Anxious about cider, happy about cider, thinking about cider

I never thought I would spend so much of my life thinking about cider.

Currently, my father's nutrition is almost entirely cider. As the days have gotten hotter, he has been forbidden from eating marinated tuna. He says he won't drink the tea they serve him. He doesn't eat much food either. Cider is my father's only source of nutrition.

When he sees our faces,

and says, "Cider,"

we rush to the staff. We ask them for thickened cider. We keep four or five bottles of cider on hand at all times so that whenever he asks for it, he can have some. At first, I visited every day, but even though I was just sitting by his bed, I felt exhausted when I got home. Perhaps it's because my sister and I were both staring intensely, waiting for the moment he opened his eyes so we could quickly bring it to his lips. My sister also said, "Maybe he's sucking the life out of us," so we agreed that if we felt tired, we would take a rest day.

You shouldn't push yourself when providing care. You shouldn't forget your own daily life either.

When I received the explanation about terminal care, I thought the past few days would be the critical point. My mother, who died of an illness, passed away immediately after being told, "If there is anyone you want to see, call them now." Because of that, I was prepared and visited every day during the week I received the explanation.

By the way, my grandmother had a grand passing at 99, saying goodbye without any warning, just as her boisterous personality would suggest.

When I'm at home on a rest day, I find myself wondering, "Is he drinking his cider?" If he asks for cider and is told there isn't any, what will happen to my father? Thinking that, I can't help but rush to the supermarket, buy a few bottles of cider, and bring them the next day.

Since we were told we could let him eat whatever he likes, the staff smiled and accepted them at first, but recently,

"Oh... Father's cider is filling up the refrigerator..."

is what they've started saying. Therefore, when we leave, my sister and I ask,

"How many bottles of cider are left?"

We started checking if we should bring more cider before we leave. When I realize we are only thinking about cider and laugh, the staff laughs a little too. In that casual exchange, my heart feels lighter, and my steps feel lighter as I head home.

🍹🍹🍹

My father says "Cider" the moment he sees our faces, but perhaps because it's getting hotter, there are times when he asks, "Do you have ice cream?" or "Shaved ice!" When he makes these requests, we rush at top speed to buy ice cream or frozen treats. He only takes 10 grams of ice cream or ice, but seeing the look of satisfaction on my father's face when he eats it makes me feel relieved. Perhaps my father, who used to look at our smiles so happily, felt the same way.

After a month and a half of terminal care, the staff doesn't talk to him as much. After drinking about 100ml of cider, my father falls asleep, so my sister and I just talk nonsense and laugh. I wonder if we're being too loud, but when we are laughing our heads off, my father's face seems to look at ease, so we keep on talking.

Today, my sister and I were talking about "The Second Last Love" again, and when a nurse popped her head in with a smile, I apologized, saying I was sorry.

"No, no, it's fine. I thought it would be more reassuring to measure while you are here."

Because the nurse speaks in a calm voice, we also feel somewhat reassured. While checking his pulse and oxygen levels, the nurse talks to us.

They said, "He has stopped taking in much fluid and is gradually weakening, but he is very peaceful." Finally, they asked,

"Is there anyone you would like to have him see?"

The voice was very calm. I was a bit shaken. My eyes felt a little hot, too. After taking a breath, I managed to choke out,

"I've already had him see them... so it's okay."

I was glad I wasn't told that when I was alone. I'm so glad my sister was there. After the nurse left, as we were feeling somber, my father suddenly opened his eyes. I thought, 'This is my chance!' and brought the straw cup filled with cider to his lips. Perhaps the nurse's words about him 'not taking in fluid' were still on my mind. Before he could even take a sip, I tilted the straw to the maximum angle.

"Ahhhhh!"

My sister screamed. I had spilled cider all over my father's pajamas. My sister hurriedly wiped the pajamas with tissues, and while I was flustered, I still managed to get my father to drink some cider. My father, who made a faint hand sign indicating 'that's enough,' smiled a little. I smiled too. My sister laughed, saying, "I can't believe you tilted it that much." A different kind of tear, one with a brighter color, welled up in my eyes.

I still want to spend my days with my sister, with my head full of cider.

*I'm planning to go to the Literature Flea Market on May 11th in the afternoon! I hope I can meet a few people.