I couldn't sleep again.
My father has nearly drowned in the bath twice.
The first time was about ten years ago.
He drank alcohol, took his blood pressure medication, got into a hot bath, and his blood vessels dilated.
His blood pressure dropped so low that he could no longer move.
When he stayed in the bath much longer than usual, I went to check on him.
He was sinking beneath the water.
“Help me...
I can't stand up...”
There was no way I could lift him out by myself.
I drained the bathwater so he wouldn't overheat any further and waited for the ambulance to arrive.
The second time was on May 8 of this year.
We were visiting relatives.
My mother became concerned because he had been in the bath for so long and went to check on him.
She found him on the verge of drowning again.
He insisted that he had slipped.
I suspect he had become dizzy from overheating.
Because of incidents like these, our family developed a habit.
Whenever my father takes a bath, someone calls out:
“Dad, are you awake?”
My father has completely forgotten that he has nearly died in the bath twice.
Or perhaps that's not quite accurate.
The truth may be:
The memory of almost dying < The desire to take a long bath.
For some reason, he seems willing to risk his life for an extended soak.
The burden placed on everyone else never enters the calculation.
And if he doesn't worry about the people rescuing him from the bath, he certainly isn't going to worry about the people keeping watch over him.
As a result, I can't go to sleep until he comes out of the bath.
My father starts his day before five in the morning.
He turns on the television.
He plays online Go.
Then he waits for breakfast to appear automatically.
Under these conditions, I'm getting about four hours of sleep per night.
For a fifty-four-year-old man, that's rough.
During the day there are household chores, phone calls, emails, visitors, paperwork, and countless other tasks.
There isn't even time for a nap.
Because the hospital could call at any moment, I can't put my phone on silent.
Please.
Just let one thing disappear.
This old man is reaching his limit.
Unfortunately, years of research have left me with another problem.
Once my brain starts working on something, I can't sleep until I reach a conclusion.
I wish I could simply stop thinking and go to bed.
But I never know when the switch will turn on.
Sometimes a single thought is enough.
And tonight it happened again.
I'm close to my limit.
Today's worry concerns my mother's rehabilitation.
The standard course of treatment after a stroke is straightforward.
First comes the acute phase.
Then comes rehabilitation.
My mother is still in the acute phase, but if all goes well, she should move into a rehabilitation hospital later this month.
Last weekend I signed the transfer paperwork.
But my mother has dementia.
Her memories are disappearing day by day.
They are not coming back.
And she knows it.
During almost every visit she has said:
“How did this happen?
It's so strange.
So very strange.”
And every time I answer:
“It's okay.
Everything's okay.
There's nothing to worry about.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
And she accepts that answer.
Yesterday, however, something changed.
It was Hospital Day 14.
Whenever she realized she couldn't remember something, she would say:
“I'm no good...”
Then she would tap her head with her hand.
At one point she even bumped her head against the wall.
“Don't do that,” I told her.
“It's okay.
Everything's okay.”
But she has started to feel frustrated.
She knows things are missing.
And that worries me.
Can she really enter rehabilitation in this state?
That question has been haunting me all day.
The transfer paperwork included a section asking what goal the family hoped rehabilitation would achieve.
I wrote:
“Independent daily living.”
At the time, it seemed like the correct answer.
Now I'm not so sure.
Because my mother has dementia.
Even if she had never suffered a cerebral hemorrhage, there would eventually come a day when she could no longer live independently.
So what exactly is the goal of this rehabilitation?
Right now she can eat without assistance.
She can use the toilet without assistance.
She still needs help bathing.
But isn't that enough?
What more should we be asking of her?
Rehabilitation will not restore her memories.
By the time rehabilitation is finished, what if her memory has deteriorated even further?
What if she can walk, but no longer remembers where she is?
What if she can dress herself, but can no longer manage daily life?
Would she be happy?
More than anything, I don't want my mother to look at herself and think:
“I'm no good.”
Maybe independence isn't the goal.
Maybe it doesn't matter if she can't live independently.
Maybe we should simply help her.
Maybe that's enough.
I don't know.
I truly don't know.
And tonight, I don't think I'm going to sleep.
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