colon, the infection, the ileostomy, the removal of his gall bladder, the diagnosis of lung cancer, his chemotherapy, the radiation, and the major surgery planned in the next six weeks.
"Now these last two years," the master said, "I am as happy as I have ever been."
He smiled.
The master looked good.
He apologized.
"I'm fading," the master said. "I'm tired."
The master bowed.
Exit.
On July 16 an email from the master to the sangha—
He felt tired.
"When the fatigue gets to me," the master said, "I lie down and take a nap!"
He felt good.
"The other night I went out for sushi and had a nice glass of wine before bed."
Better.
"Yum!" he exclaimed in his message.
An update—
His surgery would be in August.
"Thank you all for the chanting, the good wishes, and the kind words."
Gratitude.
"I deeply appreciate all of it."
Time.
At 9:00 in the morning on 13 August I drove to the hospital.
Dread.
His surgery—
I knew Nananda would be there but it was Wednesday, a work day, and off for the summer I thought I might again be the only other person from the temple free and able to be present.
The surgery had been scheduled for 9:30 in the morning then postponed till 12:30.
Nananda and I sat all day and talked and read and talked and snoozed and talked.
We worried.
We talked again of the principle of confidentiality, of the confusion surrounding it, the question of how extensive and comprehensive the principle is, how strict, whom it covers, teacher, student, or both, whether it be relative or absolute.
We explored the principle.
"I tell my students that what they tell me is not confidential," Nananda said.
"Oh."
"I tell them I'll consult with others about it if I need to."
Nananda related an anecdote.
At a meeting of the Zen Teachers Association another teacher had approached Nananda in confidence.
"If you can keep a secret I—" this teacher had begun.
Nananda had interrupted.
"No, don't tell me!" Nananda said she had said.
Echo.
Then out of the blue—
"How would the Heartmind sangha feel if Kudo entered a relationship with Eleanor?"
Hmm.
I needed a few seconds to collect my thoughts.
Nananda waited.
"It would be hard for the sangha I think," I said.
"Why?"
Good question.
Hmm.
I needed several seconds more.
"Age."
"Why?" Nananda asked.
Hmm.
Good question.
I was eleven years older than my wife Ruth.
I thought again.
"Actually," I said, "after their initial surprise I think the sangha would be fine with it."
"Good."
Nananda and I talked more of the master.
His anger.
"Ha!"
Nananda found this whole subject very funny.
"Ha!"
Nananda laughed.
"Ha!"
Nananda laughed loudly.
"Ha!"
Her attitude was contagious.
I laughed.
Nananda laughed, loudly, and then laughed, loudly, again and again.
Nananda snoozed.
I read.
"Did I snore?" Nananda asked me in a whisper when she finally woke.
I grinned.
"Not bad," I said.
Nananda smiled.
The surgery dragged on and on and on and on.
Why—
Why—
We worried.
We worried.
Why—
We spoke of teaching, politics, marriage, divorce, family, children, grandchildren.
More.
I remembered an old question I had.
Long ago.
"Does your family practice?" I asked.
"Ha!"
Nananda hooted.
"Nooo!"
Nananda dismissed the very suggestion with a broad peremptory wave of her hand.
"Nooo!"
Nananda laughed again.
"Yours?"
I couldn't help but grin.
"No."
"Your wife?" Nananda asked.
"No."
I laughed.
"No way!" I said.
Together we loudly laughed.
Hours—
The surgery dragged on.
Hours—
We waited.
We worried.
We waited.
There had been a lot of recent trauma in her family and in her sangha Nananda said.
Illness and death.
I told Nananda that in a dharma talk last month the master had reviewed his life.
"Reflection."
"Oh?"
"Yes," I said.
"Tell me."
"He said that for the last two years he had been as happy as he had ever been."
"Ha!"
Nananda offered a wry smile.
"No?" I inquired.
"He has been unhappy in his life for a long long time."
"Really?"
"He has always been unhappy in his life," Nananda said.
Honesty.
"It's interesting to hear you say that," I said.
Intuition.
"That's the impression I always got," I said.
Nananda nodded.
"He has never been happy with his life," Nananda said.
Memory.
"I told him once that he seemed unhappy," I said.
"And—"
"It really pissed him off," I said.
Nananda grinned.
"Truth hurts," Nananda said.
"Yes?" I asked.
Nananda did not immediately respond.
I waited.
I waited.
"I love Kudo," Nananda said.
I smiled.
"I love Kudo!" Nananda said.
"Yes."
It felt good.
When they got off work at five and six Eleanor, Ivan, and Jane arrived at the hospital to get the news. Finally at seven we all received the report. The lumpectomy had been a success.
The surgeon was pleased.
"Thank you."
We smiled.
"Thank you."
We grinned.
"Thank you."
We hugged.
"Thank you."
"Thank you."
We bowed.
"Thank you."
Friends remained to welcome the master in recovery.
"Thank you."
It was 8:30.
Tired.
I had been at the hospital eleven hours worrying and wondering.
"Thank you."
I drove home and told Ruth all that had transpired.
Health.
On August 16 I visited the master in his room.
"Hi, Kudo."
The master looked pink and strong.
"Hi, Bob."
His voice was raspy—there had been a minor mistake in surgery.
I entered.
"How are you feeling?"
"Good."
There was medical equipment everywhere.
Apparatus.
Stuff.
I had to step both around it and over it.
The master smiled.
"Thanks for coming," the master exclaimed.
"Sure."
We talked for twenty minutes.
The master summarized his surgery for me, he praised the hospital, his doctors, the nurses, the staff, he praised the care he had received, several times he expressed his appreciation and gratitude for all the persons who had served in any way to aid him in his time of need. We talked of the Olympics, of baseball, of the hospital food, of Eleanor's problem with her back.
Nananda's knees.
The master seemed almost too cheerful.
Too friendly—
Extroverted.
Just a little unlike himself and I couldn't quite put my finger on it.
I did not want to tire him.
I said goodbye.
"I'm glad to see you looking and feeling so well," I said.
The master grinned.
"It is amazing," I said.
"Do you want a hug?" the master asked.
Hug?
I remembered his colon surgery.
Caution.
"But I don't have gown and gloves on," I warned.
He gestured.
"Come here!" the master commanded.
I smiled.
I stepped to his bedside and leaned forward.
The master reached out his arms.
We embraced.
My bare hands felt the skin of his bare back.
The shock of life naked!
I squeezed.
Three times the master squeezed and patted the back of my shoulder.
Three times I patted his.
"Thank you for coming," the master said.
"Thank you."
"Take care."
"I'm delighted to see you looking and acting so well," I said.
"Me too!"
I started toward the door.
Wait—
I turned and put my palms together.
I bowed.
The master put his palms together and smiled.
A nod.
I waved goodbye.
Exit.
In the elevator I remembered what I had recognized in his demeanor.
Euphoria.
My late friend Don had exhibited it.
Morphine.
Or maybe not—
Perhaps the master was just glad to discover himself alive and still kickin—
Months passed.
For one full year the master's recovery was very slow and gradual. Though he gained strength he was unable to teach as he once had. He postponed or cancelled sesshins or invited other teachers to lead them. On the rare occasion that I sat at the temple in the evening the master did not sit and I did not see him. I attended events at Heartmind just once or twice a month, just an evening zazen or the midmorning service on Sunday, though the week of Rohatsu in December I sat two hours every evening and each night the master did sit for thirty or forty minutes. In our infrequent informal encounters the master was invariably friendly and polite.
"It's good to see you here."
At home I continued to sit forty minutes a day.
I rarely missed.
The ten hours a week I had once spent at the temple I invested in exercise.
I walked—
Five miles a day every day.
Fast kinhin.
Unlike years past when I had walked in the late spring, summer, and early fall this year I walked five miles a day almost every day all year round, even in the winter, in heat, cold, rain, and snow, in all conditions but thunder and lightning, and by eliminating third helpings and most sweets, snacks, and desserts in twelve months I lost an even forty pounds.
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