Two Skaters Who Believed in Themselves and Saw It Through

At the Milano Cortina 2026 Japan’s pair skating team known as “RikuRyu” — Riku Miura and Ryuichi Kihara — overcame a short program setback to capture the gold medal.　What stood out most was not simply the comeback, but the quiet strength of two athletes who trusted their own work until the very end.

 

I had heard their free skate would begin around six in the morning, so I woke up a little early and waited while getting ready for the day.
Just as I started brewing coffee, their program began.

Even through the television screen, the beauty and completeness of their skating were unmistakable.
It was refined, composed, and deeply controlled.
Before long, I was no longer thinking about rankings. I was simply absorbed.

The pairs who followed were also excellent.
Yet none reached the level “RikuRyu” had just shown.

The Olympic stage is often described as a place inhabited by demons — where even overwhelming strength can be undone by the smallest mistake.
And yet they delivered an almost flawless free skate and achieved a dramatic comeback.

With five pairs ahead of them, it would have been natural to feel the gold medal slipping away.
Perhaps they stopped thinking about standings altogether and focused only on skating the program they had worked toward for years.

“Results will follow.”
Maybe that was their mindset.

But it was not resignation.
It was simply belief — belief in the strength they had built through steady effort.

In recent years, I have found myself less easily moved by sports.
But today was different.
My wife and I both found ourselves quietly in tears.

After the short program, I remember how Miura gently comforted Kihara.
Yet what stayed with me even more was the moment after their victory was confirmed — Kihara in tears, and Miura looking at him with a small, slightly exasperated smile, as if to say, “What am I going to do with you?”

Knowing the long struggles Kihara has endured, that scene made me especially happy.

Congratulations, RikuRyu.
And thank you for the inspiration.

Many Kinds of “Cancer” — On International Childhood Cancer Day

Watching the news the other day, I noticed several reports about cancer.
One of them focused on International Childhood Cancer Day.

It reminded me not only of the statistics and medical progress we speak about today, but also of a memory from my own childhood—when I first heard a word I did not yet understand: “brain tumor.”

 

While watching the news on NHK, I noticed several topics related to cancer. One of them was International Childhood Cancer Day.

Childhood cancer refers to malignant tumors that occur in children under the age of 15. These include hematologic diseases such as leukemia, as well as solid tumors arising in the brain, adrenal glands, reproductive organs, and other sites. In Japan, approximately 2,000 children are diagnosed each year.

I still remember a classmate from my first year of elementary school. During recess, he suddenly developed a nosebleed in front of us. He was later diagnosed with a brain tumor and eventually passed away.

It was the first time I heard the word “no-shuyo”—brain tumor. At the time, I had no real understanding of what it meant.

International Childhood Cancer Day aims to raise public awareness about childhood cancer.

Adults, to some extent, can seek medical care on their own and participate in decisions about treatment. Children cannot. After onset, they can do nothing by themselves. Some are too young even to understand their illness. That is why the burden on parents is so heavy, and why society as a whole must support both patients and their families.

I have spent decades working as a pediatric pathologist.

Today, I understand that the word I once heard as “no-shuyo” meant “brain tumor,” and that this single term encompasses many different types of neoplasms.

Like adult cancers, pediatric cancers are remarkably diverse. Yet each individual tumor type is rare. Some are so uncommon that one might encounter them only once in a lifetime.

Diversity and rarity coexist—an almost paradoxical world.

Pediatric oncologists must study continuously in order to tailor treatment to each individual case. Watching their dedication, I cannot help but feel deep respect.

Children should live longer than adults. Protecting that time is, I believe, our responsibility as adults.

Meanwhile, according to a summary released by Ministry of Health, Labour and Welfare, five-year survival rates for patients diagnosed with cancer in 2018 have improved for pancreatic cancer, multiple myeloma, and lung cancer among those aged 15 and older.

Pancreatic cancer, in particular, remains one of the most aggressive malignancies. A friend of mine, the same age as I am, lost his life to it. Despite therapeutic advances, cancer remains a serious and deeply personal disease.

Cancer is a condition in which part of one’s own body chooses an independent path of growth. It is difficult to prevent entirely.

Traditionally, surgical removal has been the primary approach. Today, however, targeted therapies and immunotherapies are increasingly capable of attacking tumors at the molecular level.

Alongside rapid advances in artificial intelligence, both diagnosis and treatment will likely change dramatically in the years ahead.

As pediatric pathologists, we too must make use of AI-assisted diagnostics and continue seeking better, more clinically meaningful diagnoses that truly benefit patients.

Is February a Week Shorter This Year?

 A warm and gentle day in Kamakura.
My younger brother’s 49th-day memorial service was held at a local cemetery.
A small coincidence, a crowded street, and a rumor about February being “one week shorter” — all somehow part of the same day.

 

It was an unusually warm day.

My younger brother’s 49th-day memorial service was held at a cemetery here in Kamakura.

Had it been one week earlier, we would have been caught in heavy snow. We were fortunate. Some coincidences are best received quietly, without overthinking them.

After the service, we gathered for a meal at a Chinese restaurant near Komachi Street. Walking through the shopping district, we found it as crowded as ever.

The news has been reporting a sharp decline in Chinese tourists during the Lunar New Year, suggesting that local businesses are struggling. Yet, from what I could see, the number of visitors felt almost just right. People still come. They always do.

Lately, I had the odd impression that this February was passing unusually quickly. Then I heard a rumor—apparently, a “rare phenomenon not seen in 851 years” was occurring this month. It was even mentioned on the radio yesterday.

So that must be it, I thought.

February is one week shorter this year.

Wait.

That cannot be true. February still has 28 days. Losing three days would be one thing—but an entire week?

It turned out to be nothing more than a trick of the calendar. This year, February 1 falls on a Sunday and the 28th on a Saturday. The final row of the monthly calendar is left blank.

That empty row creates the illusion of a shorter month.

And as for the “once in 800 years” phenomenon? Apparently, it happens every decade or so.

One might say those who believe such rumors deserve to be fooled. Still, I have to admit—it was a rather well-crafted joke.

 

Sleep-Deprived at a Web Conference

 After a small research meeting in Tokyo and a late dinner with colleagues, I returned home to Kamakura close to midnight.
Even when the train connections are smooth, Kamakura still feels far away at night.

I took a bath and fell asleep without difficulty. But around three in the morning, I woke up.

I remembered that the finals of the snowboarding and figure skating events were on, so I turned on the television. I drifted in and out of sleep, switching the TV on and off, never quite reaching deep rest. Morning arrived before I knew it.

Ironically, I missed most of the crucial moments in both events.

I would have liked to go back to sleep, but I had a web conference scheduled. So I stayed up and carried out my role as co-presenter and chair.

It was educational, as always. Still, with so little sleep, some parts did not quite settle into my mind.

I am sensitive to the cold and not particularly interested in winter sports. The Winter Olympics do not usually capture my attention. Yet once they begin, I find myself watching anyway.

There is something undeniably moving about young people giving their all.

At the web conference as well, younger colleagues were presenting. Watching them, I felt reassured about the future.

Even through sleepy eyes, it is encouraging to see the next generation steadily stepping forward.

 

A 65-Point CPC

 At yesterday’s CPC, I would give my own presentation 65 points out of 100.
It may have been useful in part, but it certainly was not an “A.”

 

At yesterday’s clinicopathological conference (CPC), I would score my own presentation at 65 points.

Some aspects may have been helpful to those in attendance, but it was not something that deserved an A.

From a pathology standpoint, I had done what I could.
But that alone was not enough.

In particular, my differential diagnosis was not thorough enough.
I could explain the mechanism of death, but I did not fully pursue the deeper question: What ultimately caused that mechanism to occur? That is what still lingers with me.

These days, it is not unusual for audience members to search online in real time and fire off sharp questions based on what they find. It can be daunting.

I would like to do the same myself, but standing before a room full of people, that is not always possible.

Perhaps next time I should consider going fully online, where adapting in real time might be easier.

And yet, there is something deeply gratifying about seeing a large conference room filled with people.

It is not simply about speaking in front of a crowd. What moves me is that so many people gather for a conference organized by pathology. It reminds me that our field still holds weight within the hospital. It makes me feel that I must keep pushing forward.

With the Olympics underway, athletes often say, “I did everything I could.”

But doing what you are capable of is only the starting point. One must search for what more is required.

Athletes who fall short likely do so because something essential was missing—and they know it. That is why defeat brings tears.

Whether it is my presentation or the Olympic stage, neglecting what truly needs to be done leads to the same result: regret.

And this applies to all work.

Only by mastering those necessary steps does one become a true winner. Effort earns respect precisely because it confronts what must be done.

Reaching that level is difficult. And even if one arrives there, a steeper and longer road awaits.

That is life.

A Day of Controlled Chaos

 Some days feel overwhelmingly busy—though I am never quite comfortable with the word “busy.” Perhaps it is more accurate to say that work is simply piling up.

 

Today is one of those days.

Even “overwhelming” may be an exaggeration. After all, I still have the luxury of writing this short post. So perhaps it is merely a moderately full day.

Gross examination in the morning.
Microscopic review in between.
And tonight, a CPC—Clinicopathological Conference.

I should have prepared a bit more for the CPC yesterday. Instead, I was drawn into rearranging furniture at home—well, to be precise, participating in what might better be described as an early spring cleaning. As a result, my preparation was less thorough than I would have liked. I will have to review things in the gaps between tasks.

So, I will keep today’s entry short.

Wherever you are, I hope you can spend the day calmly and without irritation. Life is lived only once. Rather than constantly adjusting our emotional tempo, perhaps it is best to remain steady—just as we are.

Is It Time to Rethink Our Electoral System in the Age of Social Media?

 Whether it is a blog, Instagram, or any other platform, we all “follow” someone. But on what basis do we choose whom to follow? As social media increasingly shapes not only our personal tastes but also our political perceptions, I sometimes wonder what this means for democracy itself.

 

Whether it is a blog, Instagram, or anything else, how do we decide whom to add to our “favorites” or follow on social media?

Do we choose people whose sensibilities and ways of thinking resemble our own—those who post articles or photos that feel familiar to us?

Or do we simply follow accounts that offer beautiful images or well-crafted writing for us to enjoy?

Perhaps it is a mixture of all these reasons. Still, it is a curious phenomenon.

The systems of “favorites” and “follows” appeared roughly twenty years ago. Before long, they became an ordinary part of daily life. Today, people compete over follower counts, and large numbers can even translate into income.

There have long been writers who put their articles behind paywalls. I stopped reading one blog when it suddenly became paid content. I did not feel the writing was worth paying for. It never returned to open access, yet it must still have enough supporters to sustain itself.

Information, in the end, may simply gather among like-minded people. We enclose ourselves within circles that resemble us.

Recently, the use of social media in election campaigns has also become commonplace.

On trains, I often see young people scrolling through YouTube at remarkable speed. I sometimes wonder whether they consume political campaign messages in the same way—quickly, selectively, and within the confines of algorithms.

Just as with blog followers, once someone feels aligned with a particular politician, more and more of that politician’s information flows toward them, while opportunities to encounter different views diminish. Could this be happening already?

It is a little unsettling.

Politicians are rarely professional writers. Yet if they hire skilled bloggers or media professionals to craft their websites, it is entirely possible to construct an attractive and persuasive political persona. Inevitably, some people will be drawn in.

Opportunities to meet politicians directly, to listen in person, and to judge with one’s own eyes are steadily decreasing.

If, as in the most recent general election in Japan, the future of the country can be shaped largely by the popularity of a single political figure, that may be slightly precarious.

Perhaps our electoral system itself—designed for a different era—has reached a point where it deserves reconsideration.