Is a Connection Destiny or Coincidence?

                                                                                    By Soo Yong Kim
 

   It has already been 17 years since I made my literary debut. I have published two poetry books, two essay collections, and one book of essays in English. These days, many readers encounter an author’s work through the internet. A few days ago, a reader left a comment after reading one of my essays posted on the website of the Korean Essayist Association of America. The comment read as follows:

   “Hello, my name is Lee Jung-min, the maternal granddaughter of the late Dr. Choi Don-won. This is my first time greeting you. While searching for traces of my grandfather on Google, I came across your essay by chance. I’ve always had a thirst for information about my grandfather, who passed away after such a short life, and thanks to your precious writing, I’ve learned so much for the first time. I’m truly grateful. If you’re in Korea and wouldn’t mind, my parents and I would love to meet you in person to express our gratitude. Thank you so much again. My email…”

   Her message took me back 63 years. At the time, I had just graduated from the College of Education at Seoul National University with a B.A. in English. I was in the process of applying for admission to Columbia University’s graduate school in the U.S. I needed five letters of recommendation, which I received from Professors Pi Cheon-Deuk, Jang Wang-Rok, Jung Byung-jo, Dr. Schofield, and Professor Lee Jong-Soo, who was also the dean of the College of Education and a scholar of English literature. When I received my acceptance letter from Columbia, I was overjoyed.

   However, studying abroad required a medical examination. Even though I had been accepted to the university, I failed the health check-up. I was taken aback and devastated. The doctor diagnosed me with tuberculosis. At the age of 23, I felt as if I had received a death sentence—a bolt from the blue. My younger sister, poet Kim Young-Kyo, was already studying at Columbia, and my elder brother—who later became president of the Korean Academy of Science and Arts—was studying business administration at NYU.

   Though I was heartbroken, my eldest brother helped me gain admission to the Red Cross Tuberculosis Sanatorium on Songdo Island, Incheon. Before I was hospitalized, I informed Dr. Schofield first. He comforted me with prayers and gave me an English Bible and some Christian books. Despite the hardship of fighting the disease, I believed that God would heal me and prayed constantly.

   Thanks to my desperate efforts and faith, I was eventually cured and discharged. I wanted to try studying abroad in the U.S. again, but my doctor advised against it due to the risk of recurrence. Although I held a high school English teacher’s credential, my doctor strongly opposed my taking up a teaching position, as chalk dust was considered very harmful to my lungs.

   Because of my experience with tuberculosis, I became interested in the disease and began working as a secretary to Dr. Eugene Low, a tuberculosis advisor to the World Health Organization (WHO) at the Ministry of Health and Social Affairs in Korea.

   I used to write all the official English documents under the minister’s name, obtain his approval, and send them abroad. I was also responsible for typing Dr. Low’s English correspondence and sending it to WHO.

   At that time, Dr. Choi Don-won was the head of the Disease Control Division and became an unforgettable benefactor in my life.

   He was the maternal grandfather of Lee Jung-Min, the woman who left the comment on my essay. The piece she read on the Korean Essayist Association’s website was titled “Beautiful Ambition.” Let me recall what I wrote about Dr. Choi in that essay:

   “...Dr. Choi, head of the Disease Control Division at the Ministry of Health, was a friend of my eldest brother. A graduate of Seoul National University Medical School, he worked as a medical officer at the ministry. He praised my English skills highly and treated me like a younger sister. I respected and followed him as I did my brother. He often said that he admired Dr. Albert Schweitzer, calling him a great man and expressing how deeply he was moved by his life.

   While most of his peers either opened private practices or remained in academia after graduation, Dr. Choi chose the poorly paid path of a public servant. He resembled former U.S. President John F. Kennedy so much that I gave him the nickname ‘Dr. Kennedy.’

   Then one day, an epidemic cholera outbreak spread rapidly. Dr. Choi went down to Masan, the southernmost city on the peninsula and the epicenter of the outbreak, and led the disease control efforts on the front lines. He stayed awake for nights on end, working hard until he eventually collapsed from overwork. As he fell, he coughed up blood, and a clot blocked his airway, causing him to suffocate and die.

   It wasn’t until after his death that we learned he had secretly been suffering from tuberculosis. He had seemed so healthy that no one suspected he was ill.

   Those who heard of his death were deeply moved, and many welled up in tears. The sorrow was especially deep because he died so young, in his early thirties. His death changed how I viewed life. I, who had once lost all hope and wallowed in despair over my illness, began to shed my past self and slowly transform.

   Unlike me, who had pitied myself for being ill and pathetic, Dr. Choi sacrificed his own health to serve the public. We had walked two entirely different paths—his shining brightly, mine shadowed—and realizing this made me feel deeply ashamed.

   As I lingered in sorrow, it was as if I were a frog awakening from hibernation—I stretched and welcomed a new spring in my life.

   After Dr. Choi passed, I revisited the Red Cross Sanatorium in Songdo, where I had been treated. It was spring, and the blooming azaleas seemed to welcome me with radiant smiles, singing skyward.

   As the red sunset bathed the sky and sea, it felt as though Dr. Choi’s unrealized dreams were now blooming brightly through the flowers.”

   That Dr. Choi’s granddaughter—whom I met 63 years later—discovered my essay while searching for her grandfather online and learned so much from it felt like an unbelievable miracle.

   Lee Jung-Min and her whole family expressed their heartfelt thanks and their desire to meet me in person. I was so moved that I promised to meet them when I return to Korea next year. When we meet, I feel like I’ll burst into tears, overwhelmed with emotion at the memory of Dr. Choi.