I have reached my limit.
From now on, my highest priority is making sure that I don't break down.
If I stop functioning, everything stops.
My father cannot manage on his own.
During the trip to Toyama when both of my parents collapsed, my father became concerned about my mother's memory problems and reportedly declared:
“I'll handle the money from now on.”
My mother later told me:
“For the first time, your father said I could leave the finances to him.”
She sounded happy.
For years, she had complained that my father paid little attention to money matters.
There was just one problem.
The travel funds he had proudly volunteered to manage had actually been withdrawn from the bank by my mother.
Why?
Because my father doesn't know how to use an ATM.
On May 8, when my father was taken to the emergency room, the hospital's payment system was unavailable after hours.
A bill was mailed to their home later.
Before returning to Okayama, I told him:
“Mom's hospital bill has already been paid.
If a bill arrives for your hospital visit, please pay it yourself.
Mom can't handle things like that anymore.”
“I know,” he replied.
“Your mother's memory has gotten so bad that I told her I'd take care of all the travel expenses myself.”
“Good,” I said.
“Please do.”
A few days after I returned to Okayama, he called me.
“The hospital bill arrived.”
“Oh, that was quick.
Please pay it as soon as you can.”
“I know.”
That should have been the end of it.
It wasn't.
My father never paid the bill.
The reason was simple.
He had no idea how.
He didn't understand where to take the payment slip.
He didn't understand how payment slips worked.
I doubt he even understood what the document was.
To help prevent my mother from getting lost, I attached a GPS tracker to her phone.
When I reviewed her movements near the end of May, I noticed she had visited the post office.
Later she explained:
“Your father hadn't paid the hospital bill.
He was just leaving it there.”
The man who had proudly declared,
“Leave the money to me,”
had once again relied on my mother, despite her dementia.
Where does that confidence come from?
My father knows almost nothing about finances.
He does, however, possess a vague understanding of tax returns.
Somewhere along the way he became convinced that filing taxes requires:
Collecting receipts
Keeping a household account book
Submitting everything at tax time
Since he could never maintain the accounts himself, he delegated the entire task to my mother.
Even when she was unwell.
Even when he complained that her memory was getting worse.
One day my mother told me:
“I don't remember how to keep the household accounts anymore.”
“Then don't,” I replied.
“You don't need them.
When tax season comes, they'll tell us exactly which numbers to enter.
Nobody has ever asked to see your account book, have they?”
“Really?”
“Really.”
“Oh, that's wonderful.
That makes things so much easier.”
Yet my father continued handing her receipts.
“Don't bother,” I told him.
“We've decided not to keep household accounts anymore.”
“Really?”
“You don't need them for tax returns.”
“Is that so?”
To this day, I don't think he believes me.
He still collects receipts.
Several are currently sitting in front of my mother's computer.
I suspect he hoped I would start keeping the accounts instead.
“Dad, what are you planning to do with those receipts?”
“Keep accounts.”
“How?”
“I'll do it myself.”
“How?
By hand?”
Silence.
“On a computer?”
“I was thinking about using a computer.”
“Alright.
Let me know if you need help.”
Needless to say, no accounting has occurred.
My father cannot withdraw money from an ATM.
For years, my mother handled that too.
“Dad, do you have any cash?”
“Yes.”
“In cash?”
“Yes.”
“Can you withdraw more if you need it?”
“I know how.
Your mother always did it.”
“So you've never actually done it yourself?”
“I know how.”
One day I pointed to the ATM inside C Hospital.
“Why don't you practice?”
“What?”
“The machine over there.
Why not try it?”
He waved dismissively.
“I'm fine.”
His bank card still uses a magnetic stripe.
Most people switched to IC-chip cards years ago.
Perhaps he lost the newer card.
Perhaps it's hidden somewhere in his wallet.
At this point, I honestly don't know whether he could access his own bank account.
And if a trip to the bank becomes necessary, that's just one more problem for me to solve.
As I've written before, my father refuses to do most household chores.
“I'm almost ninety years old!
I could die at any time!
I don't want to live if I have to do all that work!”
The thing is, I've never asked him to do everything.
I wouldn't.
He can't.
But recently he has started doing a few small tasks.
Putting a teacup back on the shelf.
Filling the bathtub.
Refilling the tea bottle.
So apparently he can do them after all.
He simply doesn't want to.
Can we really call that independence?
Which brings me back to my mother.
On the rehabilitation paperwork, I wrote:
“Independent daily living.”
Now that phrase keeps bothering me.
What exactly does it mean?
Eating independently?
Using the toilet independently?
Bathing independently?
Is that all daily life is?
I realized something uncomfortable.
When I wrote the phrase, I never actually stopped to think about what it meant.
The paperwork arrived.
The staff pointed to a box and said:
“Please write your rehabilitation goal here.”
“Okay.”
And I wrote:
“Independent daily living.”
Without hesitation.
Now I find myself wondering how the rehabilitation team interprets those words.
Because I'm no longer sure what they mean.
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