CHAPTER 29

MIAMI, FLORIDA

MORE PAIN TO GET TO LESS

APRIL 2015

I think of the treatment as a kind of intensive “anger-management” program to soften my singed, scarred skin. The medical term for the process is fractional ablative laser therapy. As of today, I have completed the fifth of seven prescribed laser treatments with my dermatologist, Doctor Jill Waibel. During recovery, the pain was overwhelming, more so than previous times. Why is this happening? I have let my scars breathe overnight and kept clothing and blankets from touching them, as I always do, but this time, the pain is out of control.

I phone Doctor Jill, who listens to me describe where the pain is coming from. With that information, she tells me she is almost positive that the culprit is the beginning of a thin, singular strand of hair wanting to pop out from a follicle on my left arm, a follicle that has been reawakened after a deep, dark, four-decades-long sleep. “A stimulated hair follicle means new growth is happening,” Doctor Jill Waibel assures me. “This means progress, Kim!”

It also means pain, I think to myself. And yet it is pain I will gladly take. Pains are not all created equal. This particular one is pain with great promise attached.

I had met Doctor Jill through a friend of her father-in-law’s, who had heard me speak at a church in Ohio at the beginning of the year. It was a circuitous connection at best, but when I finished my presentation, the man approached me. “I think my friend’s daughter-in-law can help you,” he said to me, tenderness in his voice. “She has a dermatology clinic down in Miami and is seeing positive results with the treatments she does.”

Within a matter of days, I was in touch with Doctor Jill.

“Fractional ablative laser therapy,” Doctor Jill explained to me during that first meeting, “uses concentrated light and radiation to heat up the affected area and steam off tiny portions of the scarred tissue—the bad skin—so that new skin can grow.”

Wait. What did she say? She is going to “heat” me up? I was certain that I did not want to be burned all over again, even in this controlled and therapeutic environment, but for reasons I could not fully explain, I did not move. “Because of the extensiveness of your wounds,” Doctor Jill continued, “I recommend seven treatments spaced out over about a year’s time, and then we will evaluate the results to that point.”

My wounds were extensive, covering more than a third of my body, which had necessitated another third then being sliced and diced and repositioned during the seventeen skin-graft operations I had undergone as a child and teenager. As a result, in addition to the more visible scarring on my left forearm, the backs of my legs looked like the impossibly rough terrain of the unpaved roads so common in my South Vietnam homeland. While Doctor Jill walked me through the details, I became more open to the idea, thinking of it as a grand “resurfacing.” I simply had to give the laser treatments a try.

My excitement was deflated when I heard the cost of the procedure—two to three thousand dollars per visit. That meant that Toan and I might have to come up with $20,000 for the first year of treatments. What if I need more than the initial seven visits? Now my mind whirred and fretted. How can we possibly afford it?

I was defending my desire to pursue the treatments to my ma, who could not for the life of her understand why I would want to invite further stress and pain into my life, when my phone rang. On the other end of the line was Doctor Jill’s New York–based publicist, Ms. Rok. She had a proposition for me: If I would permit the media to follow my progress during and after my laser treatments, then the treatments would be provided free of charge by Lumenis, the company that makes the laser machine. Once again, my story had thrown open an unexpected door for me.

I have talked with God about this curious dynamic often, how my terribly old picture continues to affect my current life. More times than not, I sense God saying that in the opportunities he is providing me, and in the people he is allowing me to meet, he is restoring bits and pieces of what the bombs took from me—my childhood, my confidence, my peace. It would take me many years to see the media as restorative agents in the hands of God, exempting Uncle Ut all the while, since he was rescuer, not “media” in my eyes. But in time I would get there, grateful for the people and their craft.

With gratitude, humility, and relief, I told Ms. Rok yes. One of my first pretreatment interviews was in early June with Ms. Jane Pauley for CBS Sunday Morning, a segment that would air on October 25, 2015, a month after my first trip to Miami.

Toan and I flew from Toronto to Miami the day before my procedure. We landed at Miami International Airport, where Uncle Ut, on behalf of the AP, awaited our arrival. Even though I knew Uncle would be there, I was overjoyed when I saw his face. Ms. Rok was there, too, to facilitate a press conference before Toan and I were driven to the Miami Hilton.

Our driver dropped us off at the clinic at 8:00 a.m. sharp the next morning. Once again, Ms. Rok helped me navigate media interviews before I was led into an examination room and prepped for my process with Doctor Jill.

The preparation for a laser treatment seemed more complicated and time-consuming than the treatment itself. First, a member of the staff took photographs of the areas on my body that would be treated. A nurse gently applied numbing cream to my skin and then wrapped my scars in plastic wrap, making me feel like a mummy. The plastic kept my body heat trapped inside, which helped the cream seep deep into my skin. Next, the anesthesiologist explained that I would be receiving something to dull my senses.

But before that happened, Doctor Jill and I prayed together. We share a love for Jesus Christ, and I was soothed by her earnest entreaties on my behalf. She asked God to be near me in a way I could detect, to give me peace that passes understanding and for her skills to be used for good—to heal my body and remove my pain.

When Doctor Jill said amen, I closed my eyes, begging the anesthetic to kick in quickly and do its numbing magic. As I tried to focus my hazy attention on releasing the tension that had gathered in my shoulders and slowing my breath, I could hear the clicks of photographers’ cameras, the lenses trained on my every move.

Each treatment ran from morning until later afternoon—four o’clock, or so—and while I was undergoing the procedure, Toan and members of the media enjoyed a marvelous buffet provided by Doctor Jill’s office featuring sandwiches, salads, side dishes, and plenty of chocolate desserts. Everyone ate very well while I was in another room having my burns voluntarily reburned. The way I saw it, all of us were being nourished—some with food, and one with light.

Still, it was not an ideal situation for me, given the media’s demands. For starters, there was rarely enough time for the anesthesia to work itself all the way into my system. I could not be administered the drug until the last reporter had asked his or her final question, and yet Doctor Jill could not hold up the procedure that takes multiple hours to complete. “It will never be enough time,” Doctor Jill told me during that first visit. “But we will accept things as perfect enough.”

The moment each procedure was finished, someone’s microphone was there to greet me. “How are you feeling, Kim?” a well-meaning reporter would say softly, to which I would groggily grunt and groan. I did my best to answer the questions, even as progress seemed subtle and slow. “Give me a full year,” I would always tell them. “In one year’s time, we shall see how things look.”

Secretly I had high hopes for healing, although I never said those things aloud.

The possible side effects of fractional ablative laser therapy include redness, swelling, itching, peeling, susceptibility to infection, and extreme sensitivity to sunlight. After every treatment, Doctor Jill would graciously drive Toan and me back to our hotel room, passing on strict instructions to me each time: I must remain indoors with my skin uncovered as much as possible so that it stays in contact with the air (and not with the sun); I must apply a specific type of cream to my scars as often as possible and as thick as I can withstand; and I must take two twenty-minute showers a day, using a liquid soap Doctor Jill has approved.

It is those showers that would do me in.

For so many years, long after scar tissue had formed and covered my nerve endings and organs, showering was a solace for me, the only place where I found relief from all my pain. The warm water temporarily softened my vast scar tissue, tissue that was four to five times thicker than healthy skin. But here? Now? Punctured by so many laser holes? The steady stream of water may as well have been the Great Flood that Noah and his family survived, a savage rush destroying all in its path.

If you have ever been badly sunburned and quickly got in the shower to cleanse your angry red skin, then you know the pain I was suffering. You dance in and out of the stream of water from the showerhead, desperate to avoid the sting. “Too hot! Too hot!” I had cried in 1972 when napalm had its way with me. I would repeat those words in the shower after my treatments, even when the water temperature was tepid or even cool.

The place that once was my best friend—the shower—seemed to have turned on me and become my worst enemy. “Love your enemies,” I would tell myself in those moments, a distraction that sometimes made me laugh.

Other times, I meditated on the Bible story of the Syrian commander, Naaman, who found miraculous healing from leprosy when he followed the prophet Elisha’s instructions to wash in the Jordan River seven times.

Naaman was angry that Elisha wanted him to do something, rather than the prophet waving his hand and healing Naaman himself, but Naaman eventually came to his senses. Amazingly, by the seventh “treatment” in the Jordan River, Naaman’s skin was clean, with no sign of leprosy.[38]

There in the shower, I scrubbed and scrubbed. “Be faithful to wash and wash and wash,” I would tell my still-burned, still-scarred self. “Do this with diligence, Kim, and your skin will be restored.”

I chose to believe it was true.

After each shower, Toan would diligently rub the medicated cream into my skin to keep it hydrated and supple. After the first treatment, we realized that my long hair was getting in the way, covering the scars on my neck that needed the cream, too, so I had it cut into a short bob. “Much easier,” Toan said to me afterward, rubbing the cream as gently as possible in long, slow circles.

Once we returned home, Ma assisted me during the week when Toan was at work. “Kim,” she would say with a grimace, while I groaned and squirmed, “why would you put yourself through this new pain after all of the pain you have known?”

“Mommy,” I said, “this pain is little, given the big result it will yield.” It is true that neither Doctor Jill nor I knew for sure how my body would respond to these treatments, but already I saw glimpses of the improved appearance, improved texture, and improved circulation. Now, if we could just claim that “reduction of pain.”

Two months after the bombs dropped on Trang Bang, the Associated Press reported that I was “nearly recovered”[39] from my burns, but in fact, I am still actively recovering—it is present tense, not part of my past. The scarred nerve endings throughout my body can misfire without any obvious cause, sending a penetrating jolt of pain through my neck, my back, and my arm. This is the reality I have been trying intently to redeem, by God’s grace and the gifting of Doctor Jill. And this is why I flew to Miami not seven but eight times in all.

It is with joy that I report this truth: Some days—not all of them, mind you, but on some—I know relief. Some days, I wake at seven in the morning, feeling rested, refreshed, and energized to take on the day. I have slept well for a change.

Some days, I climb out of bed—pain-free . . . yes!—and after tending to personal needs, I head downstairs. I read and read and read Scripture at the dining room table, and when my mother and my husband rise and join me, I read some more aloud. We have breakfast together, and then I go into my home office, where I return emails. Two, sometimes three times a day, I drive my mom to visit my dad, whose health has declined to the point that he requires more assistance than Toan and I can provide and now lives in a nursing home nearby. I keep my Bible app open on my oh-so-smart phone, so that throughout the day I can connect and absorb God’s Word.

I pray whenever problems surface, because don’t they always find a way into our lives?

I nap . . . most afternoons, I nap.

And every two weeks, our family hosts a Bible study in our home for Vietnamese families. I make the arrangements for the food, beverages, and childcare. My ma prepares her famous soup for those meetings, Toan delivers a message from the Scriptures in our native tongue to the adults, Thomas speaks in English to the young people, and Stephen assists with the youngest children, playing with them and making them feel at home.

You can imagine how this mama’s heart always swells, as I watch my two sons serve. Toan and I never knew what life path the Lord would ultimately call them to, since both Thomas and Stephen have expressed a number of possible dreams. At various times, adventure-seeker Thomas was determined to be a lawyer, a pilot, or a professional basketball player, just a few options from a long list. Stephen, who has always been content to be home, close to his ma, was dead set on a professional football or mixed martial arts career, provided the path would occasionally bend Toronto’s way.

But eventually, both of them came to Toan and me to share their mutual decision. “Ma. Dad. We want to go into full-time ministry.” What that will look like is still a work in progress, but our family’s love for serving the Vietnamese in our community has ignited something special in their hearts.

Oh, those are some of the days I have known, and I treasure each and every one! My prayer, then, is to string a few pain-free days together . . . to know some weeks, some months, some years when I feel great.

Until then, I sing, and I smile, and I praise God. I have learned to manage life’s bigger challenges—terror and tragedy, abandonment and abuse, poverty and wrenching pain—and let the little inconveniences amuse me instead of annoy me.

An occasion comes to mind just now. I had been invited to speak about peace in a world at war at the University at Buffalo in New York. One of the professors who helped lead the campus organization that was hosting me offered to make the two-hour drive to my home to pick me up for the event. He and two student leaders arrived on the appointed day, and off we went.

From the moment I got in the car, I was engaged in an incessant and enthusiastic conversation with my car mates. When we got to the 403 interchange heading east, the professor missed it completely and we continued heading west . . . toward Detroit, not Buffalo. Two hours later, there was a lull in the conversation, and the professor said in alarm, “Kim! Did that sign say that we are headed westbound?”

Well, I rarely have any idea where I am when I am not driving. “I do not know!” I said. “Do you think that we made a wrong turn?”

Once we got our bearings, we realized that we would officially be late. As in, sixty minutes late, the same time allotted for my talk.

The professor turned the car around and began heading eastbound, muttering that he wished we “had a helicopter” and how “burned up” he was over his mistake. I waited until his initial rage simmered down before offering up my thoughts.

“Professor, I know that we will be late to the event. But even if one person is left in the auditorium, I will count the evening a success. I will speak from my heart to that one person, and who knows? Perhaps my words will matter to him or her.”

The professor was still fuming. “Whatever mistake you make, my friend,” I added, “simply start back up and try again. Do the next right thing . . . that is all we are able to do.”

At eight-thirty that evening, exactly one hour after my speech was scheduled to begin, we arrived at our destination. The four of us rushed into the auditorium, where five hundred people sat patiently. All in all, it was a truly wonderful experience.

Afterward, the professor said to me, “Kim, I was on fire on the way here, as you know. But your words and your attitude—they really cooled me off.” He gave me a hug and thanked me.

It occurred to me in that moment that perhaps that is my sole mission in this life—to help put out whatever fires I find. We all are walking one fire road or another, be it paved by relational upheaval or financial upheaval, physical or emotional or the general inconveniences of life. But when you and I come along with a posture of peace, or with gentle and kind words, or with an offer of prayer or a hug, or with anything that looks and acts like Jesus, it is as though we have used a fire extinguisher—the flames that burned hot settle down.

The education, the money, the food, the family, the healing, the freedom, the reunion with my ma—all of the things I craved along the way were never going to satisfy my soul. It was only the peace that Jesus offers that could settle the flames inside of me. “Believe me,” I told those university students, “I really want relief from my pain. But do you know what I want even more than that? I want to remain close to Christ.”

As hard as this may be to believe, I meant every word that I said.