Real-time communication.
What does that mean?
In this case, it means phone calls and chat apps.
During my visits, my mother often mentions the names of her brothers.
“A-chan?”
“T-chan's...”
A-chan and T-chan are her older brothers.
Curiously, she rarely says my name.
Yet she still remembers theirs.
I found myself thinking:
Maybe she wants to see them.
Maybe we should arrange a visit while she still remembers who they are.
Her memories are disappearing.
If there was still time, I wanted to give her that opportunity.
So I started making phone calls.
When I called A-chan, his daughter answered.
“F-chan! Long time no see! It's A-ko!”
I have a confession to make.
I had absolutely no memory of who A-ko was.
I explained my mother's condition and suggested a visit.
A-ko was delighted.
She also happened to be one of the most talkative people I have ever encountered.
She spoke continuously, moving from one topic to the next without waiting for my responses.
Oddly enough, it made me happy.
The only reason someone talks that much is because they care.
My parents were both born in Toyama.
As a child, I never got along with my paternal grandmother.
In fact, I disliked visiting her so much that by around third grade I stopped going to Toyama during summer and New Year holidays.
My parents would leave me behind in Nagano.
Looking back, modern child welfare services might have had some questions about that arrangement.
I honestly don't remember how I survived those visits alone.
Probably not particularly well.
But it was still preferable to spending time with my grandmother.
My maternal relatives were different.
I had cousins my own age there, and I enjoyed visiting them.
Unfortunately, most of our time was spent at my paternal grandmother's house.
Visits to my mother's side of the family were limited.
As a result, I became aggressively anti-Toyama.
Not mildly anti-Toyama.
More like:
“Toyama Prefecture does not actually exist.”
That level of anti-Toyama.
Because of that attitude, I never maintained relationships with my relatives.
I had no idea how much my mother was loved by her nieces and nephews.
I'm glad I made that phone call.
Afterward, we agreed to continue communication through a chat app.
I also contacted my cousins on my father's side.
H and T were the people who effectively saved my parents' lives when both of them collapsed in early May.
I will always be grateful for that.
Had my parents collapsed somewhere else, I suspect neither of them would have survived.
I explained that my mother's memory was still intact enough for her to recognize people and asked whether they would like to visit.
They immediately agreed.
We ended the call, planning to discuss dates later.
Two days later, it was time for another hospital visit.
My mother looked well.
Her speech seemed noticeably better.
That day I brought a photo book.
It contained photographs from my books, family pictures, and various images I had assembled myself.
“Oh my...
Well...
What's this?”
“This is you and Tora.”
“Really?”
“Yes.”
She studied each photograph carefully.
Then, every so often:
“This...
This is our house...”
And then:
“I don't know.
I'm no good.”
She began tapping her head with her hand.
“Don't do that.
It's okay.
Everything's okay.”
A little later, she looked at another photograph.
“I'm no good.”
This time she started gently bumping her head against the wall behind her chair.
“No, no.
That hurts.
It's okay.
Really.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
For the first time, I felt that she was becoming frustrated by the things she could no longer remember.
Her memories are disappearing.
And I don't think they're coming back.
There will probably be more moments like this.
More moments when she says:
“I'm no good.”
The sadness in her face broke my heart.
I don't want her to feel that way.
So I made a decision.
The next photo book would not be about memories.
It would be entertainment.
During the previous visit, my mother looked at one of my microscope photographs.
She traced three circles in the air with her finger, connected them with a curved line, and said:
“Something like that.”
I suspect she was remembering one of the round objects in a microscope image.
That was enough.
The next photo books would be:
Microscope Edition.
Flower Edition.
No memory tests.
No pressure.
Just things that were enjoyable to look at.
But let's return to the story of the relatives.
After making the next hospital reservation, I returned home.
I sent messages to A-ko through the chat app and contacted H and T by text message.
That was my mistake.
A-ko continued sending messages at an astonishing rate.
One topic became another.
Then another.
Then another.
The conversation expanded to include distant relatives I had forgotten existed.
She is a wonderfully kind and family-oriented person.
The problem was that the chat never stopped.
Meanwhile I was preparing dinner.
Printing photographs for the new photo book.
Trying to keep up with messages.
Then my phone rang.
It was H.
He had questions and preferred talking on the phone instead of messaging.
Suddenly I was juggling:
One phone call.
One endless chat conversation.
One photo-book project.
At the same time.
While I was speaking on the phone, messages kept arriving.
Because I was typing one-handed, I couldn't keep up.
The phone conversation stopped making sense.
I abandoned the photo book entirely.
Questions, suggestions, schedules, locations, plans—
they came flying toward me like arrows.
Apparently my relatives are all very energetic people.
At some point I wanted to shout:
“Please.
I'm the event organizer.
Let me organize the event.”
Eventually I escaped.
The phone call ended.
The chat ended.
I was exhausted.
Phone calls and chat apps consume time in a very particular way.
Every minute spent communicating comes directly out of my sleep.
And I was already exhausted.
Finally, I fell asleep.
One hour later:
Ping!
Ping!
Ping!
My phone and tablet erupted simultaneously.
A cousin group chat had been born.
For a brief moment, I considered throwing my phone through a wall.
Unfortunately, I couldn't mute anything.
I had specifically asked the hospital to contact me immediately, even in the middle of the night, if my mother fell out of bed or anything happened.
So the notifications had to stay on.
Ping!
Ping!
Ping!
They continued.
Finally, I typed:
“I'm severely sleep deprived.
I'll respond tomorrow.”
At that moment, I understood why parents worry about children and smartphones.
To be fair, everyone was simply concerned about my mother.
I am deeply grateful for that.
I never realized how many people cared about her.
She is fortunate to have such loving relatives.
But please.
Let me sleep.
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