Honouring High Places

by Junko Tabei

  On July 9, 2012, at the Cancer Institute at Ariake Hospital, the day before surgery unfolded in textbook fashion: 11 a.m. shower; 11:30 IV attached; ongoing visits by surgeons and chief doctor for added reassurance. I felt cared for and set to proceed. Meanwhile, I could barely keep up with the volume of thank-you letters and emails that poured in after Evening for Cheer Up Tohoku. I had replied to most of them by 10 p.m. that night from my hospital bed with the IV stand by my side and my intestines having been cleansed all day. My stomach felt calmer than before any major summit assault, a good indicator that I was ready for 9 a.m. surgery the next day.

  Masanobu arrived, then Noriko, early on July 10. I donned my favourite pashmina shawl from Nepal atop the customary, bland hospital gown and walked to the operating room. I was impressed by the number of rooms lined up, each one ready to, God willing, better a patient’s life. As I stepped into the room of expertise, I was welcomed with a smile from the anesthetist, and the warm sheet on the operating table offered slightly more comfort. “Onegai-shimasu,” I said. “Please, do your best,” And within seconds, I was in a deep sleep.

  Shortly after noon, I woke from the haze of anesthesia to the sound of the surgeon’s voice: “Clean removal. It was almost unnoticeable.” My throat was sore, and my body was connected to a myriad of tubes. I was on oxygen as well. Although my son and his wife came to visit, I was too drowsy to communicate. The urinal bag was an annoyance, but I decided to not let it bother me as I had just survived the removal of stage III cancer from my body.

  I slept and woke every two hours for the next day and a half. When I tried raise my upper body from the bed, I was lightheaded from lack of sleep, but I felt no pain. The intravenous medication that swam through my blood system to keep discomfort at bay worked well. Feeling encouraged, I attempted to stand up, grabbing the bed frame for support. I was more stable than expected, so I took a few steps. I made it to the hallway, proving to myself that I could slowly walk on a flat surface. Victory!

  By July 13 my diet branched out to include slightly more solid food (thicker rice porridge), and I was told I would be dismissed in two weeks’ time. The update that intrigued me the most was when the doctor advised that walking was good for me, and that I could go at a pace relative to my conditioning and stamina. I only needed to hear that once, and within a short period I was growing bored of the continuous laps I walked back and forth in the hallway. The freshly sewn, 18-centimetre vertical incision down my abdomen was being put to the test. Meanwhile, the news on TV was warning people of an oncoming extreme heat wave. I felt like I had my own waves of complications to combat: a numbness in my hands and feet was getting noticeably worse.

  As I recovered in the hospital, I watched a documentary film about Jamaican Usain Bolt, the fastest sprint runner in the world, as part of a television series called Miracle Body. The program focused on Bolt’s ability to run fast despite his condition of scoliosis. I was impressed by this demonstration of the wonder and mystery of the human body, and it encouraged me to not cave in to the effects of the anti-cancer medication that I required. I realized then the doctors had prescribed strong medications for me because they agreed that my healthy cells could endure it. I was renewed in my thoughts about the necessary steps for a full recovery. I would tolerate the second round of chemotherapy that was to begin two weeks post-operative, even though I was forewarned that it would be hard on me after surgery. With a stern look from the doctor, I was also told, “Don’t dare overdo things.” I smiled to myself, thinking “These guys are getting to know me.”

  As promised, on July 19, hospital paperwork was signed in the morning and I was dismissed from the Ariake cancer centre. On the way home, I noticed my tendency to protect my abdomen by hunching forward and rounding my back. I knew I had to nip that reaction in the bud and concentrate on good posture to have half a hope of being strong and fit again.

  The next day, I was back at work with media and my personal life was up and running. I participated in a live TV program entitled Go to Summer Mountains! I could fulfill my role in the studio, and I completed the job without the film crew even knowing I had just been released from hospital.

  On July 21, the premiere trip of the Mount Fuji for the High-School Students of Tohoku Earthquake project was under way. I still had to refrain from normal activity, which would have had me climb to the summit with the group. Instead, I was transported lying down in the back of Masanobu’s car as he drove me to the event. I also relied on him to prepare my necessary gear for the part of the hike that I could join.

  When we arrived at Fujiyoshida Youth Centre in the afternoon, I delved into tasks like sorting out rental equipment and bagging snacks for the trail. There was no shortage of jobs, even for me with having to sit so much. While some of us worked at the centre, students travelled by bus to Mount Fuji Gogome, the trailhead at the end of the road midway up Mount Fuji, to become familiar with the feel of 2305-metres of elevation. They returned exhausted from the excursion. That evening, after a meeting of logistics, staff introductions and double-checking everyone’s equipment, bedtime came fast for the next morning’s 4 a.m. departure, again by bus to Mount Fuji Gogome.

  On the day of the official hike, July 22, transition from bus to foot travel was sluggish. The students looked tired and unfocused and in the need of great encouragement. The wee hours of the morning were too early for them, and the forested mist added a weight to their shoulders. At least the rain held off as I tried my best to offer each of them support: “A single step is 40 to 50 centimetres in length, but by continuing on, one step after another, you will absolutely reach the summit. Go for it!”

  Our headquarters was based in the Sato Hut at Gogome. The place was chaotic with radio communication – thirty-five radios had been dispersed amongst the various groups and leaders, and transmissions back and forth had started. Three hours into the hike, more radio calls filtered in: “A student is squatted down, unable to continue – severe headache. Another student is trailing behind, unable to keep up, and yet another has completely given up.” The list of defeat continued as the morning passed.

  The trip leader, Kanzaki, managed to offer the right words of reassurance: “Let him have a break. Rehydrate him and have him take deep breaths. Find someone who can support him and keep him moving, even at a slower pace and apart from his original group.” I completely agreed with his advice and sent as much positive energy as I could to all the climbers, knowing how much mental strength played a role in reaching the summit. “And remember, it’s OK for the supporters to come down if they feel unwell,” he said. “But try as much as you can to help these students reach the top.” Kanzaki’s words transmitted loud and clear over the radios, and everyone felt an optimistic shift in the entire group’s capability.

  At 10:06 a.m., the airwaves hailed with “Group 8, all the students got the summit.” Applause filled the headquarters. Then, “Group 5 at the summit!” and “Group 2 as well!” One after the other, each leader relayed their news. By 11:33 a.m., every single student had stood on the top of Mount Fuji.

  To add to the excitement of success, there was one participant on the mountain from the Fukushima School for the Blind. He had stated in his application, “As my disability is genetic, my vision range is narrow, and there is no question that some day I will become totally blind. I want to go up Mount Fuji, the highest peak in Japan, while I can still see things.” My heart doubled in size when I knew the summit had been reached by all.

  By 2 p.m. I was standing at the Gogome gate, welcoming students back from their ascent. High-fives were pronounced with their cries of joy: “I’ve done it!” “I did, too!” “I want to go up again someday.” Their hair was soaked from the day’s mist and inevitable rain, and drops of water streamed like gentle cascades down their young faces. Despite haggard appearances and obvious fatigue, the eyes and smiles of the hikers radiated excitement, and their spirits were clearly lifted. This marked a noticeable difference in character from before Mount Fu
ji. Trip leaders and assistants sifted in with the students, all of them having safely descended the mountain. Indeed, the first trial of Mount Fuji for the High-School Students of Tohoku Earthquake was a complete success.

  Thank-you letters arrived within several days of the climb, and the written affirmations by students reconfirmed for me that the Mount Fuji event was a good idea.

  Although I thought about giving up many times past 3400 metres, the staff people encouraged me every time when I felt weak, because of which I was barely able to stand at the top of Mount Fuji. It was great that I didn’t give up. I have learned afresh the potency of humans; we’re the creatures who can do almost anything if we strive to.

  It was like, “Ah, my headache is too bad to continue on. No way. I want to go down,” that’s how occupied I was by such a negative feeling. What helped me to keep going? The others. Everybody was trying his or her best. I didn’t want to be the guy who only made it halfway, and I would have been if I had quit at that point. The word “appreciation” was circling around in my brain when I reached the summit. It was the first time in my life that I said thank you so spontaneously and with such good feeling. My wall, a blockage in my mind, collapsed. The idea of impossibility is actually one’s own creation. Possibilities expand depending on one’s own thoughts, so I realized.

  By going up to the top of Fuji, I gained some confidence in my daily life, too. I would like to go there again.

  One step followed by another surely makes it to the summit. Such a simple but precious lesson I learned. As well, don’t give up, try your best.

  Mount Fuji, the previously thought absolute impossible for me, became possible, and I feel grateful for it from the bottom of my heart. Imagining how much energy was required by staff and how hard it was to get funding for this project, in addition to my own effort to succeed, I will never ever forget this mountain.

  The trip home from that event was one of great satisfaction. Having been the recipient of other people’s help many times in the long run of my life, I was happy to be able to help these students, especially in light of my surgery. With cheerful goodbyes, we left. Masanobu and I drove to Hakone with the intention of a soak in the onsen and a visit to the Hakone Shrine, but the climber in me was awakened. The weather was picture perfect the next day and a hike up Kintoki-yama was in order. My legs felt heavy, but I knew I could reach the top at a slow pace. And there I was, two weeks after my operation and three days prior to the start of chemotherapy, on the summit.

  Life Continues

  Chemotherapy would be much easier if it came with no side effects. On the other hand, the symptoms it caused me to feel proved that I was alive, that I stood a chance to be cancer-free. In the midst of managing the side effects, I remained positive and looked forward to whatever opportunities were next.

  Between weekly chemotherapy appointments, I walked mountain trails as often as possible. Those outings were my saviour during ten weeks of treatment. Rather than lie in bed, I continued to tick off my list of hikes: Kiso-Komagatake, Oze, Kurikoma-yama, Issaikyou-yama and Higashi Azuma-yama, only to name a few.

  Admittedly, weighted legs and fatigued knees began to wear on me, and eventually even descent trails became exhausting. Four weeks into chemotherapy, my toenails turned purple and the numbness in my hands and feet became severe. Swelling and dizziness and an ulcer in my mouth began to develop. Worst of all, my balance became questionable as I struggled to put on pants or shoes while standing up. My gait was off, and I felt clumsy when I walked. Approaching the podium on a stage to deliver a speech became a nerve-wracking experience. I felt like a robot.

  Test results told the real story. My white blood cell count was down, as was my immunity, and overall numbers did not reach the safe standard to continue with chemotherapy. “No IV today,” reported the doctor at my six-week appointment. “Let’s look for improvement in a week. Try to not eat raw food, and for now, please, scale down your hiking.”

  Still, I strived to live my normal life. My husband managed all the domestic work, like cooking and cleaning and laundry, while I became a master at verbal command. More than ever, I cherished the humour and fun we shared together.

  My commitments to speeches never let up. From October 1 to 7 that year, I was a guest passenger on a ship run by Peace Boat, a global non-government organization whose headquarters are in Japan and promotes international awareness amongst groups that strive for peace, human rights, environmental protection and sustainable development, all things I believe in. I delivered three speeches on board as we sailed to Barcelona via London, and on to Morocco. This was my first overseas trip since my cancer diagnosis six months earlier, and I happily embraced the excursion to the fullest. Certainly, I would not have made it there without Masanobu by my side, assisting me up and down stairways and carrying anything I needed to have with me.

  By the tenth treatment, the side effects took command of my body. I could no longer open jar lids or tear the seal on a snack bag, or put on earrings by myself, or pick up small pieces of food with chopsticks. It was difficult to pull bills from my wallet or unlock the door with a key. Even the most personal of tasks became impossible. I could hardly tell if I had pulled my underwear down far enough to use the toilet – I was like a floundering fish out of water, checking to see if I had succeeded.

  Finally, on November 1, 2012, I finished my last chemotherapy treatment. From that day on, I felt free from sneaking out between appointments to hike. To celebrate, I decided I would climb the highest mountain in Bangladesh, Saka Haphong, which had been on my worldwide list for a long time. I planned my trip for the coming New Year holidays. To further my celebration, on December 6, the doctor announced that I was in remission. Banzai!

  Unexpectedly though, the side effects lingered, putting a dent in my travel plans. I knew it would be too late to build up muscle strength if I waited for the side effects to disappear altogether, so I persevered with trip preparation. My mantra – “When would I work hard if not now?” – kept me focused and allowed me to develop some semblance of muscle strength. Although my physical body remained tired, my mental state was invigorated by having a goal, and so I stuck with it.

  The Himalayan Adventure Trust of Japan had planned to be in Nepal in April and May 2013 to transfer the management of an apple orchard alongside the Everest trail from the trust organization to the local people. I wanted to join the project, plus climb Gokyo Peak afterwards to see if my body could endure a 5000er. I was ready to quit climbing if it had come to that, but I wanted to try one more time, and I dearly wanted to walk on glaciers again and see Mount Everest. It had been a long while.

  At a later date, I planned to travel to South Korea and trek with members from MJ-Link. If necessary, I was prepared to wait at the trailhead and cheer people on if I was unable to hike with them. Quite simply, my overall goal was to remain motivated by trying as many different trips as possible, for years to come – that was me looking ever forward.

  My son, Shinya, was the person who I think changed the most from my illness. Throughout his childhood, he had felt pressured to be a good boy as the child of Junko Tabei. His resistance to that pressure, and to Masanobu and me, continued into his thirties. But when I became ill, Shinya changed into a different person. “Sorry if I’ve annoyed you and had you worried for me,” he wrote in an email upon my recovery. This was a huge step for a young man whose defiance towards his parents had become second nature. I was profoundly pleased by his words and felt that he finally understood all that parents hope for their child.

  By October 2013 a year had passed since my final cancer treatment, and I was the tour leader on a commercial trip to Western Australia for wildflower enthusiasts. Shinya was my travel partner. He helped me in every way since I still struggled with a few remaining side effects from chemotherapy. His gentlemanly way extended to the rest of the group, mainly seniors, whom he had laughing in no time as he cheered them on during the trip. Watching him, I thought, “Things might have turne
d out better because of my illness.”

  The love of my family was easily expressed by my daughter, Noriko. When I was in the hospital, she came by my room every evening on her way home from work, just to massage my swollen feet. If ever I asked her to bring a specific shawl to me, she would deliver it that very day. I feel grateful for having such a person in my life. And my husband, Masanobu – such a diligent house-husband, who quickly transformed me into a princess as a result, one who may have been a bit too demanding. My “Do this and do that, please” was kindly met by his “Could you ask for things one at a time?” As a result of his good nature, I felt no stress in my daily life as I dealt with cancer, and for that I am thankful.

  In remission, I went out almost every day, either for a work commitment or to practice singing with Women for No Fear. Back home, I would soak in a tub readied by Masanobu and bask in what I call happiness. I enjoyed the dinners he prepared, with a small glass of plum wine on the side, and then the foot massages he administered as he said, “Relax now.” Whenever we were together, I put writing commitments to rest in order to purely enjoy his company. The icing on the cake was slipping into a futon Masanobu had warmed by a yutanpo, a hot water bottle, for a good night’s sleep. My husband had perfected caring for me.

  There is no doubt that Masanobu and I have spent more time together since my illness than in the decades of our marriage prior. We talk, we hike, we travel. Masanobu has joined me on almost every trip, whether in Japan or overseas, since 2012. To me, the added contentment I have discovered with my family and in life since my cancer diagnosis is the gift – the positive aspect – of this experience.

  On a return trip to Nepal in September 2015, to celebrate forty years after I had reached the summit of Mount Everest, I stood on a hilltop at 3900 metres, with my friends and family around me, looking towards the giant peak. I said, “How could I have climbed that mountain? Young and bold I was….”