Every year, Tzu Chi General Hospital holds a reunion for the recipients and donors of non-relative marrow transplants. By law, a recipient and donor may not meet each other until one year after the transplant is performed. A reunion was held for the second time in 1997. On the stage, the surviving recipients and their family members expressed their ultimate gratitude to the donors for their generosity, giving the chance for survival to persons they had never met. The touching scene moved many in the audience to tears. Among them, a Tzu chi commissioner sat quietly in the corner, her eyes brimming with tears. To her, it was more a moment to be grateful for being alive than a participation in a joyful occasion. She was a leukemia patient.

February 18, 1989, was a day that Kuo Yu-chin and her husband, Chih-chen, would never ever forget. Kuo, then 35, was a strong, active woman. That morning while brushing her teeth, she felt such pain in her chest that she thought she might faint. She wobbled back to her bed and said weakly to her son, "Quick, call your dad." Then she passed out. The five-year-old boy picked up the phone and awkwardly dialed his father's number, which he had just learned a couple of weeks before.

When Yu-chin awoke, she saw her husband's anxious eyes. Chih-chen immediately took her by taxi to a hospital near their house. After a routine checkup, the doctor noticed that she had some purple bruises here and there. He recommended that she have some blood tests and told her to get some rest. A few hours later, he brought out the results and had a private talk with Chih-chen outside Yu-chin's room. "Your wife has leukemia," he said quietly. Lacking any knowledge of the disease, Chih-chen asked casually, "So?" The doctor explained further, "It is a cancer of the blood." Cancer! Chih-chen was stunned. The devastating news was like a time bomb suddenly exploding in his body withour warning. He tried to collect himself but failed.

Chih-chen blamed himself for not having noticed. Recently, Yu-chin had lost her appetite and there was constant bleeding around her teeth. She had complained of an uncomfortable ache in her hips and she had had a high fever three days ago. But both of them thought that perhaps she was just run-down and needed some rest for a while.

Walking into Yu-chin's room, Chih-chen saw her asleep. She looked pale and indisposed. Chih-chen could not believe the woman in front of him was his doting wife. Just a few hours before, she had been a vibrant, healthy-looking woman, but now she was confined to her bed. The doctor had just showed him the report that her white blood cell count was up to 200,000 per cubic millimeter, up to forty times the normal count of 5,000 to 10,000. Those extra malignant cells were multiplying rapidly, swallowing her healthy cells and attacking her bone marrow. "Her life is in danger," the doctor concluded.

Yu-chin opened her eyes and saw Chih-chen in deep thought. "What's wrong with me?" she asked. Chih-chen replied briefly, "Nothing major, you have a cold. But you need to stay in the hospital for a few days." That night, a crowd of visitors came to Yu-chin's room: her parents, brothers, parents-in-law and office colleagues. She had never been looked after by so many people and she enjoyed being the focus of attention. But somehow she noticed that they whispered outside the room and gave her melancholy looks. She thought she heard the word "leukemia," but she was afraid to confirm it.

The next day, Yu-chin was transferred to the National Taiwan University Hospital, one of the best hospitals in Taipei. She was immediately given the first course of chemotherapy. At the beginning of the process, a raspberry-like solution oozed from a bottle into her blood vessels. The side effects didn't begin to appear until the seventh day. First, her hair started to fall out, and then her nails. The following weeks, she suffered from high fever, nausea and ulcerating mouth sores. The worst of all was that her internal bleeding never stopped.

"I need to go to the toilet again," Yu-chin said sorrowfully. It was the eighteenth time that day. "It's all right. I'm here." Chih-chen smiled reluctantly. Holding Yu-chin, whose body was like a balloon losing air, Chih-chen was heartsick. He tried very hard to take good care of her, hiring special nurses and giving her the most luxurious hospital room with a sterile tent to give her clean air. He even vowed to be a vegetarian for the rest of his life in exchange for her life. But no matter what he did, he could not take the suffering for her. He raged, "Why is God playing such a cruel joke on her?"

One month after the treatment, when her affliction had started to subside, there came another crisis. On April 4, it was a holiday. Just as Chih-chen arrived at her room, an intern came in and gave her a dose of antibiotics to strengthen her defense against infection. According to the manufacturer's tests, the medication was supposed to be non-allergenic. Yet just a moment after the intern left, Yu-chin started to suffocate and her pupils enlarged. "I can't breath!" she gasped. Chih-chen was frightened. He raced up to the nurses' station and brought back the intern. A group of physicians followed and immediately performed emergency treatment. They gave her oxygen and a high dose of anti-allergy medicine. Finally she started to breath. She felt terrified and helpless, knowing that death had come so close to her.

After putting her to bed, Chih-chen, exhausted, walked out to the corridor and leaned against a window. He was afraid that he would lose her at any time. The doctor walked up to him and patted his shoulder. "At least you have a child, right?" "Yes, one son." Chih-chen nodded. His heart was in turmoil.

Chih-chen was a good-looking, slender man at the height of his career. Born in a poor family, he had always wanted a good future for his children, so that they would not suffer as he had in his childhood. Ten years ago, he met Yu-chin, a daughter of a rich family. Despite her parents' disapproval, they got married and moved to Taipei to start their own business. Things were tough at first, but they were happy. They had their dreams, and most importantly they had each other. She had been his best partner both in life and business, and she had given him a precious son. One day as they were riding on their motorcycle, he promised confidently, "Someday I will give you a big limousine, like a fine lady." Yu-chin giggled and held him tightly.

Years later, his dream had come true. The couple established their own company, Caliber Construction & Development Co., Ltd. Like its name, the company did not come easily, but grew stronger and bigger through their hard work. When the couple were financially well off, they participated in charity work. In all, they adopted more than thirty children worldwide.

Good times never last. The cancerous bone marrow not only attacked Yu-chin's body, but dragged down the whole family. After Yu-chin was admitted to the hospital, Chih-chen became a full-time caregiver. Often, when there was an emergency call, he had to leave an important meeting and rush to the hospital. He also had to take care of their son, who still needed a mother. His weight dropped to fifty-some kilograms [110 lb]. At the age of thirty-four, he had gray hair and wrinkles on his face. A few months before, a friend of his who was good at fortune-telling had warned him that he would have two wives in his life. At first, Chih-chen ignored the remark, but the worse Yu-chin's condition became, the more seriously he thought about it.

It was a beautiful Sunday, a week before Mother's Day. Yu-chin had completed the first course of chemotherapy and she was gradually regaining her strength by taking Chinese herbs. She apparently enjoyed the family time that she had been missing for such a long time. Everyone was still hiding the truth from her, and she was convinced that she only had anemia. She asked mischievously, "Hey, guys, I've been a good patient. Can I go home for Mother's Day now?" The question interrupted the happy atmosphere. Everyone's face became rigid. Yu-chin anxiously looked at the faces around her, hoping for a positive answer.

Her younger brother broke the silence. "No, you are not and you cannot." Yu-chin was puzzled. "It's leukemia, blood cancer." Finally, he told the truth. Unbelieving, she turned to Chih-chen. "Is that true?" He avoided her eyes. "Am I dying?" He remained silent. Tears started rolling down Yu-chin's emaciated face and the sound of her grief pierced the hearts of everyone there.

With Chih-chen's thorough support and care, Yu-chin continued to take another two courses of chemotherapy, which left her totally debilitated. One morning, as she was getting some fresh air in the garden, she saw a group of active youngsters, full of spirit and energy, playing ball in the field. Thinking of her own impending death, Yu-chin envied them. Sadly, she burst into tears.

It had been six months since her leukemia was diagnosed. After three courses of chemotherapy, Yu-chin's disease was temporarily under control, but not cured. Her only chance was a bone marrow transplant. At that time, the newly invented procedure brought a light of hope, but it also carried a high risk of mortality. Frightened, she refused and urged Chih-chen to have her discharged. That August, she left the hospital with a warning that her illness could possibly reoccur in three to five years.

Yu-chin again started the normal life of a housewife and mother. However, like an ominous curse, that warning came true exactly three years later. One day in May, 1992, while shopping at a department store, Yu-chin felt a mysterious pain. This time, she knew what might be happening. Chih-chen took Yu-chin to the hospital again for an advanced checkup. The doctor told Chih-chen that the test results showed that thirty percent of her blood cells had become abnormal. It was imperative that she go back into the hospital immediately. When Chih-chen told her the bad news, Yu-chin was furious. "I didn't believe that it would happen again." She insisted that they go immediately to the doctor so that she could talk to him herself. Coming down the stairs from the doctor's office, the poor couple held each other and wept.

Yu-chen locked herself indoors for two weeks and refused to talk to anyone. She was enraged that the leukemia cells could so easily wipe out the precious time that the family had endured so much to gain. But it was not the illness she was afraid of. The horrible side effects from the chemotherapy three years before had still not gone away. Frustrated and thinking of ending her life, she called her friend Lin Chih-hui, a Tzu Chi commissioner who had given her support whenever she needed it.

"Don't do anything silly. I'm coming over." Chih-hui hung up the phone and raced to Yu-chin's house. She thought at first that Yu-chin's husband was having an affair.

"My blood cells have become abnormal again," Yu-chin repeated hysterically. Her family waited outside her room, hoping that the eloquent guest could encourage Yu-chin to fight for her life. Chih-hui talked about Master Cheng Yen, the founder of the Tzu Chi Foundation, who had devoted her whole life to Buddhism and to helping out anyone in need even though she herself was in poor health. Touched by the great compassion of the Master, Yu-chin realized that even her fragile life could be fully used to help people. Finally, she wiped away her tears and nodded her head. "I'll take the chemotherapy because I want to live in order to be like her."

On July 7, 1982, Yu-chin was admitted to the hospital again. Her condition was so serious that the hospital started her on three courses of chemotherapy at once. The treatment apparently did not stop the cancerous bone marrow from prevailing. The doctor asked her to reconsider a marrow transplant. A transplant held the only hope for survival, even though it also held the possibility of death. Terrified of that possibility, she refused to discuss it.

A conscientious doctor always gives a patient hope. Dr. Wu Ming-hsien, a resident in Taiwan University Hospital, had been in charge of her treatment for a month. Even after he was transferred to another department, he came back to visit her occasionally and became her best friend. He patiently explained the procedure of the bone marrow transplant, which would replace her sick bone marrow with the marrow cells of a compatible donor. Yu-chin's heart swept up and down like a seesaw. She grew hopeful when she saw a recipient recover. Her heart went down when she heard that someone like her had died.

It seemed that she had no choice but to accept a transplant in order to survive. Fortunately, Yu-chin's brother had a matching tissue type. However, before the operation, she had to receive an infusion of high-dose chemotherapy, which would completely destroy her sick bone marrow, but which would also wipe out her immune system and leave her totally defenseless against infection. It was a fight between cancerous bone marrow and human will.

On March 11, 1993, the healthy, dark-red marrow was injected into Yu-chin. Then she could only hope that the marrow would find its way to her bone cavities and begin to produce healthy cells. Every morning, the nurse came to extract her blood for a checkup. Any tiny number of white blood cells increased the rate of success.

After the operation, Yu-chin stayed in a sterile room for three weeks. She had to eat sterile food, wear a sterile robe and breathe filtered air. She could only see her family and friends through the glass window. The more she saw them, the more she wanted to be released and go back to a normal life. Thus, despite her loneliness, she would close the curtain so that she could calm down and get a complete rest. When she drew the curtain open, there would always be flowers and greeting cards from her family and friends saying, "We love you." She was touched to tears by their love and overwhelming concern.

On April 4, Yu-chin was released from her confinement. She took a deep breath of normal air. "How nice to be alive!" Her eyes were filled with gratitude.

It has been five years since Yu-chin's transplant. That means that there is a lower probability that her illness will occur again. But what if it does happen? "What will come, will come," Yu-chin says calmly. "I'm no longer afraid of dying." Because of her illness, Yu-chin and Chih-chen have learned deeply that life is impermanent. They feel grateful for being together, and they enjoy the true happiness of giving unselfishly. Yu-chin especially feels sorry for her son. "When he was little, we were busy with business," she sighs. "When we had money, I was sick. We were totally absent during his childhood."