Hospital Day 21
My mother had made an astonishing recovery.
She had been moved to a general ward the previous evening.
I took the elevator up to the sixth floor and followed a nurse into her room.
My mother was sitting on the edge of her bed, smiling as she welcomed me.
“I'm here to visit you.”
“Oh, I'm so happy!”
Today, she was my usual mother.
There was almost no awkwardness in our conversation.
About 95% of what she said required no interpretation.
She still couldn't recall my name or the names of many objects, but her tone of voice and responses were just like they had always been.
Three days earlier, during my last visit, I had already felt that her speech was becoming much smoother. However, many of her words still required interpretation, and her sentences were often fragmented.
Today was different.
She was talkative.
So talkative that I found myself wondering:
Does she really have a language disorder?
Three weeks ago, I had been thinking:
"Maybe she's not going to make it."
"Maybe I'll never be able to have a normal conversation with my mother again."
Now it all felt like a bad dream.
“You're amazing, Mom. They might tell you that you don't even need rehabilitation anymore.”
“Really?”
She looked delighted.
“Do you know you're moving to another hospital the day after tomorrow?”
“What? Really?”
“Sometimes you have trouble finding the right words, remember? You said that you feel like you're saying something different from what you want to say.”
“Did I? I don't remember that.”
“The next hospital is going to help improve that.”
“Oh, I see.”
She looked a little puzzled.
Three days ago, she had been aware that speaking was difficult.
Today, she didn't seem to think she had any problem at all.
“You've improved so much that they'll probably tell you that you don't need rehabilitation anymore.”
“Really? That makes me happy.”
“I wonder how long you'll stay here.”
“Well, it's a nice place. Maybe I should stay forever.”
“Oh, come on.”
We both laughed.
We spent a long time looking through the photo book I had brought.
There were many things whose names she couldn't remember, but she clearly remembered chiffon cake and raspberries.
She must really love them.
When she comes home, I'm going to make her a chiffon cake and raspberry mousse.
“I turn on the television, but I don't really understand it.”
She could carry on a smooth conversation with me, but it seemed much harder for her to understand one-way communication like television programs.
Among the admission forms for the rehabilitation hospital was a questionnaire about the patient's condition.
It asked whether assistance was needed for things like meals and bathing.
“Have you been taking baths?” I asked.
She tilted her head.
“I don't know.”
Apparently, memories from the previous evening had already disappeared.
“That's okay. You don't need to remember that.”
“Really?”
She smiled.
She no longer seemed troubled by the fact that she had forgotten.
“I don't understand why I'm here.”
“Well, you suddenly found yourself here.”
“That's exactly it. It's so strange.”
She was smiling throughout the conversation.
There was no sense of despair.
If anything, she seemed to be enjoying the mystery of it all.
My father, who has an unfortunate talent for asking questions at the wrong moment, asked:
“Do you walk every day?”
“I don't know.”
If she couldn't remember taking a bath, there was no way she would remember her daily rehabilitation exercises.
“It's okay, Mom. You're walking really well.”
“Really? Am I?”
“Perfectly.”
In the general ward, visitors were responsible for keeping track of their own visiting time.
The nurse explained:
“After about fifteen to twenty minutes, please press the nurse call button.”
“So we have to time it ourselves?”
“Yes. Roughly. If it goes too long, we'll come and check.”
I set a twenty-minute timer on my phone, but we ended up staying about ten minutes longer.
My mother seemed genuinely happy.
She never said, “This is hopeless,” or “Why did this happen to me?”
All my worries about her disappeared.
She is going to recover.
And she's recovering at an astonishing speed.
I'm sure we'll be able to cook together again when she comes home.
Looking at the photos of cakes and dishes in the photo book, she said:
“That looks delicious!”
“When I get home, I'll make all of those for you.”
“Really? I'd love that!”
“You used to make this one too. It's easy.”
“Did I? Then I'm looking forward to it!”
I have no doubt that day will come.
Eventually, it was time to leave.
“See you. I'll come pick you up the day after tomorrow.”
“Thank you.”
My father and I returned to the lobby on the first floor.
He wanted to know an estimate of the hospital charges, so I went back upstairs by myself.
While waiting in the lounge for the nurse in charge, I saw my mother walking down the corridor during her rehabilitation session.
Her steps were remarkably steady.
“Mom! I'm still here!”
“Oh, I'm so happy!”
“You're doing great. You're walking really well.”
“Really? I did it!”
That response was exactly the mother I knew.
Two days ago, I probably would have burst into tears at that moment.
Today, I just smiled.
Because I no longer had anything to worry about regarding my mother.
She completed three laps of the corridor and returned to her room.
It was truly a wonderful day.
And that's where I wanted this story to end.
Unfortunately, something happened afterward that completely ruined the joy of the day.
Just thinking about it makes my blood boil.
I don't want to relive it tonight.
So I'll stop here.
Good night.
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