I think I've decided to make peace with my father.
The rice for the family altar has already been prepared.
The dishes have been washed.
As for the tea, I have no idea what happened to it.
The usual bottle is still sitting where he left it.
After the shock of learning that my mother had forgotten my name, combined with yesterday's argument with my father, I didn't sleep at all.
I spent the entire night trying to understand why he became so angry.
Eventually, I think I solved the mystery.
To my father, household chores are suffering.
Actually, "household chores" is probably too mild a phrase.
To him, they are things he absolutely does not want to do.
And because he absolutely does not want to do them, he believes that someone else should.
My mother.
Or me.
At one point he shouted,
“Do this! Do that!
I don't want to live if I have to work that hard!”
The tasks he was referring to were:
Filling the bathtub.
Refilling a bottle with tea.
Returning a teacup to a cupboard.
Apparently, if forced to perform these tasks himself, life would no longer be worth living.
I remember thinking:
That's an awfully fragile definition of life.
“Running a bath is easy,” I told him.
“Exactly,” he replied.
“Anybody can do it.”
“Then please do it yourself.”
“What are you talking about?”
Translation:
"It's easy, therefore you should do it."
That pattern repeated throughout the argument.
My father never expresses gratitude for household work.
When things became particularly bad, my mother used to say,
“Hey, dear.
Who do you think all this is for?
Hello? Are you listening?”
My father would either ignore her and continue watching television, or respond with something like,
“Yes, yes. Very tasty.”
Nothing has really changed.
There are still complaints.
No fish.
The fish should have been grilled.
The natto beans are too small.
The list goes on.
Occasionally he says, “Thank you.”
But both my mother and I say that phrase constantly.
I suspect he simply picked it up from us.
The words are there.
The gratitude isn't.
The discussion eventually returned to my mother's future.
“What happens when Mom comes home?
She won't be able to do all the housework.”
“Shut up!
I'll do everything!”
“I don't think that's realistic.”
“You're only saying that because you're here!
I could do everything if I wanted to!”
Then the conversation took a dramatic turn.
“Fine!
I'll move into a nursing home!
Lots of people around here have done it!
I've already looked into it!
We'll get rid of this house!”
“Moving into a nursing home has nothing to do with selling the house.”
“I don't have the money.”
“I won't oppose you moving into a nursing home.
It's your decision.
I'll respect it.
But what about Mom?
If she comes home and the house is gone, where is she supposed to live?”
“You take her!
Bring her to Okayama and look after her yourself!”
“No.
I'm not taking Mom to Okayama.”
My voice rose for the first time.
“Mom has dementia.
She's already losing memories.
If we move her somewhere she's never lived, somewhere she doesn't know anyone, she'll only become more confused.
This house is full of her memories.
We cannot take that away from her.”
I want to believe he didn't truly mean what he said.
But after decades of marriage, telling me,
'Take her. I don't care.'
was difficult to forgive.
The ironic part is that I would happily live with my mother in Okayama.
My partner would welcome her too.
Before the stroke, she often said:
“I'd love to visit your house in Okayama.
But I can't manage the train.”
“I'll come pick you up.
Want to come?”
“Really?
I'd love to.
But your father is here, so I probably can't.”
If my mother had not suffered the stroke, I would have taken her to Okayama in a heartbeat.
Whenever I visited my parents, we often had the same conversation.
“I'd love to visit your house in Okayama.”
“Then come.”
“Really?”
“Of course. I'll pick you up.”
“I'd love to... but your father is here.”
Those conversations always ended with a laugh.
Now, however, things are different.
Every time I visit the hospital, my mother says:
“How did this happen?
It's so strange.
So very strange.”
Because her short-term memory has been damaged, she can no longer retain the explanation for very long.
Being in the hospital feels mysterious to her.
Confusing.
Unexplainable.
If I took her to Okayama, I suspect the same thing would happen.
Why am I here?
Where is this place?
And eventually, as more memories disappear:
Who are you?
I refuse to let that happen.
As long as she still recognizes this house, this town, and the places she has known for decades, I want her to remain connected to them.
They are anchors.
And she needs every anchor she can keep.
Another Reason My Father Lost His Temper
This morning, my father and I made peace.
At least on the surface.
“I think I said a lot of things yesterday that made no sense.”
That was how he opened the conversation.
Then the mystery finally solved itself.
Before our argument began, he had said:
“There is something important I need to talk about.”
We sat across from each other at the dining table.
He cleared his throat.
“Listen carefully.
This is something your mother and I decided years ago.
When I die, I want my ashes placed in the H Temple cemetery in Toyama.
The funeral should be handled by S Temple in T.
Your mother and I have already arranged our posthumous Buddhist names with H Temple.”
I stared at him.
I thought we were about to discuss my mother.
Instead, we were discussing his funeral.
“Mom is still alive,” I said.
“I'd rather talk about what happens when she's discharged from the hospital.”
“Ah!”
he replied.
“I always assumed I would die first.
But now your mother might die before me.”
“That could happen.”
“Exactly!
That's why I'm talking about my funeral!”
“No.
Mom will probably leave the hospital in a few months.
That comes before your funeral.
I want to talk about what happens when she comes home.”
“What are you talking about?”
he snapped.
“If your mother ends up like this, you'll be the one arranging my funeral.
Just do what I told you.”
“Fine.
Write it down somewhere and I'll follow your instructions.”
“What?!
That's why I'm telling you now!
This is important!”
“I won't remember all of that.
If it's important, write it down.”
“What is wrong with you?”
At the time, I genuinely had no idea what we were arguing about.
After thinking about it all night, I finally understood.
My father had spent years planning his funeral.
The plan was complete.
His assumption had always been simple:
He would die first.
My mother would survive him.
She would carry out his carefully prepared funeral arrangements.
But now that assumption had been shattered.
My mother's stroke had changed everything.
She might die first.
Even if she survived, she might no longer be capable of organizing a funeral.
Therefore, the responsibility would fall to me.
In his mind, the conversation was perfectly logical.
What he was really saying was:
“When I die, you must carry out my funeral plan.”
That was the important discussion he wanted to have.
And when I repeatedly redirected the conversation back to my mother, he felt I was dismissing something extremely important.
His funeral.
That realization explained the entire argument.
Even now, with my mother in a hospital bed recovering from a cerebral hemorrhage, his own funeral remains his highest priority.
I struggle to understand that.
This morning, after saying,
“I think I said a lot of things yesterday that made no sense,”
he continued:
“Yesterday was the first time I explained what should happen when I die.
After what happened to your mother, I wanted to make sure there wouldn't be any confusion.”
In other words, my interpretation had been correct.
What he really wanted was reassurance that his funeral plan would take precedence.
I couldn't help wondering what my mother would think if she heard that conversation.
Fortunately, she no longer understands things like this.
For once, the dementia may be sparing her unnecessary pain.
As for me, I suspect my father's funeral plan is safe.
He has explained it often enough.
Whether I agree with his priorities is another matter entirely.
For now, I would rather focus on the people who are still alive.
At lunchtime today, my father suddenly said:
“I'll stay with your mother for the rest of my life.”
I think he was reflecting on some of the things he said yesterday.
I decided to let it go.
“Yeah,” I replied.
“You should.”
The conflict between us was ultimately caused by a difference in priorities.
My priority is my mother.
My father's priority is his own funeral.
My father had never imagined that something like this could happen to my mother.
Now he's confused.
If my mother can no longer arrange his funeral, then what happens?
I think that fear reached him before anything else.
And when I told him,
“Now isn't the time to talk about that,”
he reacted with anger.
That doesn't mean I accept his priorities.
I don't.
As for the household work, realistically speaking, my father's contribution amounts to perhaps one percent.
Out of one hundred units of work, he can probably do one.
The difference between carrying one hundred units and carrying ninety-nine is negligible.
I don't really mind doing all of it.
Provided he doesn't complain.
That's the important condition.
After what happened yesterday, I hope he understands that.
As for selling the house, I don't think that's a realistic concern.
My father is unable to handle administrative tasks of any kind.
He can't research real estate agencies.
He can't make the necessary phone calls.
In practical terms, it isn't a card he can actually play.
My mother's home is here.
There is nowhere else for her to return to.
I hope that one day the three of us will sit around the same table again and share a meal together.
Comments
Post a Comment