For the first few days after my mother was rushed to the hospital, I couldn't shake the feeling that I might lose her.
No matter what I looked at, tears would well up in my eyes.
I tried not to cry in front of my father or the hospital staff. Yet whenever I spoke with my partner on the phone, the tears came uncontrollably.
Yesterday—seven days after my mother was taken to the hospital—I was finally able to visit her.
To my surprise, she was able to carry on what felt like a normal conversation about ninety percent of the time.
There was only one word she couldn't recall. Other than that, she understood everything I said, and her tone of voice was the same as it had always been.
Now that things have settled down somewhat, I would like to write about what happened after she was transported to the hospital.
Early Morning, June 2
I watched through the camera at the front entrance as my mother was taken away in an ambulance.
She lay motionless on the stretcher.
What struck me was that she was not wearing pajamas. Instead, she had on the shirt and pants she normally wore during the day.
I suspect my father had changed her clothes before the ambulance arrived.
Earlier, I had repeatedly called out through the monitoring camera and even activated its siren, but there had been no response.
Looking back, I think my father must have been desperately trying to dress my unresponsive mother.
It seems that once he decides that something must be done, he becomes completely shut off from outside input.
I am not a medical professional, so I cannot say for certain, but perhaps this is one of the symptoms of dementia.
The volume of my voice through the monitoring camera was certainly not low.
It was loud enough that someone standing outside the house could easily carry on a normal conversation.
The siren function is designed to scare off intruders, so it is extremely loud.
The fact that he did not react suggests that he was not simply failing to hear it. Rather, it felt as though the signals were being blocked somewhere inside his brain.
About thirty minutes after my mother was transported, I received a call from C Hospital.
“Am I speaking with Mrs. F's son?”
“Yes. That's me.”
“Are you in a position to talk right now?”
“Yes.”
“This is Dr. Y from C Hospital.”
It was Dr. Y, the neurologist who had examined my mother only a few days earlier.
“Thank you for seeing her the other day,” I replied.
“As it happens, I'm the physician on duty today, so I am currently treating your mother.
It appears that she has suffered a cerebral hemorrhage. The right side of her body is paralyzed.
A blood vessel in her brain has ruptured, and the bleeding is putting pressure on the surrounding tissue.
There is a possibility that the hemorrhage is related to the same condition causing her dementia.
A protein called amyloid-beta, which is associated with dementia, can accumulate in blood vessels in the brain and narrow them. When that is combined with high blood pressure, bleeding can occur.
I've consulted with the neurosurgeon, and we believe the blood should be removed as soon as possible.
Are you on your way here?”
“Yes. I'm leaving now by train.”
“When do you think you'll arrive?”
“My train reaches the nearest station at 2:18. If I take a taxi from there, I should be at the hospital around 2:30.”
“I see. Since we believe surgery should be performed immediately, would it be acceptable to proceed before you arrive?”
“Please do.”
A few minutes after my train left the station, I received another call from C Hospital.
“This is Dr. Y from C Hospital.
There is something I need to confirm regarding your mother.
The likelihood is low, but I need to ask about life-sustaining treatment. If her heart were to stop, would you want us to perform resuscitation?”
“Please... at least until I get there.”
The tears came immediately.
I had never imagined that I would be asked about life-sustaining treatment for my mother.
The doctor had said the possibility was low, but that also meant there was a possibility.
At that moment, all I could think was:
I need to get to C Hospital. As fast as possible.
I spent the train ride in a state of panic.
I had no idea what condition my mother was in.
I didn't even know what to expect.
Was she still alive?
Surely, if the worst had happened, someone would have contacted me.
At least, I hoped so.
My father was supposed to have accompanied her in the ambulance, but I could not expect him to call me.
For more than ten years, he had relied on my mother for almost everything.
When he needed to make a phone call, he would ask her to dial the number. Once the other person answered, she would hand him the phone.
At first, I wondered why he had started doing that.
Now, I suspect it may have been an early symptom of dementia.
Sometimes when handed a mobile phone, he would hold it directly in front of his face like a walkie-talkie and try to speak into it.
Naturally, he could hear nothing.
Yet instead of realizing he was using it incorrectly, he would simply say, “I can't hear anything, so I'm hanging up.”
Even modern cordless home phones confused him.
At the time, these things frustrated me.
Now I think they may have been signs of dementia all along.
After all, telephones did not even exist when he was a child.
Under those circumstances, all I could do was wait for updates from the hospital.
I stared continuously at my phone with the volume turned all the way up.
To distract myself, I repeatedly searched for alternative routes.
The station I had originally planned to use was the one closest to my parents' house.
However, C Hospital was actually closer to the previous station.
The difference was only about five hundred meters, but accounting for train schedules, I could save roughly four minutes.
The taxi ride would also be slightly shorter.
That station happened to be the one closest to the high school I had graduated from.
It had become an unmanned station more than ten years earlier.
Would there even be a taxi waiting there?
Would I be better off continuing to the next station, where taxis were guaranteed?
I had not visited that area in decades.
Even Google Street View could not tell me whether taxis were available.
Calling a taxi would cost me several precious minutes.
When I asked an AI assistant, it replied:
“There is a high probability that taxis wait in front of the station.”
Could I trust that?
Then I opened Google Maps.
Ironically, one of Google Maps' most annoying features ended up helping me.
On a smartphone, the departure point defaults to your current GPS location.
Normally I find this irritating.
This time it saved me.
The route displayed was for driving.
My train itinerary required changing to a rural single-track railway line at the next station.
By car, however, I could get on the expressway and reach C Hospital in less than half the time.
I made my decision immediately.
I got off the train.
I already knew there was a taxi stand at the station's south exit.
Without hesitation, I ran there.
A taxi was waiting.
I jumped in.
“Please take me to C Hospital in I City.”
The driver looked puzzled.
“C Hospital? The one in I City?”
“If you're not sure, just get off at the I Interchange and I'll guide you from there.”
“You want to use the expressway?”
“Yes, please.
My mother collapsed and she's in surgery right now.”
“You collapsed?”
For a moment I almost laughed despite everything.
No, I was perfectly fine.
“My mother.”
“Oh...
I see.
That must be very worrying.”
Unfortunately, the message still didn't seem to fully register.
This was not going to turn into one of those movie scenes where the driver says:
“Hang on! I'll get you there!”
Instead, he drove exactly at the speed limit.
Car after car passed us.
I found myself wondering whether I would have been better off with some former delinquent driving an independent taxi.
All the while, I kept glancing between Google Maps and the speedometer.
Perhaps the driver sensed my anxiety.
Gradually, the taxi began moving faster.
We overtook trucks in the passing lane.
Then we caught up with the cars that had previously passed us.
I won't go into details, but he was clearly risking a suspension-level speeding violation.
I still feel guilty about that.
Soon after we exited at I Interchange, C Hospital came into view.
“There it is.
Thirty-five minutes.
Thirty-five minutes from S Station.”
Had I stayed on the local railway line, the trip would have taken more than twice as long.
The fare came to 18,000 yen.
“Thank you very much.”
I paid and ran into the hospital lobby.
I rushed into the hospital lobby.
After explaining the situation to the receptionist, I was asked,
“Was anyone accompanying your mother in the ambulance?”
“Yes, my father should have gone with her.”
“In that case, please contact your father and meet up with him.”
I called my father's mobile phone.
Would he actually answer?
After a few rings, he picked up.
It felt like a miracle.
“Dad, I've just arrived at C Hospital. Where are you?”
“Huh? Where are you?”
“I'm in the lobby on the first floor.”
“Huh? At C Hospital?”
There was no sense of urgency in his voice.
His tone was strangely relaxed.
“Dad, where are you?”
“I came back home.”
“You did? What happened to Mom?”
“Your mother was taken away in an ambulance.”
“I know. I'm the one who called the ambulance.”
“Oh, right. They operated on her. She's in the hospital now.”
At that point I realized there was little point in asking further questions.
“Dad, you must be tired. Why don't you get some rest?”
“Okay, okay.”
After informing the receptionist that my father had already gone home, I was directed to the Stroke Center.
I pressed the intercom and identified myself as Mrs. F's son.
“Ah, you're Mrs. F's son.
The doctor would like to speak with you. Please come this way.”
I was shown into a room where Dr. S was waiting.
“You came all the way from Okayama?”
“Yes. It took about five hours.”
“Wow. Personally, I wouldn't want to do that.”
“It isn't actually that far.”
The doctor was surprisingly casual.
The fact that he could joke with me like this eased my mind a little.
Surely things couldn't be immediately life-threatening if he was this relaxed.
“You were the one watching through the camera and called the ambulance, right?”
“Yes.
I had installed five monitoring cameras because I was worried about my mother's dementia.”
“That's amazing. You can actually do that?
Some kind of high-tech system?”
“Nothing special, really.
My father didn't seem to understand what was happening, so I called the ambulance from Okayama.”
“You can do that?
Your father is in pretty bad shape.”
“He doesn't seem to understand much of what people are saying.”
“That's exactly what I thought.
I got halfway through my explanation and he suddenly said, ‘Huh?’
I thought, what's going on here?”
The small talk continued.
Meanwhile I was thinking:
Can we get to the important part already?
Finally, the explanation of the surgery began.
“Your mother suffered a cerebral hemorrhage.”
A CT image appeared on the monitor.
“This is the bleeding.
And here are the images before and after surgery.
We performed the operation under local anesthesia.
We made an opening about one centimeter wide in the skull and inserted a tube roughly the size of a drinking straw to remove the blood.
It appears that she had experienced several bleeding episodes.
Part of the blood had already clotted, so some of it had to be scraped out rather than suctioned.
We were able to remove about eighty percent of it.
This area here is the motor cortex.
Before surgery it was under significant pressure.
Now that the blood has been removed, that pressure is gone.
We don't see any obvious damage there.
Some blood remains in this region.
This area is associated with vision.
Because pressure remains there, she currently has loss of vision on the right side.
And this area is related to language.
There appears to be some damage here, so she may experience language difficulties.
She may struggle to find words, and reading could become more difficult.”
When she had been taken to the hospital, the entire right side of her body had been paralyzed.
Hearing that this problem had been relieved was a tremendous relief.
The possibility of damage to her language abilities, however, came as a shock.
What if I could never have a normal conversation with my mother again?
My mother loved talking.
Whenever we spoke on the phone and I said,
“Well, I'd better let you go now,”
she would often reply,
“Oh, there was something I wanted to ask you…”
and the conversation would continue for another ten minutes.
Would those conversations be gone forever?
With that fear in my heart, I went to see my mother.
The Stroke Center appeared to contain about ten beds separated by curtains.
My mother was lying in one of them.
Because she had lost part of her right visual field, the staff had placed a chair on the left side of her bed so that she could see visitors more easily.
Her eyes were closed.
She looked exhausted and in pain.
“She fell asleep just now,” a nurse told me.
It was painful to see her like that.
Would she be alright?
I stood there watching her for several minutes.
Then a nurse called out,
“Mrs. F?”
The nurse seemed to be attaching some monitoring equipment.
“Yeees…”
My mother briefly opened her eyes before closing them again.
For a split second, our eyes met.
A few seconds later, she slowly raised her left hand.
Her fingers moved as though she were trying to grasp something.
I reached out and took her hand.
She squeezed back.
The tears came immediately.
She had responded when called.
She had recognized me.
And she had squeezed my hand.
I couldn't stop crying.
A few minutes later she drifted back to sleep, and the strength gradually left her hand.
My mother was alive.
She still knew who I was.
For the first time since receiving that terrible phone call, I felt a small sense of hope.
Even so, I had no idea how much she would recover.
The uncertainty was overwhelming.
A nurse explained that her blood pressure remained dangerously high.
They were monitoring her carefully to prevent another hemorrhage.
After the visit, I spent a long time signing admission forms and other paperwork.
Although my father had accompanied her to the hospital, all of the paperwork had been handed to me.
That alone suggested the staff had already recognized how unreliable he was.
The doctors then repeated the treatment plan they had previously explained to him.
They expected her hospital stay to last up to a month.
After that, she would likely need to transfer to a rehabilitation hospital for further recovery.
My father had apparently been given exactly the same explanation.
Yet none of it seemed to have registered.
When I told him she might remain hospitalized for a month, he looked surprised.
“That long?”
He had apparently assumed she would be home in a few days.
He also failed to understand that she would need to transfer to a rehabilitation facility.
“Why can't they just do the rehabilitation there?”
he complained, pointing toward a rehabilitation room near the CT unit.
“We don't even know if Mom will be able to return home yet,” I told him.
“And even if she does, I don't think she'll be able to do the housework the way she used to.”
He simply stared at me.
The reality did not seem to sink in.
About twenty years earlier, my mother had been hospitalized for two months with peritonitis.
She was discharged before her surgical wound had fully healed.
Her condition worsened, and she was readmitted.
That cycle repeated three times.
Even then, my father never seemed to understand what was happening.
He would ask my mother to prepare meals despite the fact that she was clearly ill.
He would hand her a stack of receipts and tell her to update the household accounts.
Looking back, I think he had already lost the ability to read other people's condition.
Perhaps the dementia had already begun.
At the time, my mother and I were furious.
We repeatedly told him how unreasonable he was being.
But he simply could not understand why we were upset.
To him, these were perfectly normal requests.
If he could not perceive that she was suffering, then from his perspective there was no problem.
Dementia is a frightening disease.
Not only for the person who has it, but for everyone around them.
Hospital Day 2
The following day, my father and I returned to the hospital carrying the items my mother needed during her stay.
Visits were limited to three days per week.
Only two visitors were allowed per day, and each visit was limited to twenty minutes.
Only one person could enter the CTU at a time, so if two people visited, each received ten minutes.
My father went in first.
About five minutes later, he came back out.
He said nothing.
I entered after him.
My mother was asleep.
She looked uncomfortable.
She was snoring softly, and every now and then her face would tighten as though she were in pain.
Was something hurting?
Was she really going to be alright?
Watching her struggle filled me with anxiety.
A nurse came over and adjusted the protective cap covering her head.
A few strands of hair became caught.
My mother frowned.
“Sorry about that. I caught your hair.”
There was no response.
I took her hand.
She did not squeeze back.
A device had been attached to her legs to prevent deep vein thrombosis.
At regular intervals it inflated and compressed her calves.
Perhaps it was making her uncomfortable, because she kept scratching at her thighs.
Underneath her body was an air mattress designed to prevent bedsores.
It seemed to shift her position periodically by changing air pressure.
Everything about her that day suggested discomfort.
Pain.
Itching.
Exhaustion.
It was difficult to watch.
One of the nurses explained that her blood pressure remained unstable.
Without warning it could spike to over 200.
What was going to happen?
Would she really recover?
The next visiting day would not be until Friday.
An entire day without seeing her.
The thought weighed heavily on me.
Even after returning home, I could not relax.
Because of her memory problems, my mother had gotten into the habit of writing everything down.
Notes were everywhere.
Every time I found another one, tears filled my eyes.
She had been trying so hard.
Would she ever come back to this house again?
I wanted to talk with her.
I wanted to continue the puzzle we had been working on together.
That night, I barely slept.
Hospital Day 4
My father and I returned to the hospital together.
As usual, he went in first.
Five minutes later he came back out.
Again, he offered no comment.
Was she still feeling unwell?
I disinfected my hands and stepped through the curtain.
My mother was awake.
The moment I entered, she looked directly at me and smiled.
A smile.
The pained expression I had seen two days earlier was completely gone.
“Mom, I came to visit.”
“Oh my, oh my... I'm so sorry... really...”
“Does anything hurt? How are you feeling?”
She was able to sit up.
She seemed fascinated by the tubes and tape attached to her body and kept trying to remove them.
“Don't pull those off.”
“Oh my, oh my... really...”
“You look much better. I'm glad.”
“Oh my, oh my... really...”
Tears filled my eyes.
If you wrote the conversation down exactly as it happened, it might not seem like a conversation at all.
But somehow, between the two of us, communication was happening.
The damage to her language center made it difficult for her to find words.
It was obvious she wanted to say something.
The words simply would not come.
“Youchuu... that thing... what was it...
Youchuu...
What was it again...?”
She sounded worried about something.
I wondered if "youchuu" had accidentally replaced another word in her mind.
“Youchuu is fine. Don't worry.”
“Youchuu?”
She looked genuinely puzzled.
At that moment I realized something important.
She did not think she was saying the word "youchuu."
The word she intended and the word she actually spoke were different.
When I repeated the word back to her, it meant nothing to her.
I still had no idea what she was trying to say.
But I felt relieved.
She had not completely lost language.
Something was still there.
“Oh my, oh my... really...”
“It's okay.”
“Really...”
“Everything's okay. Nothing is wrong.”
“Oh... well... I think I'll sleep now.”
I told the nurse that my mother wanted to rest and left the CTU.
I still had no idea what she had been trying to tell me.
But she had not lost her words.
That conversation gave me hope.
The next visit would not be until Monday.
Two whole days away.
I was still worried.
But that night, for the first time since her collapse, I managed to get a little sleep.
Sunday
On Sunday, I took my father to a nearby hot spring.
Visiting the hot spring had been part of his weekly routine for years, and because he had missed it that week, he seemed determined to go.
By then I had calmed down a little myself.
Walking through the gift shop was strangely comforting.
My mother had apparently bought vegetables there every week.
I noticed that they were selling the same turnips I had seen in our refrigerator, so I bought some.
As I imagined my mother standing there, choosing vegetables and chatting with the staff as she always had, my eyes began to sting.
I hope we can come here together again someday.
Hospital Day 7
That day my father and I visited the hospital again.
As usual, my father entered the CTU first.
Seven or eight minutes later, he came back out.
As usual, he had nothing to say.
I immediately went in.
Would she be awake today?
When I stepped through the curtain, my mother was looking straight at me.
She smiled.
“Mom, I came to visit.”
“Thank you. Really... thank you. I'm sorry for causing everyone so much trouble.”
“Don't worry about that at all.”
“No, really... I still can't understand how this happened.”
“That must have been frightening.”
“Honestly, I just can't understand how this happened.”
“Quite a surprise, wasn't it? One moment you were at home, and the next thing you knew, you woke up here.”
“Exactly. It's so strange. So strange.”
“You woke up surrounded by people you didn't know.”
“Yes! Exactly! So strange.”
To my amazement, she sat up on her own.
While talking, she swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat there comfortably.
Compared to the condition she had been in only a few days earlier, it was almost unbelievable.
During my previous visit, a nurse had mentioned that my mother seemed worried about my father.
So I pulled out my phone and showed her photographs I had taken when I took him to the hot spring on Sunday.
“I took Dad to O Hot Spring on Sunday.”
“Oh, really?”
“Look, here's a picture of him walking around.”
“I see.”
“And here's the soba we had for lunch.”
“Oh, is that so?”
I thought she might also be worried about whether he was eating properly, so I showed her pictures of our meals.
“This was breakfast. This was lunch. And this was dinner.”
“Oh my... I see...”
“And this is the Sri Lankan curry you made before all of this happened.”
“Really? I made that?”
“Yes, you did. You cooked all sorts of wonderful meals.”
“Did I really?”
“And this is the bean rice Y sent us.”
My partner had prepared meals, frozen rice balls, side dishes, and even cake, then shipped everything to us.
I showed my mother a picture of the freezer packed with food.
“Oh my... thank you. Thank you so much.”
“Y cooked the rice, made rice balls, and sent them all the way here.
She also sent side dishes and cake.”
“Oh my... thank you so much.”
“So don't worry. We're eating very well.”
“I'm sorry for causing so much trouble. Thank you.”
She did not seem able to see the photographs very clearly.
Still, she leaned forward to look more closely.
That gesture was exactly the same as it had always been.
The same gesture she had made when she was healthy.
Then she said again,
“But really... it's so strange. How did this happen?”
“You were working in the garden the day before, remember?
You must have exhausted yourself.”
“Really?”
“The garden looked beautiful.”
“Did it?”
“The vegetables we planted together are growing well too.”
“Really? I planted them?”
“Yes. We bought them together.
The tomatoes, basil, and Italian parsley.”
“Did we?
I don't remember.”
“That's okay.
You took very good care of them.”
“Really?”
We continued talking like that for a while.
Then she paused.
“Uh... what was it? What was it...?”
She clearly wanted to say something.
The thought was there.
The words were not.
“It's okay,” I told her.
“There's no rush.”
“Yes...”
“Everything's okay.”
“Yes...”
Eventually, visiting hours came to an end.
“I'll come back again. Bye-bye.”
If someone only read a transcript of our conversation, it would probably seem awkward and fragmented.
But in reality, we had communicated surprisingly well.
It felt like ninety percent of a normal conversation.
For the first time since her collapse, I allowed myself to feel genuine hope.
After the visit, one of the nurses told me that my mother's recovery had introduced a new problem.
She was now strong enough to move around on her own.
That meant there was a risk she might fall.
To keep a closer eye on her, the staff had begun leaving the curtain open.
It was hard to believe this energetic woman was the same person who had lain motionless in bed only a few days earlier, unable to respond.
Hospital Day 9
My father and I visited the hospital again.
When we arrived, the nurse on duty told us,
“Mrs. F is in rehabilitation right now. We'll let you know as soon as she comes back.”
“She can already do rehabilitation? That's amazing.”
“Where is she?”
“Over there, maybe... no, that's an old man.”
While my father and I were talking, I spotted someone walking slowly down the corridor.
It was my mother.
She was making her way back toward the CTU, accompanied by a physical therapist.
One hand gripped an IV pole for support.
“Mom's coming!”
Apparently, she had just completed a lap around the ward.
She walked steadily toward us without noticing we were there.
When she reached the entrance to the CTU, she looked around and said,
“Is this it? Ah, this is the place.”
Then she walked inside.
“We'll call you once she's ready,” the nurse said.
I was stunned.
Just two days earlier, she had needed assistance to sit up.
Her legs had seemed too weak to support her weight.
Now she was walking.
Walking.
In only two days.
That day's visit took place outside the CTU.
My mother walked over to a bench in the hallway while holding onto the IV pole.
For the first time since her hospitalization, the three of us sat together.
“Well, well... thank you for taking care of me.”
“Don't worry about that. You look great.
The fact that you're walking already is incredible.”
“Thanks to all of you. Thank you.”
“I'm really glad.”
“But honestly... it's so strange.
I still don't understand how this happened.”
“You worked hard in the garden, remember?
You just wore yourself out. Take it easy.”
“Really? Is that true?”
“The garden looked wonderful.
You don't need to worry about pulling weeds for a while.”
“Really? Is that so?
How strange...”
Then she stopped.
“Ya... ya... what was it...?”
She was trying to say something.
Before I could respond, my father jumped in.
“Vegetables, right?
You mean Mrs. S from the neighborhood.
She always brings us vegetables.
The other day she brought simmered butterbur—”
“Dad, stop.”
My mother was still searching for her words.
“You have to give her time.
That's not what she's trying to say.”
My father looked annoyed.
He seemed convinced his guess was correct.
“Go... go... what was it...?”
Again she struggled.
“Go? You mean Mr. M from the Go club.
He always picks me up in his car and—”
“Dad, please stop.
Mom can't find the words she wants.
What she's trying to say isn't what you're talking about.
Please just wait.”
Reluctantly, he fell silent.
This was exactly the problem.
He could not understand what was happening.
Someone with word-finding difficulties needs patience.
Needs time.
Needs space.
My father could not provide any of those things.
The conversation instantly became about whatever happened to be in his own mind.
That day was the first time all three of us had visited together.
Unfortunately, it was also the first time I realized how impossible communication between them had become.
Looking back, I suspect all of my father's previous visits had been much the same.
That probably explained why he always left after only a few minutes.
A private bedside visit would have been better.
I found myself wondering whether I should request that in the future.
After the visit, I met with a social worker named Ms. S.
She was also surprised by my mother's rapid recovery.
However, she explained that the rehabilitation my mother was receiving now was only intended to prevent her from becoming bedridden.
The next stage would be different.
“This is an acute-care hospital,” she explained.
“The rehabilitation needed to return to daily life is provided at a specialized rehabilitation hospital.
We expect your mother will transfer to K Hospital in M Town.
The first three months after a stroke are often called the golden period of rehabilitation.
During that time, patients receive intensive therapy.”
K Hospital had an excellent rehabilitation program.
They even offered practical rehabilitation tailored to each patient's goals.
When filling out the transfer paperwork, I wrote:
'Independent daily living.'
I was told the transfer would likely occur near the end of the month.
It was wonderful news.
But there was something my father seemed unable to understand.
My mother still had dementia.
The cerebral hemorrhage was not the whole story.
My father seemed convinced that rehabilitation would return her completely to her former self.
But dementia does not stop simply because a person regains physical function.
Even if rehabilitation restored her mobility,
even if she learned to walk, cook, and dress herself again,
my mother would never be exactly the same person she had been before.
The days when meals appeared automatically on the table,
when trash disappeared without anyone noticing,
when cash somehow materialized whenever it was needed—
those days were over.
My father did not seem to grasp this reality.
In fact, as my mother's condition improved, some of his old habits began returning.
For years he had been demanding and critical toward her.
If breakfast was not prepared the way he wanted,
or if tea was not ready,
he would complain.
I had argued with him countless times over it.
Whenever I came home to visit, we usually stopped speaking to each other within three days.
Earlier that spring, after both of my parents had collapsed during a trip to Toyama and I had gone to bring them home, I repeatedly explained something to him.
Mom has dementia.
She may not be able to do housework much longer.
You don't know how many more breakfasts she'll be able to make for you.
To my surprise, his attitude softened.
My mother even said to me,
“Since you came, your father has been much kinder.
Maybe he's happy.”
The reality was more complicated than that.
But I simply replied,
“That's good.”
For a little while, things were peaceful.
Then the cerebral hemorrhage changed everything.
From the day my mother was admitted to the hospital, I took over all of the household responsibilities.
As a result, almost nothing changed in my father's daily life.
Ironically, he never had the chance to realize just how much my mother had been doing for him.
I had worked from home for years.
Cooking, cleaning, laundry, shopping—none of it was particularly difficult for me.
That turned out to be a mistake.
I prepared meals the same way my mother had.
Several side dishes at every meal.
Natto and grilled fish for breakfast.
Tea in the evening.
Trash disappeared before it accumulated.
Laundry was washed and folded.
Dishes never piled up.
Everything continued as smoothly as before.
At first, my father was unusually humble and appreciative.
But because his life remained comfortable and uninterrupted, that attitude did not last long.
Within a few days, the old behavior began returning.
The same behavior he had once directed toward my mother.
Perhaps he thought it was acceptable to complain to a son who did not have dementia.
Of course, I doubt his thought process was that sophisticated.
It was probably more like a reflex.
A habit.
For a while, the reality of my mother's dementia had suppressed those instincts.
Now that he believed rehabilitation would restore everything to normal, the restraints were coming off.
My father had spent his career as a university professor.
He is proud.
Extremely proud.
Admitting he is wrong is not one of his strengths.
Whenever I tried to explain reality, the conversation followed the same pattern.
“Dad, Mom won't be able to do all the housework she used to do.
When she comes home, we'll all need to do what we can.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.”
That was always the answer.
Yet he made no effort to do anything himself.
“Hey, run the bath for me.”
“Hey, make me some tea.”
The towel he used after bathing remained on the bathroom floor.
Used adult diapers were left in the dressing room.
It was as though he had never once considered who had been cleaning up after him all these years.
Perhaps he truly had not.
At the moment, we are in the process of applying for long-term care insurance for him.
Recently, he underwent his care-needs assessment.
The preliminary result was Support Level 1.
The mildest classification.
Apparently, the professionals had reached the same conclusion I had.
He can do things.
He simply chooses not to.
The experts are not easily fooled.
I was actually relieved by the result.
Once my mother is discharged and undergoes her own assessment, there is no doubt that her care level will be judged more severe than my father's.
And when that happens, there will finally be official recognition of something I have been trying to explain for months:
My mother is the one who needs care.
Not him.
Strange as it may sound, I find myself looking forward to her assessment.
A rather dark thought, perhaps.
These days, I find myself speaking to my father with the patience of some benevolent deity.
“Dad, could you put the diaper in the trash bin?
Thank you.”
“Dad, could you make your own tea?
Thank you.”
The inflation of gratitude has reached absurd levels.
Honestly, I think I'm going crazy.
Today's visit to the hospital will be mine alone.
The village transportation service that we had been using to reach C Hospital has reached its monthly limit.
My father says he does not want to take a taxi because it costs too much.
The village actually provides taxi vouchers for seniors.
Even a round trip to C Hospital would only cost him a few hundred yen out of pocket.
Yet he refuses.
The idea of spending even a few hundred yen to visit his hospitalized wife seems unacceptable to him.
Cruel?
Perhaps.
But long live extreme frugality.
At least it means I probably won't have to visit the hospital with him again this month.
A small blessing.
The rehabilitation hospital, K Hospital, is even farther away than C Hospital.
The transportation service can only be used four times per month.
If I can just get through the first week, my father will likely stop visiting altogether.
For the first time in days, I can almost see a brighter future ahead.
And that thought, dark as it may be, makes me smile.
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