The Maze of 'Individuality'

'Let us cherish each person's individuality.'

That beautiful slogan, posted on the wall, was what awaited me when I first jumped into the world of nursing care. Yet, before I knew it, those words had become like shackles, making me hesitant to take a step forward.

What on earth is 'individuality'?

The more I tried to sincerely face the lives of the residents in front of me, the more I found myself lost in a maze with no answers. At the time, I was in my 50s and hadn't even grasped my own 'individuality' yet. And yet, I felt it was arrogant to try to define and support the core of someone else's life.

I kept going around in circles in the same place. Those were the days when my heart wore down while I couldn't move anywhere.

I tried listening to the stories of the elderly residents' families. However, the doubt that 'in reality, even they might not know' never went away.

What the family sees is, after all, a figure filtered through their 'face as a parent' or 'memories of when they were healthy.' Where does the person's true, raw voice lie?

A hint for my maze came from the diary of my late grandfather.

My maternal grandfather was a man born in the Meiji era who was as serious as they come. He even had a slightly intimidating image.

At my grandfather's memorial service, I had the chance to read some of the diaries he left behind. As I flipped through the pages, I found, to my surprise, that he had written about the day I was born.

Even more surprisingly, there were three candidates for my name listed, with notes like, 'If I choose this name, will she grow up to be this kind of woman?' or 'No, what about this name...?'

There was my grandfather, imagining the unseen future of his first granddaughter, worrying about it seriously, and in a way that made me laugh.

It was my grandfather who chose and gave me my current name. When I touched that fact and the love overflowing from the diary, my impression of him changed completely. At the same time, I was able to feel from the bottom of my heart, 'I am truly glad to have this name.'

Words spun by a person for themselves alone, without passing through any filters. Perhaps that is the best clue to knowing a person's 'individuality.'

From between the lines of the diary, I had begun to discover my grandfather's 'individuality.'

As I read through my grandfather's diary, the footprints of a man who ran through the Showa to Heisei eras were etched there.

During the war, he seemed to deeply regret that he was physically weak and exempt from military service, calling it 'a disgrace as a Japanese man.' His drive to try every health method he could get his hands on to build a strong body, fueled by that frustration. His efforts to turn the guilt of not being able to go to the front lines into a contribution to society.

After retirement, he took the initiative to take on the work of the neighborhood association president and the senior citizens' club, and his kindness in acting quickly whenever he heard someone was in trouble.

From the characters in the diary, an indomitable spirit and a heart of altruism seeped out powerfully.

There is one thing I cannot forget.

My grandfather, who was like that, developed dementia in the final chapter of his life. Gradually, the threads of his memory unraveled, and at one point, he became unable to even say his own name. In the language of the caregiving field, he was in a state where his 'selfhood' was beginning to fade.

But my grandfather's 'selfhood' did not disappear just because of some illness. Even after he forgot his name, there was something he continued to do every single day.

It was cleaning the gutters in the neighborhood. A neighbor woman called out to his back as he silently gathered ash and mud, cleaning the town where ash fell from the sky.

'Thank you for always keeping it clean, it's a big help,' she said.

In that moment, my grandfather was unmistakably the 'usual grandfather'—earnest and overflowing with altruism.

Even if he lost his words and memories, I realized that the 'habits of the soul' he had ingrained in his body throughout his life were not broken.

My grandfather taught me with his wordless back that 'selfhood' is not something defined by someone else, but the footprints of the days that a person has chosen and accumulated.

My own maze, where I had been spinning around like a basketball pivot, unable to move my pivot foot while searching for the perfect answer, finally came to a quiet end.

Now, I am past sixty, an age where I am effectively called 'Grandma.' I don't know if I will forget my own name in the future.

And so, I write my thoughts as they come on note every day. Just as I was once saved by my grandfather's diary, perhaps this note I am writing now will one day become a way for my children or grandchildren to understand the person I am when they read it. Holding onto that modest wish, I am tapping away at my keyboard again today.

Grandpa,
I am living as myself, with the name you seriously worried about and chose for me.

Ten years before my grandfather passed away—.

The shock to my elderly grandparents, who lost their household goods in the midst of that and witnessed their home submerged in water, was immeasurable.

In the midst of that, miraculously, my grandfather's diary remained. However, from this day on, my grandfather became unable to retain memories, and unfortunately, his writing also ceased.

'When elderly people are affected by a disaster, the risk of dementia and delirium increases due to environmental changes.' This is a lesson that remained in my heart after watching my grandfather at that time.

And what was most painful of all was,
my grandmother's words, 'I'm sorry for worrying you,' even though they were in such a difficult situation...

I told her not to worry about us, and the best I could do was to tell her not to push herself too hard.

To those affected by the Kumamoto earthquake

I pray that tonight, you can sleep in a cool place, with a little more peace of mind. I hope your hearts and bodies feel even a little lighter.