Seeking closure in Seoul

It’s been nearly 15 years since I was last in Seoul, South Korea’s vibrant capital. That last day was a blur, yet I remember it like it just happened. My wife and I were leaving a city that had become home for a short time. We didn’t know it then, but a serious medical condition was stealing her life away. She had lost much of her sight. And so racing to the airport in a taxi, she had to ask me how fast we were going. I looked at the speedometer needle and said that maybe it was a good thing she couldn’t see.

Early morning in Seoul

In many respects fast is an appropriate metaphor for Seoul—a city that has grown up in just a handful of decades. It is a place constantly on the move, where buildings and office towers seemingly go up overnight. And it was a place where Carrie’s health failed fast. The sense of wanderlust that had marked the first few months of our stay—when we explored the city’s parks, historical sights and sprawling markets, and adjusted to a new culture—soon changed. 




Looking westward over one part of the city's downtown

It began innocently, when she began losing her sight—ever so slight at first that she simply thought she needed glasses. But it got so bad that one day she didn’t make it to work. Deciding to get off the subway part way, and unable to see well, Carrie struggled to find a telephone to call the school where she worked. When she did locate one, she fumbled around trying to find a coin to put in it. Unable to make the call, she returned to the small room in which we lived in the city’s downtown. 

Numerous trips to the hospital detected swelling on her optic discs. Doctors prescribed high doses of a steroid medication, and said it should clear up in a few months. We had no idea how grave her situation really was. Unable to work, and with the Asian economic crisis hitting the Korean economy hard—making it difficult to recruit English teachers—the school asked if I would teach Carrie’s classes, as well as mine. We agreed to stay another two weeks until month end.

Shockingly, Carrie could no longer see detail in things—only the outline, or shape of something. I’d go to work early each morning, and before I left I would put her medication and some food on a small table, so she would know where to find them. She was holed up in our room for most of the day. She turned on the television, and while she couldn’t see much, the sound offered comfort.

Many an afternoon she would gather her courage and boldly venture outside. She’d go down the street, grab a meal at MacDonald’s and return home with it. She dodged the blurry figures that walked toward her. We lived on the sixth floor of a building with no elevator, and on most days she made it home okay. But on one occasion, with her energy fading, she collapsed in front of our door. A single bulb struggled to light the dim hallway, and in the darkness that had befallen her, Carrie groped about to find the key to the room and her lunch.

She had become a prisoner—not only had the world around her grown dark, but she was trapped inside our small room for the last few weeks we were in Seoul. All the while my punishing teaching schedule kept me away for more than 14 hours each day—knowing that Carrie was alone and unwell made it even more of a struggle. 

Those last few days in Seoul were especially difficult. Carrie had trouble sleeping—though if she propped herself up she could get some sleep sitting upright. And each time she took a breath a rattling sound could be heard. We learned later it was caused from fluid building up in her lungs.

Still unaware how critical her health was, Carrie just wanted to sleep when we arrived home from Korea. The following day, with her heart racing and arms twitching, she went to the hospital. Her heart rate and blood pressure were alarmingly high, so much so that doctors were surprised she hadn’t had a heart attack or stroke. An hour after arriving at the hospital, we were told her kidneys weren’t working. How could this be? She was just 26 years old. And didn’t the doctors in Korea just say she had a condition with her eyes.

None of that mattered now. She was transferred to another hospital, and underwent emergency dialysis in the intensive care unit. I remember walking into her room and seeing her hooked up to a number of machines— the sounds of which broke the silence in the room. She had no energy to say anything, and so we just looked at each other. And hoped for the best.

To be sure, much has changed in our lives since those uncertain days. Carrie regained her sight, and after 14 months on dialysis she received a kidney transplant, when I was able to give her one of mine. Now with her health restored she is a mother to our two sons.

Despite the time that has passed I have had a nagging desire to return to Seoul. To linger one more time along the streets that became our home, and leave the city on a more positive note. It’s as if something was left unfinished.

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When I landed in Seoul yesterday evening it was much like it was 15 years ago. The hazy sky made the burning orange sun larger than life, before melting away into the horizon. But as the bus left the airport (which hadn’t been built when I was last here), an empty feeling in my stomach led me to question why I had come. What was I hoping to find? Maybe I wouldn’t recognize the city. That instead of a homecoming of sorts it would feel strange and foreign like it did when Carrie and I first arrived. If much has changed in my life, then surely Seoul had changed too. Was I foolish to think that I could come here after all these years and find some closure? I hoped not.