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.

Hoping Our Elected Leaders Will Grow Into Respected Adults

 After weeks of lingering cold even past the start of spring, signs of warmer days are finally beginning to appear. As winter loosens its grip, the political climate, too, has entered a new phase—one that demands patience, restraint, and a sense of responsibility from those who now hold power.

With its overwhelming victory, Prime Minister Takaichi’s Liberal Democratic Party now has four full years to pursue the policies it envisions.

From this point on, whatever course the Takaichi administration chooses must be accepted as the outcome of a democratic process. This is true not only for those who actively supported the ruling party, but also for the nation as a whole, which ultimately produced this result. There is no avoiding that reality.

It is much the same as in the United States, where voters chose Donald Trump and then committed themselves to living with that decision for four years.

Political policies span the spectrum from right to left, and no government can ever satisfy everyone. Still, one can hope for a form of governance that allows as many people as possible to live with a sense of well-being.

Just as important is a genuine effort to dismantle politics driven by vested interests and corruption. Some lawmakers involved in illicit funding may well continue to seek personal gain by any means available. Yet Prime Minister Takaichi’s statement that “this issue is far from resolved” offers at least a small measure of hope.

In today’s society, truly respectable adults seem to be in short supply.

All I can do is hope that each newly elected representative conducts their political work with integrity and transparency, and grows into the kind of adult worthy of public trust.
Politicians who fail to do so should never be forgiven.

 

Japan’s General Election: A Landslide Victory for the Ruling LDP, but Turnout Below 60%

Japan’s recent general election ended in a sweeping victory for the ruling Liberal Democratic Party (LDP), effectively reaffirming Prime Minister Sanae Takaichi’s leadership. While the result brought political clarity, the low voter turnout raises a more uncomfortable question: how many citizens are truly participating in shaping the country’s future?

 

The confidence election for Prime Minister Takaichi concluded with an overwhelming result: the Liberal Democratic Party, Japan’s long-standing ruling party, secured 316 seats on its own—well over a two-thirds majority in the lower house.

In the United States, when voters choose a president—even one who quickly embarks on aggressive policies—there seems to be a shared resolve to accept that choice and live with it for four years. After this election, it feels as though we in Japan are now required to show a similar kind of resolve.

Watching the election coverage last night, it was hard not to feel sympathy for lawmakers from the former Constitutional Democratic Party. Many appeared to fall one after another, paying the price for strategic failures at the leadership level. When defeat reaches such a devastating scale, however, one cannot help but wonder whether the party itself can survive.

Still, a result is a result.

An effective “all-ruling-party” situation is not without its risks, but this is neither military rule nor dictatorship. In that sense, perhaps it can be accepted for what it is.

That said, the prospect of a return to the LDP’s old patterns—collusion, corruption, and money-driven politics—is deeply dispiriting. Even so, there is room to hope that Prime Minister Takaichi, with her relatively clean public image, can prevent the worst of these tendencies from resurfacing.

What lingers most strongly, however, is the voter turnout. It was reportedly around 55 percent.

Whether one votes or not is, of course, a matter of personal freedom. Perhaps the roughly 40 percent who stayed home feel satisfied with that choice.

They probably are.

But when the prime minister speaks of issues that divide the nation, it is worth remembering this: if those same citizens continue to stay away from public debate—and from future referendums—the country may end up moving in directions they never intended.

Or is it enough, after all, for the will of just 55 percent of the electorate to determine the nation’s course?

A Sense of Unease While Watching the Winter Olympics

The snowfall from the previous night stopped by morning, and I was able to attend the second day of the conference without trouble. The forecast—about five centimeters of snow—was accurate, and the day turned out to be bitterly cold.

Watching the Winter Olympics in such weather, I found myself noticing something that had bothered me before, but never quite this strongly.

 

Participation by non-white athletes in the Winter Olympics appears strikingly limited.

I had been aware of this for some time, but it stood out more clearly this time than ever before.

Perhaps this is because the recent Games were held in South Korea in 2018 and China in 2022, and this is the first time in a while that the event has returned to a predominantly white host country. The medal ceremonies, the athletes on the podium, even the women presenting the medals—all appeared overwhelmingly white.

Without host-nation quotas, the number of East Asian athletes is visibly smaller. I did not watch every moment of the opening parade, so I cannot say how many Black athletes participated, but in the glimpses I saw, there seemed to be very few.

Of course, people of diverse backgrounds could be seen in various supporting roles, but proportionally, that may simply reflect the nature of the event.

Winter sports are expensive by definition, and in that sense this imbalance may be inevitable. Skiing, skating, and sledding began as leisure activities and have been refined into highly specialized competitive sports. The effort and ingenuity behind that evolution are remarkable.

Still, when I look at the faces and skin tones filling the screen, I cannot help but feel a lingering sense of unease.

 

How Big Can Events Keep Growing?

 On a morning bound for an academic conference in Tokyo, I found myself watching the opening ceremony of the Milano–Cortina Winter Olympics over breakfast.
I left home before the Olympic flame was lit—aware that staying any longer would mean arriving late. Snow was forecast for the evening, and I was already wondering how I would get home. At the very least, I decided, I would pay the reception fee and leave early.

Watching large-scale events like the Olympics, I cannot help thinking about the sheer difficulty of running them.

Of course, these events are handled by professionals. Still, professionalism does not make things simple. Opening ceremonies can be planned down to the minute, but the actual competitions must contend with weather and uncertainty. The logistical burden is immense.

While the dedication of the athletes naturally draws attention, the people who support the event—quietly, efficiently, and often invisibly—deserve equal respect. It is work, yes, but work of a very demanding kind.

The same question arises when I think about academic conferences, whether those I attend or those I have organized myself. Why do such events almost inevitably grow larger over time?

Last year, I intended to keep things at roughly the same scale as the year before. Whether I succeeded is another matter; perceptions from the outside may have been quite different.

The Olympics face a similar dilemma. In theory, one could strip them down to something simpler, more restrained. In reality, that never seems to happen. Even academic meetings could probably function without elaborate social gatherings.

As I watched the opening ceremony, I found myself wondering how long we can continue to sustain events of this scale. At the same time, I began to think more seriously about the conferences I will soon be responsible for—and how large they truly need to be.