At my tenth round of transplant chemotherapy, my wife, an antiques appraiser, finally walked into my hospital room. It was the first time in six months she'd accompanied me to treatment. She'd only just changed into her caregiver's clothes when an alert labeled Bronze Dragon-Patterned Wine Vessel began flashing frantically on her phone. One glance at it sent her into a panic. She rushed out without even taking off her white coat. Watching her hurriedly retreat, I clutched my clothes tightly. I pulled out my IV needle, wrapped myself in my hospital gown, and flagged down a taxi. Hah, I wanted to see just what kind of national treasure could make her abandon her husband's crucial chemotherapy.
