By William Stuyvesant

During this year's extremely cold and rainy spring I crawled on my knees through hell. In February I had turned 65 and hardly two months later could not walk anymore. As soon as I tried to get up from the chair at my desk or my mattress, cramping and crippling pains shot though my old hunched back and hips. Uttering primal sounds like pigs scream when they got a knife stuck into their throat, I pulled myself agonisingly slowly up gripping an old-fashioned cabinet and next a shiny door handle, and finally managed to stand up straight. Then I had to catch my breath before I could continue my way to the kitchen or bathroom. This physical torture took mainly place at night as in daytime the prescribed painkillers were to some extent effective.

A miracle happened this morning in the beginning of June; for the very first time in four months I got up without any excruciating pain in my back and hips. This liberating feeling gives me hope. To overcome obstacles in life, I have always relied on the breeding ground of optimistic expectations for the future. Once being imprisoned in Japan, I used to whistle songs to cheer myself up while thinking about the day of my return to freedom.

For certain, the first medical treatments are effective. On the first of June, six days ago, the oncologist of St. Xavier's Hospital admitted me to his clinical research project. That same day he took me to a cheerfully chatting nurse who injected a substance into my left and right abdominal walls to lower my testosterone level. Two days ago, I underwent the prescribed radiotherapy in Brasschaat, a town of the rich and neo Nazis located at a distance of seven miles away from Antwerp. Luckily I had been able to arrange with the health insurance company for a taxi pick up and drop off as a bus ride would have been too painful.

From long ago I have hated the bus as a mode of transport. Firstly, there is no aboard bus toilet; imagine you're having an attack of diarrhea on the bus! For example, taking the bus from Brussels Central Station to Toyota's Head Office in Evere, you will be riding on the bus sitting in shit. As I am a socially sensitive person, I would feel guilty of exposing my fellow passengers to a particularly unpleasant odour. Secondly, a bus often rumbles with violent jerking vibrations by which my insides and young gentleman are crushed. Thirdly, the bus makes for the prime environment for spreading the Chinese virus among the passengers who are practically sitting on each other's laps.

The radiation therapy was almost a pleasant experience. You lie down on a black leather board above which and beside of which all kinds of equipment are attached to. Like a funfair attraction, all those parts start to move and you feel yourself floating through space; this movement is made lifelike by the dark blue ceiling you are looking at above you on which white moons and stars are depicted.

At one point in time, I thought to see E.T. in the distance; I would have liked to talk with him but my glider veered into a different orbit through space. After having missed this meeting, I saw the apostle Petrus, encircled by twinkling stars, standing at the gates of heaven. Extremely enthusiastically he waved to me as a sign of welcome. I was about to wave back when suddenly the glaring lights in the room were turned on and I heard a nurse's voice over a loudspeaker telling me that the treatment was done. Unfortunately, getting up after the treatment felt like the most painful torture; two members of the medical staff were called in to help me up from the leather chiropractic table.

A few minutes later, my wife Momona and I were riding in a taxi on the way back to Antwerp, the small metropolis. The windows were wide open and I enjoyed the view and the warm breeze. In the north of Antwerp we passed the region where I had speed walked for about five or six years. Possessing a fat belly, my motivation to rush past factories, forests and "The Schelde River" was partly fueled by the lust of a primitive man whose sexual fantasies had to be fed constantly by the images of jogging, sporty-dressed old girls and young women, though maintaining a healthy condition also played a role. 

Thus, I had led a healthy life with speed walking as well as teaching and drinking. Suddenly that was done; in the second week of April I lay on my bed groaning in pain. After fifty days of suffering it was diagnosed that I had the fatal C. illness. (I have always refused to name that disease.) Jesus had starved and prayed in a sunlit desert for forty days which pales in comparison to my fifty days in the inferno. Almost I hadn't been able to walk; I immediately had to vomit the painkillers and food I took. Three times I had staggered to the hospital emergency room and had nutrition injected into my blood through an IV. Once the situation was so dire that I had been admitted for several days. Why it took so long to learn the "verdict" was due to the family physician and myself: we initially assumed that it was a back problem, namely lumbago. Later, on the last day of May, I learned that it was the C. disease which had struck into the seminal fluid producing organ and spread to the back of my body. I hadn't seen it coming at all. But the same applies to people whom have a heart attack or a cerebral hemorrhage. The unexpected moment and the sudden kamikaze attack make you physically weak, and you can crash mentally.

This morning, after having paid some bills, I took a walk through the city. By way of the Art Academy I strolled to the Hendrik Conscience Square. I saw that the tram rails had been broken up and removed from the following streets "Wolstraat" and "Korte Koepoortstraat." Whenever a car passed on these yellow-coloured streets, the dusty sand flew up. Those clouds of sand with their special smell pleased me. Raised in the countryside, my keen sense of smell easily recognises the various types of soil. Also when it rains on grass, or on sand, or on a city street, I detect the distinctive scents. A friend of mine told me that new tram rails will be laid in those old historic streets of Antwerp in the near future. This news made me very happy, the more as I had wrongly suspected the city council of wanting to do away with tram traffic to make way for the king, being the car. Such a crazy policy has been pursued since the 1950s.

So this spring I was dished out every conceivable misfortune, all at the same time: the almost fatal illness, having no income because the application for my pension got stuck between Brussels and Utrecht (a city in Holland), and I could no longer teach due to my poor condition. On top of that came the unexpected decision of my daughter to return permanently to Japan at the end of June. After 18 years here in Belgium she's never got integrated, she felt out of place. She was terribly victimised by constant bullying in primary and secondary school. Also, the nasty atmosphere at home could have influenced her decision. I haven't been a good father; I have quarrelled too often with my wife in a loud voice. Reika appears to have been very sensitive to this noise as a child and therefore developed a strong dislike of me. It should be noted that a boisterous way of speaking in a European language sounds to the Japanese like the roar of thunder during a storm. However I have never abused my wife or split her head with an axe into two parts. So far as physical damage is concerned, it wasn't too bad. I will give some recent examples of comments and behavior from Momona which gave me a spirit of bad blood. She told me recently:

"For the last 18 years I have led a poor hermit's life here; no holidays, no visits to restaurants and little time to spend with Japanese friends."

I didn't even respond to those remarks! She has forgotten that she has been on holiday to Japan four times, and that with my limited income. And it is true that we have not bathed in luxury but the lady has been playing games on her smartphone all these years. Momona also seemed to have forgotten that she doesn't have a single Japanese friend here. I will leave out other examples of her special talent of twisting the truth.

On the one hand, Reika's impending departure gives me a feeling of being abandoned. My current condition worries me. Am I ever going to see her again? On the other hand, I have to be happy that she wants to build up an independent life in her native country. She has received a thorough education and has the blessed age of twenty-six. Her own language and culture, her grandmother and uncle are waiting for her; it will not be a leap in the darkness but the beginning of her personal resurrection. She is going to pick up Chiyo, our dog, in November and take her back to her new home in Japan. In the meantime, Chiyo will go for a few months on holiday in the city of Menen with the Belgian family who keeps Chiyo's father, mother and brothers as housemates.

It is likely that most parents have experienced the same ordeal; you work yourself to death for your child or children, and they are ungrateful. They even resent you, for example, because you dress old-fashioned or sometimes you express your frustrations too lively. Reika's disgust of me has disastrously lambed into my emotions. With the passage of time and new human experiences, will she get a different insight? Maybe, but that's not certain. Truly I am not writing a plea to absolve myself of my own ugly behavior and actions. I can very well imagine that what I consider to be an ordinary everyday verbal marital argument could possibly strike like a bolt of lightning into the tender emotional world of a child. I, myself, am the one who caused the indelible wounds of devastation in Reika's heart. Grieving and self-pity won't help me any further. First I'm going to have to recover physically, and if it is necessary, I might be able to help Reika with her reintegration in Japan.

My own reintegration in the Low Countries, after having been 22 years in Japan, did not go smoothly at all. With my extensive experience and reasonably good education, I was unable to find a suitable job anywhere in 2006. But I put my skinny arms and hands out of my wide sleeves and toiled like a slave at a fruit and vegetable company, applied for a job at a snack bar, found students again, and played the lottery. I provided a roof over our head and the daily bread, potatoes, rice and the salt in the porridge. Reika was able to continue her studies and music education. Momona enjoyed the luxury of taking Dutch language lessons two afternoons a week. We took daytrips by train to Amsterdam, Brussels, Eupen and Florenville. Soon I was teaching quite a few Japanese students in Brussels and barely came into contact with the locals anymore. As a result, I also did not make any friends here –  except one – and ended up in social isolation, which did not drive me crazy or cause me sleepless nights. It didn't worry me.

In every metropolis there is a Japanese enclave where you can go to your familiar hairdresser and stock up food from 'home'. The schools, cafes and restaurants there are the ideal places to build up your social life as a Japanese. The metropolis of the fat necks (nickname for the local people here) lacked this necessary island on which my wife and daughter could have survived as castaways. I didn't realise that when we chose to take up residence in the city of The Schelde River. Socially, we retreated into a spiritual and emotional vacuum.

For a moment now, I return to the 50 days of my torturous hell and the subsequent first week of June. Did I get mental support from my bar companions, friends and Dutch family? They knew that I was doing badly and eventually learned about the eventual devastating verdict. Momona worked tirelessly to help me. Whenever I needed her she was there. Apparently she had been able to break her gaming addiction. My brothers in the Netherlands showed some understanding and compassion on the phone. Though if the same thing had happened to them, I would have gone back home immediately (just as I did in the past for my father and eldest brother). It is my age-old mistake to expect others to act as I do. Although I have not met him, my youngest brother has been actively involved in gathering information for me and would have helped me to get admitted to a reputable hospital in Amsterdam.

I haven't heard anything from the bar companions with whom I spent long nights chatting, pleasantly or sometimes less pleasantly. Luckily I have a friend in this town, Tom, a good chess player and a fan of Dostoyevsky. He inquires every day by phone, email, or in person how I am doing. You can't say it at the bar or in public spaces, but the two of us see Putin's war of liberation in Ukraine as a conflict provoked by NATO and the corrupt neo-Nazi regime in Kiev. In addition, Tom has an excellent sense of humor. I let him know by e-mail what the Bulgarian cleaning woman from "Woonhaven" (a housing association) told me this morning about Zelensky, the President of the Ukraine: "I hate Zelensky. He is the biggest profiteer."

Tom liked this statement by Ivanka, and he asked me her age. So I wrote truthfully that she was twenty years too old for him, to which he replied, "Then she must be about thirty-five!"

During the last 10 days, now in June, I have lost weight, about six kilogrammes. Various causes are conceivable; for example, the disease itself, the heat, loss of appetite due to the large amount of painkillers, or fear. I've just read in the book Front Surgery (original title Die unsichtbare Flagge) by Peter Bamm: "Fear leads to contraction of the smallest vessels and to disturbances in intestinal function. The fright leads to an outpouring of adrenaline from the cortex of the adrenal glands into the bloodstream."

So fear too, black fear is a cause of weight loss. An enormous fear of the disease. A week ago, the additional fear of losing my well-cared-for teeth arose. On the advice of the oncologist, I had to ask the dentist if there are any current problems with my teeth that would make treatment with a bone-strengthening product impossible. First I went for a check-up to my regular dentist. After taking a photo he saw a somewhat gray area under one or two molars. For a second opinion he referred me to the dentist at the St Xavarius Hospital where I am being treated for that horrifying disease. There, a female dentist said that four teeth might need to be extracted but that opinion could still be changed as this Romanian dentist had not received the photo of my teeth and she had not taken one herself! I could not agree with her assessment and subsequently asked for a third opinion from Dr E, a colleague of hers.

The confrontation with Dr E was a special experience. First a photo was taken of my teeth by his assistant, and two minutes later I met the doctor, about sixty years old, a man with a grumpy expression and a gigantic fat head; he looked all Botox bloated, probably done to get rid of his age wrinkles. I saw quite a few bald spots under his brown-dyed hair. He would have been better off wearing a wig.

Without a word of greeting, he pointed to a simple chair in front of his desk where I had to sit down. He asked me in a gruff voice the purpose of my visit. So I read aloud the oncologist's email asking if there were any possible problems with my teeth that.... In a snarling tone he demanded to see the e-mail himself. Initially I refused as this was a personal message to me and it would be rude to the oncologist to show his written notice to someone else. Still he barked at me to hand him the paper. I thought the man was crazy; I had never experienced such an insolence before.

Then with a gesture Dr E let me sit down in the treatment chair which stood in the center of the room, and at distance of half a meter away looked at my mouth for two seconds, - perhaps he was farsighted - and next he pointed to the same cheap Ikea chair at his desk where I seated myself . He said in an icy voice: "Let's make an appointment for the end of July or the beginning of August, I'm going to put you to sleep and pull all your teeth."

Absolutely in a state of shock, I politely thanked him for the advice and left. I guess to have been in his room for barely two minutes. When hearing such advice you mentally collapse and panic. All my life I have been two to three times a year to the dentist for check-ups. I was always proud to have all my teeth.

Long ago in Hamamatsu, I unfortunately lost my four wisdom teeth at the age of 28. An extremely skilled and friendly dentist Dr Fujita had tackled and removed those evil rascals with sweat beading on his forehead. I hadn't felt any pain under local anesthesia and each time, after the four minor operations, I happily played Pachinko. At that time I was addicted to gambling. The addiction had gotten so out of hand that I traveled on the Shinkansen - a super fast train - to Nagoya, Hamamatsu and Tokyo to challenge my luck in the gambling houses there.

Because the day after tomorrow my oncologist will start my special treatment which cannot be delayed for a day, he ultimately decided to ignore the advice of the three dentists. If eventually there are any dental problems, the special medication can be stopped for a few days. However, between the advice of the unsympathetic Dr E and the oncologist's final assessment there were six days; that period of almost gruelling fatal fear of losing my teeth also might have caused my weight to plummet.

At this moment I am as happy as a child that I can save my teeth for heaven. In addition, yesterday morning I thought I had become a Belgian. Due to a long-standing problem with the Dutch bureaucracy, which refused to give me my citizen service number (BSN) by telephone or letter, I started looking for my old passports and driving licences which might mention that number. I could only find an "old" Belgian driving licence on which four numbers were noted. In my confused state of mind I thought that I had lost my new Belgian driver's licence. I immediately went to the Oudaan Police Station, located in the center of town, to report the loss. At the counter on the third floor I told the police officer on duty about the loss of my driver's licence but that I still had the old one.

He said: "You may have lost your new driving licence but anyway it is not allowed to have two licences. I am forced to confiscate this old driver's licence."

"Oh," I replied, bewildered, "but firstly could you tell me the meaning of these numbers." You know, I hope my Dutch BSN is on there."

"Wait a minute, I'll try to find it out," he said, walking with the driver's licence into the office behind the counter.

A moment later: "Sorry, but I have not been able to find out the exact meaning of these numbers, but they are surely related to your Dutch driver's licence," and he added with a smile, "but this is your valid driver's licence."

"Oh, oh, what an idiot I am!" I exclaimed. "It's unbelievable that I get everything mixed up these days."

By realising that I considered myself an idiot, I had reached the intellectual level of the average Belgian. Hence the gratifying idea that I had become a Belgian.

Chiyo, our Pomeranian dog, became my best friend over the last six months. How I dread her leaving us at the end of this week. Momona doesn't have the time to take her out for a walk; also because she regularly accompanies me to the hospital. On top of that, Chiyo has never learned to be at home alone for a couple of hours. I could ask my walking companion Dirk to babysit Chiyo from time to time, but my wife and daughter wouldn't hear of this good idea. It is a mystery to me, why.

Maybe I'm a weak emotional person because the tears flow at the thought of never seeing Chiyo again lying next to me on the mattress. Then she turns onto her back and enjoys being caressed on her belly while she raises her front legs into the air and her brown-black shining eyes gaze at me with a satisfied expression. She is the most beautiful Pomeranian on this earth; her wooly fur is coloured beige, brown and white. Her head is not flat as is the case for many of her peers, but like a German Shepherd she has a sharp profile with the nose positioned at a distance from the eyes.

Secretly I often give Chiyo a bite of my meal, which of course works very well to gain her eternal friendship. It can be a small piece of cheese, tomato or ham, and just now I gave her two tiny meatballs from the tomato soup. She has the unique ability to diligently lick the faces of sad people who cry and whom she loves. Yesterday she made an exception and instead of the face she started giving my arm, from bottom to top, her special treatment of licking. She often comes to me with a panda doll stuck between her teeth which I have to try to grab and then throw and let the panda fly across the room or hallway. Like an acrobat Chiyo jumps after the panda to catch it in midair and brings it back to me. Sometimes she bites the panda, which then makes a metallic bell sound. When she's in a good mood, which is usually the case, she "rings" that bell endlessly.

As I write this, the song 'Kentucky Rain' by Elvis plays: "I want to bring you home..." Chiyo has not left yet, nevertheless I am already thinking about a few weeks later, when my condition improves, I would like to rush to Menen to bring her back home. Her barking, her comforting licks, her sympathetic and calm facial expression are a gift from God.

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