Geun-yeong already knew about this. With Park Sanghun’s naturally loud voice getting even louder as he complained, it was impossible not to know. Besides, the attending physician in the ward where Geun-yeong’s group was doing their clinical rotation was excessively friendly and gentle. He was explaining things that seemed completely unnecessary, like patients’ personal lives, in great detail. All while obviously keeping an eye on Geun-yeong. It was uncomfortable and made him feel guilty. It wasn’t pleasant at all.
Geun-yeong lifted his head slightly to look at the sky beyond the annex building. The passing breeze felt cool. Looking at the sky and feeling the wind—it was a way to make himself feel better when things were tough. Looking back, it probably wasn’t very effective, but it had become a habit nonetheless.
‘I’ll be the wind you breathe, staying by your side.’
As always when feeling the wind, he recalled the voice reading him fairy tales that he had memorized word for word, and the finger pointing at each character. The vividness of the memory had faded a little more than yesterday.
As Donghwa—who was only “Fairy Tale” by name and nothing like one—said, Geun-yeong had “uselessly” good memory that had sustained him until now, but even that had its limits. Childhood memories were fading. Eventually, they would disappear completely.
* * *
The family that adopted Geun-yeong was so prestigious that it was easy to understand why Woo Donghwa would be jealous, envious, and eventually give up in resignation.
Geun-yeong’s adoptive father, Ji Seokhun’s father was the founding director of a tertiary general hospital in Gangnam District, and still served as an honorary chairman of various medical expert associations—a well-known senior physician. Following in his father’s medical footsteps, Seokhun was the director of the Diabetes Center at the general hospital where his father had been director, as well as a professor at the clinical graduate school. After becoming a full professor at an unusually young age, he appeared on a morning show where his intellectual appearance and eloquent speech gained attention, earning him the title of “star doctor”—the kind every general hospital has one of.
The family of Geun-yeong’s adoptive mother, pianist Yeom Eunyeong, was equally prestigious. Eunyeong’s father was a famous economics professor and former congressman. After winning the Grand Prix at a world-renowned competition and performing with a famous conductor, Eunyeong became a hot topic. With her striking appearance, she graced the cultural news for quite some time, making “Pianist Yeom Eunyeong” a household name.
The second son and third daughter of these socially distinguished families met through a matchmaker who only arranged marriages for high-ranking officials in political and business circles. The star doctor and famous pianist couple was described as being like a well-painted picture in a showcase.
However, for several years, the couple remained childless. They were a picture-perfect couple but hadn’t achieved a perfect family. People who both praised and envied the couple found consolation in the one thing the couple lacked.
And then one day, as the envious gazes toward these unrelated strangers gradually turned into fleeting sympathy…
During a medical volunteering trip to an orphanage, Seokhun diagnosed juvenile diabetes in a child estimated to be between six and eight years old while conducting health checkups for the orphans. The hospital announced they would take full responsibility for the child’s treatment, using it to promote their social contribution image. A few days later, Seokhun and Eunyeong announced they would publicly adopt the child.
It became quite a sensation. The couple’s motivation and process for deciding to adopt were featured in news and daily papers for a while. It was called a realization of noblesse oblige—adding moral duty and good deeds on top of their already flawless careers.
Afterward, no one belittled the couple’s success or pitied their incomplete picture. Everyone offered genuine praise.
It was the birth of a perfect family.
At least, that’s how it appeared on the surface.
It was around six o’clock when Geun-yeong returned home after a full day of hospital training. Woo Donghwa and the other members of his rotation group had asked him to join them for dinner, but Geun-yeong declined. The insulin pump display showed a replacement alert.
More precisely, a man who constantly monitored Geun-yeong’s condition and could predict when the replacement alert would appear had asked him to come home early that evening.
Geun-yeong took off his sneakers and entered the living room, greeting the empty space.
“I’m home.”
It was a timid greeting directed at no one in particular, and it disappeared before even reaching the ceiling, which was higher than in ordinary homes.
“You’re back? Oh my! Is it cold outside? Our student Geun-yeong’s nose is all red! Poor thing.”
The person greeting Geun-yeong with a high-pitched but hushed voice and a welcoming face was the housekeeper who helped with household chores.
In one corner of the living room, Seokhun, who had been reading a book while sitting on a sofa facing the garden, looked up. He briefly glanced at Geun-yeong before returning to his book.
It was the type of greeting given when other people were present. The proper greeting of a distinguished professor only interested in curing diseases and patients. The image of a stoic father who didn’t carelessly show affection toward his child. It was a common type in Korea, where restraint was valued, so there was nothing particularly strange about it. However, because the house was so quiet for that reason, the housekeeper, feeling awkward, spoke in a hushed voice.
“Did you have training today too? You must have been standing all day… poor thing. Are you hungry? Change your clothes and come down. Let’s have dinner first.”
Geun-yeong responded to these genuine words of concern by repeatedly bowing his head. But then…
“Oh my… Student Geun-yeong is just… How can someone be so handsome? You must have lots of girlfriends following you around, right? Do you have a girlfriend?”
It was an unexpected compliment and an awkward question. The sudden praise and question without any particular reason was bewildering. Geun-yeong kept his head bowed. Without lifting it, he walked past the housekeeper who would soon be replaced, and headed straight for the stairs to the second floor.
He could feel a gaze that couldn’t be ignored following him as he crossed the living room past the back of the sofa, before returning to the book.
They say that if he had remained at the orphanage, he might have been in danger due to neglect. The housekeepers, who changed frequently, would often say it was truly a “heavenly fortune” that he was adopted by an endocrinologist, and by the doctor who knew the most about diabetes in the country.
That’s why Geun-yeong, who didn’t even know what “heavenly fortune” meant, thought being adopted was indeed his good fortune. But after time passed and he learned what “heavenly fortune” meant, he couldn’t even snicker at it. He wondered if those housekeepers truly understood what they were saying. He knew they did understand the meaning, but still, every time he heard such remarks, it made him angry.
At first, he thought it was an expression of affection. He thought all children in other homes received the same kind of affection.
It usually happened on days when the needle inserted in his abdomen or insulin needed to be replaced, and occasionally on other days too. Especially on days when the housekeepers complimented his appearance or mentioned or asked about girlfriends, dating, or similar topics. And not long after, the housekeeper would be replaced by someone else.
Today was both a day to replace his insulin and the housekeeper had not only complimented his appearance but also asked if he had a girlfriend. Three signs aligned. Geun-yeong didn’t expect the night to pass uneventfully, and he tried not to think about what would inevitably happen as he organized his training notes.
And, around the time he had roughly anticipated, the door opened without a knock. The hand writing training notes stopped.
Unlike the unlocked bedroom door, the person who entered was carrying a gray medicine box with a lock on it.
“Professor Ha praised you. Said you have quick comprehension and an amazing memory.”
Instead of answering, Geun-yeong got up from his chair and climbed onto the bed. He sat looking at the medicine box placed at the foot of the bed. It was an action born from the mindset of wanting to get it over with quickly, having long resigned himself to it.
“Lie down.”
Replacing the needle inserted in the abdomen every three days could easily be done in a sitting position. But not once had it ever been done while sitting. Geun-yeong lay down in the middle of the bed without protest.
“Your blood sample test results came back, and they’re clean. Kidney function is good too.”
A diabetic patient whose father is an endocrinology professor doesn’t need separate medical consultations. There was no need for the trouble of visiting the hospital every few months for blood tests, reporting his condition, getting prescriptions, and going to the pharmacy to pick up medication.
“Your blood sugar has been stable all along, so that’s to be expected.”
On Geun-yeong’s left forearm, below the shoulder, a “continuous glucose monitor” was attached. The periodically measured blood sugar levels were recorded online and could be checked at any time through a linked phone app. Besides the person wearing the device, anyone with the designated ID and password and a linked phone could check those values.
Through this method, Ji Seokhun, who was now lifting the hem of Geun-yeong’s t-shirt as he lay on the bed, was also regularly checking Geun-yeong’s blood sugar through his own phone. He monitored the blood sugar patterns and directly adjusted the dosage of the automatic injection machine called an insulin pump. Geun-yeong’s blood test results and stable blood sugar were both Seokhun’s pride and evidence proving his abilities.
Placing his hand on the flat lower abdomen below the belt worn to support the insulin pump, the man pinched the flesh with his index finger and thumb and said:
“But you seem to have lost some weight.”
Instead of answering, Geun-yeong closed his eyes. He erased the tiresome ceiling from his sight. There was no need to weigh himself. If the person who examines, touches, and strokes him every other day thinks he’s thin, then he must be thin.
“Make sure you watch your carbohydrate intake when eating out. I can’t accept you not properly controlling your portions, even if there’s nothing to be done about dirty ingredients, salt, or additives.”
The hand that had been examining and palpating his abdomen while nagging about eating out paused momentarily. The hand on his stomach fell away. The foot of the bed that had sunk under the man’s weight seemed to rise, and then there was a sound of something with the weight of a mobile phone being placed on the desk.
“Your current blood sugar is… 90. Very good.”
He must have checked the current blood sugar level with his phone. The foot of the bed sank again. Throughout all this, Geun-yeong kept his eyes closed.
Author: Hyacinthus B
Hyacinthus
