To catch the cloud

“Wasn’t Hwajinpo the best?”

Hwajinpo used to be part of North Korea before the Korean War. Even today, at this northernmost beach on the East Sea, there’s a large tourist sign showing the vacation homes of Kim Il-sung—where Kim Jong-il is said to have played when he was three years old—as well as those of Syngman Rhee and Lee Ki-boong.

We unpacked at a pension (guesthouse) on a hill near Daejin Port. From the bed, we could hear the waves crashing and see the sea spray. The place was clean and beautiful, with the owner’s romantic touch felt in every corner. The room was filled with warmth and charm, and I didn’t want to disturb the love that had clearly gone into it—so I only lay on the bed briefly before getting back up.

“No,” I said, “The best moment was when I was lying in that hospital bed.”
That was a conversation with my husband on the plane, after we finished our trip to Korea and were heading back to New York.

Just a few days before flying back, we had been traveling along Korea’s east coast. We stayed one night at a private hospital for health checkups. A doctor friend I hadn’t seen in a long time gave me a once-over and said,
“Your kidneys don’t look so good. How about getting a checkup before you go back?”
She also thought my husband’s liver didn’t look great. So, thanks to her, we were both admitted to a small hospital she recommended.

I threw my tired body onto the bed in a simple, single hospital room. The clean, white sheets were soft and fresh. My husband was in the room next door. Being in separate rooms made him feel close, yet distant—not a bad feeling. I could see him if I wanted, or not. It felt... convenient.

In New York, we had lived almost like monks—quiet and isolated. But in Seoul, using my husband’s art exhibition as an excuse, we suddenly met so many people each day. It was exhausting. Even before I had the chance to lift my heavy eyelids and stare at the ceiling, I was already falling asleep, comforted by the faint smell of disinfectant and the soft white sheets.

I wondered if Jun-sik, the main character in Ju Yo-seop’s novel Chasing Clouds, felt the same way. In the story, he lives a hard life of labor in early 20th-century America, only to die alone in a hospital, broke and exhausted. He had spent his life chasing something just out of reach—like clouds—only to realize it was all in vain.

A nurse told me to lie on my side for a colonoscopy and endoscopy. The hospital gown was large and bunched up uncomfortably, but I thought, “Well, I’ll be asleep soon anyway.” As the sleep mask was placed on my face, everything faded. My usual, tightly planned daily routines no longer mattered. I couldn’t think of anything anymore, and that felt... peaceful. If death feels like this—losing all awareness—maybe it’s not so bad after all. It was the most comfortable moment of my life.

They cleaned out years of waste from my colon and removed three small polyps. On the way to the airport, I called my friend.
“Thanks. I’m heading to the airport now, feeling light in body and mind. I’ll come again.”
“Why don’t you get a small place in Seoul? Wouldn’t it be nice to spend our old age together?”
“Why not a big place?”
“A big place is hard to manage.”

And just like that, we returned to our everyday lives—once again chasing clouds—talking about big and small houses as we said goodbye.