Make My Coffin a Three-Tiered Box (1 - I Want to Eat Only Delicious Things)

“Can you think of anything you’d want me to put in your coffin?”

My daughter asked me that while we were doing some spring cleaning.

I started thinking about it casually, but it turned into a huge task. Fumiya’s Shinoda Soba. Yayoi’s Chirimen Sansho. Imahan’s Sukiyaki Bento.

They just kept coming to mind, one after another.

And even if it’s not food,

A Madisonblue shirt. A blue-and-white porcelain plate. A petal-shaped teacup...

“Oh no. One coffin won’t be enough. You’ll have to make it a three-tiered box at the very least.”

As I said that, I was even seriously considering which tier I would go in.

My daughter burst out laughing.

How rude. I was being serious.

But suddenly, my heart felt full. I have so many things I love. I was incredibly happy about that.

I never thought a day would come when I could feel this way.

When I mentioned it to my daughter in passing,

She said, “You should write about it. I think it would cheer people up.”

I don’t have much confidence, but I’m going to try writing it, hoping it reaches people who are going through the same pain as I am.

I was born in 1968 and am 58 years old. I live my life in a wheelchair.

When I was 39, I suffered an aortic dissection and became unable to walk.

My husband had passed away a few years before that, and I have two children: my daughter and my son, who has Down syndrome.

For a long time after I got sick, I had no appetite.

I had no appetite for anything. I didn't even think food tasted good. I was perfectly fine eating just one bowl of white rice from morning until night.

When your body weakens, your desires weaken too, don't they?

Back then,

I genuinely thought,

If I could live for about another ten years, that would be enough.

I worked recklessly until my children were independent.

After that, I didn't care what happened or when.

I had no desire to live a long life.

What changed me was my second illness.

Endocarditis. It is a life-threatening condition.

I was told,

Even if you survive, you might lose the use of your hands.

I had just bought my dream car around that time.

It was the same model filled with memories of my husband. I had searched for years, finally found one, and even had it modified so I could drive it with my hands.

I had barely driven it yet.

I was in shock right before heading to the operating room.

I didn't have to worry about my children anymore. They would be fine. I felt that way, strangely enough.

But I couldn't give up on the car.

I still wanted to drive it. It didn't matter if I didn't go anywhere. I would be happy just driving in circles on the highway. I just wanted to hold the steering wheel more.

I think to myself, what on earth am I doing?

But that was when I realized it for the first time.

I still want to live.

The surgery was a success. There were no aftereffects.

And it came with an unexpected bonus.

I started getting hungry.

Perhaps it was because they found a large gallstone and removed it.

My stomach would growl in the middle of the night. Things I wanted to eat would come to mind.

When a report on a department store basement food hall appeared on the hospital room TV, I would watch it and almost drool.

I was incredibly happy about things like that.

That's right. I loved this. I loved that, too. I wanted to eat this as well.

After my husband passed away, I was overwhelmed with raising our children, and even after I became unable to walk, I was overwhelmed with work. Come to think of it, I had always put myself last when it came to meals and shopping.

I am allowed to want the things I like now.

The desires I had long forgotten were coming back one by one.

Since being discharged from the hospital, I've become busy. Because I have to go find the things I like.

However, I am in a wheelchair. It's hard to go out on rainy days. Midsummer is also tough. Even with mail-order, I can't carry heavy things myself.

My time and physical strength are not infinite. I don't know when I might get sick again.

That is why I don't want to fail.

If I'm going to eat, it has to be something truly delicious. If I'm going to buy, it has to be something I truly love.

I watch TV. I read magazines. I ask people.

I stare intently at the display cases.

As a result, I think my ability to distinguish delicious things has improved quite a bit.

Every day is a shopping race.
My life is already counting down.
I can't waste a single minute.

I really understand how a cicada feels when it emerges from the soil now.

The other day, a friend of mine who is the same age said this:

"I don't know what I like."

When asked about a restaurant,

"Anything is fine."

When asked about a travel destination,

"Anywhere is fine."

She said that after living for a long time prioritizing her family, she lost track of what she wanted for herself.

She is a truly wonderful person. She is someone who has lived her life working hard for her family. I think she has had a happy life.

But I also can't help but think... what a waste.

I only realized it after I lost it.

Desire is not something that is just there by default. If you aren't careful, it can disappear.

I want to eat this, I want to go there, I want this.

The strength to say such things is actually very precious.

That is why I intend to be greedy while I still can.

While I still have an appetite. While I am still healthy.

I intend to hold onto as many of the things I love as I can.

And then, I will pack them tightly into my coffin,

"Satisfied, so satisfied."

I want to laugh as I depart.

My end-of-life planning is not about tidying everything up.

It is about keeping my options open until the very end.

I intend to count the things I want to put in my coffin, one by one, from here on out. If you all come to like the things I like, it will be a joy to write about them.

Make my coffin a three-tiered food box, okay?
Actually, three tiers might not be enough.