Stories Only My Mother and I Can Share
Yesterday, I accompanied my mother to the hospital for some examinations.My wife came with us.
Ever since something happened to my mother’s health last year, standing up has gradually become more difficult for her.
It is not so much that she cannot walk. Rather, the movement of rising from a chair no longer seems to connect naturally with the rest of her body.
My mother wanted to know exactly what was causing it, so she visited both neurosurgery and neurology departments. She also underwent an MRI and cognitive function tests.
The results showed no abnormalities.
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To some extent, this was what I had expected.
Rather than there being an obvious physical disorder, it seemed to me that my mother had somehow forgotten how to stand and move her body.
Even so, her anxiety was very real.
Last year, she called me saying that she could not breathe. She was taken to the hospital by ambulance in the middle of the night and admitted as an emergency patient. Since then, these monthly hospital visits have continued.
The fact that tests reveal no abnormalities does not mean that the distress she experiences is not real.
That is why I think it was important for her to continue with the examinations until she felt satisfied.
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After all the tests were finished, my wife said,
“I’m so glad they didn’t find anything wrong!”
She was right.
Although it can be frustrating not to find a clear cause, we should be genuinely grateful that no serious problem was found in my mother’s brain or nervous system.
From now on, rather than continuing to search endlessly for a cause, we can listen carefully to what she says, observe the condition of her body, and continue doing what we can.
I intend to make time at least once a month to check her body and give her a treatment.
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After leaving the hospital, my mother, my wife, and I went out for lunch.
We did not talk about anything particularly important.
As we ate, we began talking about some of my mother’s friends whom I often saw when I was a child.
One of them was a man we called “Uncle Deko.”
Even as a child, I thought he seemed rather unreliable and carefree.
I remember picking up pine cones with him one day when he said,
“You can sell these to Tokyu Hands.”
Apparently, he did some work connected with Tokyu Hands, but I never really understood what kind of work he actually did.
I had heard that his parents were wealthy, so perhaps he had been able to live freely without experiencing too many hardships.
We are no longer in contact with him.I have no idea where he is or what he is doing now.
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My mother and my sister are probably the only people with whom I can share stories like these.
The number of people who remember Uncle Deko is gradually becoming smaller.
A memory may remain within me, but when there is no longer anyone with whom I can share it, the event itself begins to lose some of its reality.
“Do you remember that person?”
“Do you remember what he said that day?”
Simply having someone with whom I can exchange those words is, in fact, something very precious.
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My wife’s mother died suddenly last year.
My wife still regrets that she was unable to do more for her mother while she was alive.
Having witnessed that regret so closely, I try not to miss opportunities to spend time with my own mother.
Perhaps caring for one’s parents does not require anything extraordinary.
Accompanying them to the hospital.Sharing a meal.Talking casually about people we knew long ago.
Yesterday was nothing more than a day like that.
Yet, sometime in the distant future, I may suddenly remember it.
The day my mother, my wife, and I ate lunch together and laughed as we talked about Uncle Deko.
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