During my tenth round of transplant chemotherapy, my husband, an antique appraiser, finally stepped into my hospital room. It was the first time in six months he'd accompanied me to treatment. He had barely changed into his caregiver's uniform when a notification labeled “Bronze Dragon-Patterned Wine Vessel” started flashing wildly on his phone. The moment he saw it, panic crossed his face. He rushed out without even taking off his white coat. Watching him hurry away, I clutched my clothes tightly. I pulled out my IV needle, wrapped myself in my hospital gown, and flagged down a cab. A stolen artifact? I wanted to see what kind of “national treasure” could make him abandon his wife's crucial chemotherapy.
