Hello Inil alumni,
I am Kim Yo Soon (also known as Jennifer Lee) and was featured in a city newspaper called THE TORONTO SUN. Although I never imagined in my life, being ordinary as I am, to be interviewed and take article space on a pages of a newspaper... So due to the accuracy and how special this article is for me and how it may positively effect other cancer patients (as well as their family members, etc.) I ask you to take your time to read this article... Thank You Very Much.
P.S. The attachment includes my newspaper picture and the article.
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A life. And death - Part II
By Thane Burnett


Jennifer Lee, 46
If she could stretch that far, Jennifer would see her youngest child, 15-year-old Timothy, graduate from high school.

If her slender fingers could reach beyond that, she would touch the days when Tim and his siblings -- 17-year-old Shannon, and Mike, 20 -- would all find someone to marry. And following those times, in a place which seems far off, she would hold her first grandchild.

But for today, she reaches only as far as her oversized coffee cup. Because if something wonderful happens tomorrow, that may be too far to grasp.

"I hope for more, but I welcome each occasion, each celebration, each family event, as if it won't be repeated," she says, before taking a sip of the sweet coffee in front of her.

Yo Soon Lee was born 46 years ago in Korea -- one of four children. She came to Canada in 1982 and was welcomed as Jennifer. She and her husband, Timothy, whose name he gave to their youngest son, run a Marvelous Muffins shop.
In late 2003, Jennifer's stomach began to ache, and swell. It was overwork or gas, her family and doctor assured her.
But she wasn't convinced. She pressed on and, in early 2004, was told she has ovarian cancer. When she was given the verdict, by a doctor she had never met before, in a sterile hospital room without her family near, she did not weep. She did not ask why. Or feel sorry for herself.

Though she cried for two days after the news had sunk in, at first, she was unshakable, defiant and hopeful.
She went through treatment, but months later, the cancer returned. She's now on a second round of options, and a last chance for it to just go away.

Among morning diners in this busy bake shop -- sharing casual chatter amid whiffs of fresh bread and baked cinnamon buns -- Jennifer is elegant and radiant. Those eating breakfast around us could not imagine our conversation, or her state, because if they did, they would all have to turn their chairs toward her, and sit in silence.
A silver cross hangs around her neck. She believes in the miracles it reflects. But she doesn't expect, or demand, there be one left for her.

Her husband feels differently. He holds up the possibility of a complete and utter recovery, much like a hopeful child holds up a penny in a toy store.

"That thought makes him feel secure," she smiles.

Jennifer has tried to explain to her children -- especially her daughter -- that whatever may come, they will not waste a day in anger. Telling them: "We take it in the most positive way -- that there's no negative feelings. I want to go and grab every happy moment."

Don't blame God, she reminds her family. If you can't be sure of reaching tomorrow, she continues, be glad you are here today. They smile and tell her to hush -- not to worry.

"Birthday parties or trips to the shopping mall, I recognize what they are," says Jennifer. "Precious."

In January, one of her good friends died suddenly of a heart attack. She was 49 years old. She had sat with Jennifer, without knowing it was really her time sooner, rather than later.

"I don't have a sour feeling," Jennifer assures me of her own fate. "I've tried my best. Some people's lives don't last 60 or 70 years. I will take mine as it is."

She would like to see her youngest graduate. And the weddings. The birthdays. The grandchildren. Old age.
"But if I don't see that happen, that's fine," she's sure. "I'm ready to go."

As we finish the cold dregs of our coffee, and pull on jackets, she suddenly takes out a pink scarf she has knitted for my wife. Someone she has never met. She is modest of the stitches. As she is about the words she has given me.

Days after, she would phone me up, to offer an acknowledgement -- that she doesn't see herself as terribly important to people reading this. That I should, instead, use someone else's philosophies. No, I explain, I could scarcely believe there is someone more important.