The circular images from the C.T. scan showed several “suspicious” masses in his abdomen. “Suspicious” is medical shorthand for “suspicious for cancer,” since only cancer is so deceitful and vile as to be born from your own organs, and use them as camouflage as it masses its forces against you.

The suspect masses belonged to Mr. Soh, one of the few Corean patients I’ve had. I didn’t tell him I was half-Corean. I didn’t want to connect with him anymore than I had already. Mr. Soh and his two kids were ten years older than me and my two kids. I felt sadder for him and his family than many of my other patients. The younger ones (in medicine, “young” means “not the usual dying age”), the ones with kids, the nicer ones – they get a pinch more sympathy than the rest. You can be a jerk your entire life, but if you’re a nice person in the hospital, all sins are irrelevant and forgiven, despite your “DIE DIE DIE” tattoo.

“So how many levels of cancer are there, if this is cancer?” he asked.

“There’s four stages. The fourth being end-stage, meaning the cancer has spread too much,” I answered.

“What stage do you think I am?”

“You’re … stage four.”

“I see, well, not the answer I was hoping for,” he said rubbing his forehead, “So, have you seen this before? I mean, someone my age with bad cancer?”

“Yeah. I’ve seen younger.”

I think between his anxiety, his stubbornness, and the shock of his diagnosis, he didn’t really accept what I’d tell him everyday, which is a typical difference between the young and the old when it comes to mortality issues. He left before getting a biopsy done. He wanted a second and third opinion elsewhere – I couldn’t blame him. Maybe another hospital could offer more, I hoped. Frankly, I was relieved when he left – cases like these make me feel more like a priest than a doctor. I’ve seen this story before and end-stage cancer tends to be unoriginal with its endings.

Two weeks later, he was back. He had gone to The Mayo Clinic and another specialized cancer center and returned. He didn’t like the other places. The academia was top notch but the hospital was “old, filthy, and the rooms were small.” He felt he was getting conflicting information from all the attendings, residents, and students – too many cooks in the pot.

“Hey Mr. Soh, I remember you,” I smiled.

“Dr. Scott,” he greeted me expectantly, “So you speak Corean.”

I never told him that. Spider-sense tingled.

“A little. How did you know?”

“I gotta be honest with you Dr. Scott –”

There were only two ways he could have known – either he knew one of Amy’s relatives or –

“You looked me up, didn’t you?” I laughed, while trying to imagine how much he knew about me and whether or not I’d have to kill him.

“Yes I did. I researched all of my doctors.”

It also dawned on me that he’d been to the best hospitals in the country, seen the best and brightest doctors, and yet … he came back.

“Are you Corean? Is your mom or your dad?” he asked which surprised me, since anyone who read my website would know this. I told him my mom was Corean and he touched my arm.

“We’re soul brothers then. You take care of me,” he said with a wink, “And you’ll get a free Corean dinner out of this.”

The classic Corean bribe. As I laughed, I decided not to kill him. Unless of course, he was making one of those overused soul=Seoul puns.

As I talked to him more, I realized he hadn’t discovered my website after all. He had seen an old hospital profile of mine. Whew!

His demeanor had turned a hundred and eighty degrees since last time, changed by the fear of God or the fear of death, same difference. His anxieties had been drained from him like the unnatural fluids filling the chest tube reservoir by his bed. He had less questions and more answers. The fact that I was half-Corean comforted him and he’d open up to me in ways he hadn’t with others. Maybe it worked both ways. Either way, I’d see him last everyday so I didn’t have to worry about hurrying to see my more unstable patients.

“So we finally told our boys that I have cancer. That I’ve got six to twelve months, on average.”

I have a pretty good imagination but I couldn’t imagine doing that. Is it better to see your father dying slowly over a year or to be awakened at three in the morning with the shock-inducing news? Trick question.

“My youngest is going to Brazil, soccer camp,” Mr. Soh added.

“Wow, nice,” I replied. I hated youth soccer league as a kid. I played because dad wanted me to and I quit the day he died.

“My son didn’t know if he should go, but I told him, hey, life goes on. I’m buying my older son a new car. Have to remind them I was a good father,” he chuckled while pretending to hand out money. Ha, again with the bribe. It kind of got to me. Corean pragmatism to the last: love is tangible, love is support, love is money. (Right, Blbrry?)

His wife was Caucasian, so his boys were half-Corean, like my brother and me, almost the same ages we were when our dad died. Working in the hospital reminds me of that constantly. Being a father now does too. Things always seem to come back to that night, that Big Bang of cold realization, swirling around it like a vortex, repeating like a broken record. The record’s gone but we still remember the songs it used to play.

“… I don’t want my kids to be doctors. Dealing with stuff like this every day …,” he stated, one stereotype refuted, one cycle broken. I nodded with an understanding that few know. Being a physician just isn’t what people think it is – you’re not patting yourself on the back nor collecting sports cars named after each day of the week. It’s dealing with the dying on a daily basis, at least for some, and it does drain you. You don’t have to be slightly sociopathic to be a physician, but I imagine it helps.

Mr. Soh said he’d be in touch, and make due on his initial offer.

At home, I told Amy about him, “He said there was a free Corean dinner in it for me.”

“That’s nice,” she replied setting a dish of bulgogi on the table as I watched little tofu cubes swirl in my miso soup.