He also says he added that he was a UH grad student and that her doings figured much in his studies. "I told her I was writing a book about the neighborhood, and that I knew what she'd been doing," he says.
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Just over two years ago, another spot appeared on O'Brien's back, this one about the size of his pinky. O'Brien didn't have insurance, so he hoped it would just go away, but it only grew. By November of 2007, it was the size of a doorknob. O'Brien's wife told him it had to go, and off he went to Ben Taub, where, after a daylong wait, a doctor told him he needed to see a doctor. "I said, 'Well, you're wearing a white suit, and it says Baylor College of Medicine on it. And you're gonna tell me I need a doctor? I oughta punch you in the fuckin' mouth. You got a scalpel? Get busy. I got this doorknob on my back.'"

Although he was a long way from South Korea's socialized medicine and the operation cost him more than $3,000 cash, O'Brien was lucky that time: The growth was nonmalignant. But at the same time, O'Brien's dad was fighting a losing battle against cancer. After their falling-out in his teenage years, the two O'Briens had patched things up. "My father was proud of my activism and chosen field of studies," he wrote in an e-mail message. "Although he wished there would be less drama, especially with UH and their interference with my Ph.D., he always taught and encouraged me to never back down from a confrontation."

The elder O'Brien told his son to do whatever he had to do to attain his goals and never compromise his values, to stick to his guns whatever the cost. "The last two days I spent with him in April before he passed, we went over that in detail," O'Brien wrote. "I wanted and got reassurance from him that he was OK with the way I lived my life. He said to keep fighting...there was never any suggestion from him to give up being an activist to make it easier for my family and I."

Three months later, O'Brien would be dealing with cancer himself. While staying with friends on a research trip to Austin, O'Brien found a lump in his armpit while showering. On returning to Houston, he visited a clinic for low-income patients. The doctor gave him some blood tests, told him he didn't have lymphoma and charged him $200 for the visit. Two weeks later, O'Brien received a letter telling him to "take no action." O'Brien was hugely relieved, although the letter did tell him to see a doctor if the lump was still there in two months.

And it was. A subsequent visit to a dermatologist revealed that it was melanoma, and later visits to other doctors uncovered the fact that the cancer cells were now shot through his lungs.

"At first, I cried a lot," he says. "I didn't get angry. I cried. I just went through this with my dad. But then it's quickly to practicality. I am a practical person. I don't have much money. I've got like $18,000 in my retirement from two years working at Baker Botts. All of my wife's resources have gone toward my Ph.D. and that was a bad gamble. She's not gonna be able to benefit. But that's the worst-case scenario and I'm thinking positive."

But he does sometimes give in to dark thoughts. Looming large in his mind is the fate of his wife and child should he lose his battle. Until the birth of his daughter, O'Brien had always figured that his wife could return home to Korea should he die or they get divorced, but now that she has a half-American child, that is no longer such an easy option. Korean culture still openly frowns on race-mixing, and half-American kids there face years of taunts. "They would be treated like dogs," O'Brien says.

What's more, O'Brien's treatment would be at Ben Taub. O'Brien calls his experiences there "the Ben Taub Shuffle," and says that since his diagnosis, he has become indigent. "They have drained all my resources, and now I have a Gold Card." True to form, he is battling all the way through, confronting nurses and doctors he perceives to be treating him shabbily or perfunctorily.

"You gotta be strong," he says. "I am a fighter. I am too busy with my dissertation, fighting my social justice battles and enjoying my life...I don't have fuckin' time to sit around crying. My minister told me, 'When you have a pity party, the Lord leaves the room.'"