This evening, my father and I had a major argument.
It started when I tried to talk with him about what would happen after my mother was discharged.
That alone was enough to make him angry.
A little later, he handed me a teacup.
The cupboard was within arm's reach of where he was standing.
“Put this away for me,” he said.
“You can do it yourself,” I replied.
“It's right there.”
That made him even angrier.
One thing led to another, and before long we were in a full-scale fight.
I tried treating his outbursts the way a sports referee might deal with an angry player.
That only made him lose his temper further.
“Go home tomorrow!”
“No.”
“I have to stay and take care of Mom.”
“I'll do everything myself! You don't need to do anything!”
“I don't think that's realistic.”
“Don't decide what I can and can't do!
I was grateful when you came to help, but that's gone now.
Go home!”
“I'm not going.”
“If you're here, I'll just depend on you!
Go home!”
“I'm not going.”
That was the general tone of the conversation.
Later, after taking a bath, he seemed to cool down.
He sent a few subtle signals suggesting he wanted to make peace.
So tomorrow I'll probably act as though nothing happened.
He's under a lot of stress.
I understand that.
But I'm carrying even more.
I'm doing every household chore.
I'm responding to all of his demands.
Every day I'm dealing with hospital staff, social workers, service providers, and endless administrative matters.
My own work has completely stopped.
I have no personal time at all.
And on top of all that, I get showered with abuse.
Honestly, I think I handled it remarkably well.
Toward the end, however, I finally lost my patience.
In my best monotone voice, I started announcing his requests back to him.
“PLEASE RUN MY BATH! THANK YOU!”
“PLEASE MAKE MY TEA! THANK YOU!”
“PLEASE PUT MY TEACUP AWAY! THANK YOU!”
It was childish.
I was deliberately provoking him.
Still, compared with the things he had been saying to me, I consider it a relatively minor offense.
Good grief.
I was furious.
Anyway, let's get back to my mother.
Hospital Day 11
Today's visit was my first without my father.
When I pressed the SCU intercom a little earlier than usual, a nurse told me,
“Mrs. F is out doing rehabilitation right now. Please wait here.”
I assumed she was probably walking laps around the ward.
As I looked down the corridor, I spotted her.
She was walking without holding onto anything.
A physical therapist followed closely behind her for safety.
My mother seemed more interested in the scenery than the exercise itself.
She kept stopping to look out the windows or examine notices posted on the walls.
Her pace was slow.
Almost a shuffle.
When she came within about ten meters of me, I waved.
“Mom!”
The physical therapist noticed me first.
“Your family is here.”
“Really?”
“Over there.”
My mother turned and saw me.
Her face lit up.
She reached out and took my hand.
“Mom, I came to visit.”
“Oh my, thank you.”
“It's amazing that you're walking.”
“Thanks to everyone. Thank you, thank you.”
For a short while we had to part again so she could return to the SCU.
“Right this way.
Watch your feet.”
“Yes.”
A little later she came back out.
“Oh my, thank you.”
“You look great.
When did you start walking?”
“Well, that's the thing...
I don't know.”
“The last time I saw you, you were holding onto things.”
“Was I?”
“You've made incredible progress.”
She seemed to be trying to tell me something.
“Ni... ji...
What was it...?”
“Don't force yourself.
It's okay.”
“Really?”
“Everything's okay.”
Then came another attempt.
“The superior...
something...
needs to be nervous...
Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
“It's okay.”
“Requests...
road...
something...”
“No problem.”
“It's okay.”
“Ni...
No, I can't figure it out.”
“That's alright.
There are lots of things neither of us understands.”
“Really?”
“Of course.”
Then she looked at me and said,
“I just can't understand why I'm here.”
“It's strange, isn't it?
Maybe it's better to forget unpleasant things.”
“Maybe.”
“Then maybe it's good that you've forgotten.”
We both laughed.
The actual content of our conversation was often unclear.
Yet somehow we were communicating.
If I made a joke, she laughed.
And because my father wasn't there, the conversation flowed naturally.
Hearing my mother laugh at my jokes made me happier than I can describe.
A little while later, a nurse arrived pushing a wheelchair.
“Is visiting time already over?” I asked.
“I'm sorry,” she replied.
“She has a test scheduled downstairs on the second floor.
Would you like to come with us?”
So I ended up accompanying my mother to the examination room.
“Mrs. F, please sit here.”
“Here? Really?”
“Yes, right here.”
“Okay.”
“Good. Now let's put your feet up here.”
To my relief, she was able to follow the nurse's instructions.
Not perfectly.
Not effortlessly.
But she understood.
And she complied.
That alone felt like a victory.
While we were waiting for the elevator, the nurse suddenly turned to my mother and asked,
“Who is this gentleman?”
My mother looked at me.
“Let's see...
What was his name again?
What was it...?”
“F,” I said, giving my surname.
There was no sign of recognition.
“Your son.”
The nurse smiled.
“This is your son.”
“That's right!
That's right!
Of course!”
My mother had forgotten my name.
For a moment, the realization stung.
Then I thought:
Well, maybe a name isn't that important.
She still knew who I was.
That was what mattered.
The woman who had raised me.
The woman who had spent decades calling my name.
Could no longer remember it.
Yet when she saw me, she smiled.
She took my hand.
She knew I belonged to her.
Perhaps that was enough.
The elevator arrived.
My mother disappeared into the examination room.
Afterward, I spoke with the nurse while she returned to the SCU.
“How is my mother doing?”
The staff seemed trained to avoid making direct assessments, so the answer was understandably cautious.
“Well,” the nurse said,
“she's able to communicate.
That's certainly better than patients who can't produce any language at all.”
“That's true.
Even if the words don't make sense, we're still able to communicate.”
The nurse nodded.
“She can eat on her own.
She can use the toilet on her own.
Those are both very positive signs.”
“Really?
She's doing both?”
I couldn't hide my excitement.
“If she couldn't do those things, going home would be very difficult.
That's wonderful news.”
For the first time, I could genuinely imagine my mother returning home.
The nurse also mentioned that she would probably be transferred from the SCU to a general ward sometime the following week.
In other words, she was no longer in immediate danger.
It was a tremendous relief.
The problem, however, was my father.
After seeing my mother walking during the previous visit, he seemed convinced that she would soon be discharged and return to her old life.
In his mind, walking meant recovery.
Recovery meant normal.
Normal meant she would once again take care of everything.
But that wasn't reality.
Before her hospitalization, my mother had remembered my name perfectly.
Now it was gone.
Her body was improving.
Her memory was not.
The dementia was continuing to progress.
Even after transferring to a rehabilitation hospital, she would likely spend months in therapy.
During those months, more memories might disappear.
How much would she remember by the time she came home?
I didn't know.
But one thing was certain.
The countdown had already begun.
The gradual loss of my mother's memories was no longer a future possibility.
It was happening now.
My father refused to accept this.
He was convinced rehabilitation would bring back the mother he remembered.
Whenever I tried to explain, he retreated.
“Enough.
I understand.
I'll think about it later.”
That had always been his strategy.
Whenever something truly important arose, he postponed it.
Then avoided it forever.
I never understood why.
“Dad, there isn't much time.
If you don't think about this now, you'll regret it later.”
“Stop nagging.
This isn't something we have to deal with right this second.”
“Yes, it is.
Mom's dementia is progressing right now.
She forgot my name.”
“That's enough.
Don't say another word.”
And that conversation eventually led to the argument I described at the beginning of this chapter.
If my father had come with me to today's visit, I can already imagine what would have happened.
He would have seen my mother standing and walking by herself and proudly declared,
'See?
I told you so.
Your mother will be home soon.
She'll be back to doing all the housework before you know it.'
He would have mistaken physical recovery for complete recovery.
And no matter what I said, he would have believed his version of events.
Honestly, I'm glad he wasn't there.
Long live extreme frugality.
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