I am writing this from a train station 36 kilometers away from my parents' house.
Soon, I'll take the Shinkansen from Nagoya and head back to Okayama.
What a wonderful feeling of freedom!
Today was my mother's transfer day.
I picked her up at 9:00 a.m., and we arrived at S Hospital, her rehabilitation hospital, at 10:00.
When my mother saw me, she greeted me with a smile.
She had no idea that she was being transferred.
"We're going to another hospital where you'll practice lots of things."
"What? Really?"
She looked surprised.
My father, who had complained endlessly about the transfer, came with us today.
As anyone who has experienced hospitalization knows, patients somehow accumulate an enormous amount of belongings.
Eight 600 mL bottles of water, clothes, seven photo books, a box of masks, and many other things.
My father didn't carry a single item.
Well, he has never been much help anyway, so I didn't really care.
I carried the mountain of luggage downstairs.
I left my mother in my father's care.
To my surprise, my mother's walking speed had recovered to almost the level it was before her stroke.
She actually walked faster than my father.
To an outsider, it would have looked as though my father was the one being discharged from the hospital.
Still, the sight of them holding hands was heartwarming.
It seems that my mother has not forgotten him.
While we waited in the lobby for the hospital bill, my father kept talking to her.
"The S Hospital you're going to..."
"The rehabilitation..."
My mother looked puzzled.
She tilted her head, clearly not understanding, but my father kept talking anyway.
I wanted to show her one of the photo books and chat with her, but I was too busy organizing our belongings and completing the payment procedures.
After settling the bill, we got into a taxi.
My mother and I sat in the back seat.
She looked a little anxious.
"I don't understand... Where are we? What's happening?"
"It's okay. We're just going somewhere else for a little while.
There are lots of kind people at the next hospital too."
"Really?"
"Don't worry. Everything will be fine."
Still, she looked uneasy.
"I haven't been outside in such a long time."
"That's true."
"I really don't understand what's going on..."
I decided to show her my newest photo book.
"How beautiful."
"Wonderful, wonderful."
"Look, this butterfly looks just like a leaf."
"It really does! Amazing!"
After she finished looking through the entire book, she gazed out the window again with an anxious expression.
Later, her doctor explained:
"She can no longer process complex information."
She simply couldn't understand what was happening around her, and that uncertainty made her anxious.
When we arrived at the hospital, my father struggled to open the taxi door from the front passenger seat.
After I opened it for him, he slowly climbed out.
If someone had asked,
"Which one is being admitted to the hospital?"
almost everyone would have pointed at my father.
While we waited for the nurses in the lobby, my parents sat on a bench holding hands.
The nurses absolutely loved it.
"They're holding hands!"
An elderly couple holding hands is certainly a lovely sight.
Generally speaking.
If I didn't know them, I would have thought so too.
But I spent years watching my father complain about things like:
"The natto is the wrong size!"
"Where's the grilled fish?"
and seeing him treat my mother harshly over such trivial matters.
So all I could think was:
"Why now?"
My father has never been able to look at himself objectively.
I don't think he even realizes how he treated my mother.
He has always been good at maintaining appearances.
Perhaps unconsciously, he becomes a good husband and a good father whenever other people are watching.
That side of him would appear again only two hours later.
Once we entered the consultation room, my mother left for her physical and cognitive evaluations.
She looked worried as we said goodbye.
"Don't worry. There are lots of kind people here."
My father and I then spoke with the admission nurse, the speech therapist, the physical therapist, the billing staff, the social worker, and finally the attending physician.
I don't think my father understood any of it.
The doctors explained that my mother's condition was more serious than I had realized.
The damaged area of her brain was an important one, and she was suffering from higher brain dysfunction.
They explained that she often could not even understand the meaning of the questions being asked.
The damaged functions themselves would not recover.
The doctor and I discussed the ultimate goal of her rehabilitation.
"She won't be able to do housework or return to her previous lifestyle."
"I understand that.
When she was diagnosed with dementia, I already knew that one day she would no longer be able to do those things.
That's not my goal.
I just want her to reach a point where caring for her becomes easier.
If I say, 'Please sit down,' and she can sit down,
or if I say, 'Please wash your arms,' and she can do it,
life will be easier for both of us."
The goal of her rehabilitation became:
"A condition that is easier to support."
I doubt my father heard any of that.
Months from now, when her rehabilitation ends, I can already imagine what will happen.
"The rehabilitation is finished. She won't be able to do housework."
"That's ridiculous!
Isn't rehabilitation supposed to make her normal again?"
"But we agreed on the goals together.
We said that helping her become easier to support was enough."
"I couldn't hear any of that! Don't make decisions without me!"
The staff at S Hospital even showed concern for my father.
Ultimately, I suppose that's because his condition will affect my mother's future after discharge.
Still, I was honestly impressed.
My father, of course, noticed none of this.
When I explained that my father was unable—or unwilling—to do many things by himself, one of the staff members said:
"If your son is returning to Okayama, I think using short-stay care would be a good idea."
For the past several days, I had been trying to figure out how to get my father into some kind of facility.
This was my chance.
"Dad, while I'm in Okayama, how about trying short-stay care?
Only if you're okay with it, of course.
You could stay at a facility for about a week."
"That sounds good."
He agreed.
I was stunned.
I never imagined he would accept the idea so easily.
Yes!
Now I can focus entirely on caring for my mother!
All the complicated strategies I had been planning suddenly became unnecessary.
I thought:
"So I didn't need to worry so much after all."
One major problem had disappeared, and I began the journey home feeling wonderfully light.
My father's expression also seemed calm.
As I'll write about later, we had a huge argument two days earlier.
He had somehow convinced himself that my mother was completely cured and would simply be "discharged" from C Hospital.
"Why can't she just come home?"
He had opposed the transfer.
Somehow, I managed to persuade him, and today finally arrived.
After returning home, my father said he was tired.
So I prepared udon noodles for lunch in about ten minutes.
He likes noodles.
While we ate, I asked:
"Dad, the care manager is coming soon.
Can we talk about short-stay care?"
"Huh?"
"Can we at least consider having you stay at a facility for a week while I'm in Okayama?"
His face immediately changed.
He waved his hand dismissively.
"I don't need that. I'll be fine."
"I'm worried about leaving you alone."
"I'll be perfectly fine by myself."
The agreement he made at the hospital had simply been another example of his public persona.
"Well, okay then.
I don't have anything to do until Monday's visit, so I'm heading back to Okayama."
"That's fine."
1:18 p.m.
Yes!
I rushed upstairs and searched for transportation routes home.
My favorite bus route wouldn't leave until 4:00 p.m.
The train route I dislike had a departure at 2:10 p.m.
1:20 p.m.
I ran downstairs.
"Dad, I'm taking the 2:10 train."
"Right now!?"
"Yep."
I called a taxi, brushed my teeth, stuffed only the essentials into my backpack, and at 1:30 p.m., ran out the front door.
The taxi hadn't even arrived yet.
But I wanted to leave as quickly as possible.
I didn't want my father asking questions.
I didn't want to prepare anything else for him.
I simply wanted to get out.
As I hurried out, my father came to the entrance in surprise.
"Tomorrow is burnable garbage day. Put it out, okay?"
"How do I do that?"
"If there's not much, don't worry about it. If you don't know, look it up."
I closed the door.
I waited about ten minutes for the taxi.
I couldn't stop smiling.
I left the lunch dishes.
I left the kitchen scraps.
I left the laundry.
I ate all the prepared salad.
Sucks to be you, Dad!
Comments
Post a Comment