Aki-san, Whom I Thought Was a Piece of Driftwood - Full Story

Chapter 1: An Encounter as a Person

About 25 years ago.
I was working as a caregiver at a nursing home.

I worked the night shift once or twice a week,
and I liked the night shift.

During the day, there was so much to do that it was dizzyingly busy.
But at night, in the quiet, I felt like I could truly face each person.

At night, I spent most of my time changing diapers,
and every time, I would say "Good evening" to the people I was in charge of.
Even if they had dementia, if they were someone I could talk to,
I would chat about trivial things and laugh together,
with the intention of being as gentle and careful as possible.

However, there were some who couldn't speak at all or couldn't move,
and some had a condition called contracture, where joints like knees, elbows, and shoulders stiffen,
leaving them stuck in a bent position.

Aki-san was one of them.

Her right knee was stuck in a bent position, and her right arm, shoulder, elbow, and wrist were all
stuck in a bent posture.
Her left hand was stuck behind her head.
She didn't speak, and there was almost no change in her facial expressions.

When changing her diaper,
I would say "Good evening" to Aki-san as well.
But it was somewhat mechanical.
It was just part of the work, a "routine" during diaper changes.

To be honest,
I did not see Aki-san as a "person."

I didn't feel like she existed there as someone to direct my emotions toward.

It was as if—I was interacting with her with the feeling that "a piece of driftwood was lying there."

However, one night.

The moment I said "Good evening" as usual—

"Ah—"

A voice came back.

...Huh? Who? Who just spoke?!

I looked around, searching for the owner of the voice.
I hadn't expected it to be Aki-san at all.

After looking around, I looked at Aki-san's face,
and Aki-san was—smiling.

I froze for a moment.—And then, I understood.

Aki-san was truly "there."

The single sound "Ah—" that Aki-san made.
With that voice, for the first time,
I realized that Aki-san was a "person."

Until then, I had held no emotions toward Aki-san.
After all, you can't direct emotions toward a piece of driftwood.
Because I never thought a reply would come back.

But—
Perhaps Aki-san had been properly receiving my "Good evening"
for a long, long time.

At that moment, I felt like I was going to cry...

Chapter 2: Human Interaction

Ever since the day Aki-san let me hear her voice back then,

I started going to see Aki-san whenever I had free time to talk to her.

Although Aki-san couldn't speak,
she would stare intently at my face while I was talking.
Sometimes, she would even nod along in her own way.

When it was time for meals, Aki-san would come to the dining room in a wheelchair that allowed her to remain lying down.
I took the initiative to start assisting Aki-san
with her meals.

When I would chatter away beside Aki-san,
Aki-san would reply with an "ah," and
we began to have conversations together.

The other staff members who saw this
probably felt the same shock that I did.

And then, little by little, just like me,
they started talking to Aki-san.

No, it wasn't just Aki-san.
With the others who we thought couldn't speak, too—
everyone started talking to them little by little.

Aki-san's expressions became more animated.
Her left hand was actually moving.
It was slow, but she was able to lower it to about shoulder height.

I thought to myself.

Had we
been locking away the "emotions" of these people?

Had we been forcing them to close off their "hearts"?

Ignoring them—that's not a mild enough word for it.
We were treating their existence as if it "didn't exist."

No,
their existence "was" there.
But we treated them as if they "had no heart."
As if "there were no emotions left in them anymore."

Perhaps that is how
we were killing their emotions.

Chapter 3: A Human Farewell

After I started talking to Aki-san,
a peaceful time flowed for a while.

Aki-san was always smiling.

When we passed each other in the hallway and I would say,
"Are you heading to the bath now?",
she would wave her moving left hand to reply.

The staff who saw that would
wave back, and we would all laugh—
we were truly able to savor our daily lives, slowly.

That time lasted for about a year.

At one point, Aki-san's health declined.

Being in her 80s,
she wasn't someone who could eat much to begin with,
but she stopped being able to take in food and grew thinner—

even so, Aki-san was smiling.
She would even let me hear her say "Ah".

However, it was clear
that she was growing weaker.

And finally, she could no longer come to the dining room.

She spent her days in bed receiving an IV drip.
Whenever I found the time, I would pop into Aki-san's room
and chat idly about my day.

Aki-san would look at my face,
blinking her eyes and listening as if nodding along.

But—
Aki-san's remaining time was definitely growing short.

And then, one day.
On the day Aki-san's "time" was imminent,
I was assigned to the night shift.

I went to work a little earlier than usual and spoke to Aki-san.

"Aki-san, I'm on the night shift today, you know."

Aki-san stared at my face and nodded slightly.

In my heart, I was thinking:
—If you are going to pass, let it be today.
I don't want you to say goodbye when I'm not there.

During the night shift, I visited Aki-san's room many times.
Aki-san had her usual gentle expression,
and when she noticed me, she showed me a smile.

But I knew clearly that there was no time left.

Even when dawn broke, the condition remained unchanged.
I finished my night shift and went to Aki-san's room one last time.

“Aki-san, I’m heading home now.
I’m off tomorrow and the day after, so I won’t be able to come.
Please, I’m begging you, hang in there until I come back...”

When I said that, Aki-san smiled, reached out with his left hand,
and stroked my head.

I couldn't stop my tears.

I didn't want to see anyone after that,
so I ran all the way home.

That was the last time I saw Aki-san.

In truth, I knew.
I knew Aki-san wouldn't pass away while I was there.

If I had been there at that moment,
I surely would have broken down.
I hadn't yet grown the capacity to accept that reality.

I think Aki-san must have sensed that.

That night,
I received a message from the staff saying, “Aki-san has passed away.”

—It has been 25 years since then.
Even now, I clearly remember Aki-san’s final, gentle smile.
Every time I remember it, I start to cry.
I will probably never forget that smile of Aki-san’s as long as I live.

That person—
was an irreplaceable benefactor to me.