Chapter 1 Scene 1 "I Regret It" | Terna Vaid

Chapter 1: Beside the Dying

-- A nurse who had spent a lifetime by the side of death fell into a godless world, still carrying questions that had no answers.

Scene 1: I Regret It

2:17 AM. Only the electronic sound of the monitor was ringing.

The drops of the IV drip fell.

Drip.

Drip.

That sound, falling at regular intervals, seemed to be marking the time remaining in this room.

Palliative care ward, Room 302. A thin sliver of white light from the hallway shone through the gap in the curtains.

The smell of disinfectant.

The smell of slightly old bedding.

And the smell of a human body temperature gradually fading away.

I was sitting on a folding chair.

On my lap was a binder for records.

However, my pen remained still.

My right hand was holding Mr. Yoshio Tanaka's hand.

78 years old. Terminal cancer.

His family had not yet arrived.

It was a thin hand.

Bony, light, and slightly cold.

Even so, there was still warmth remaining.

I have spent many nights like this.

Nights waiting for morning beside someone whose death is approaching.

Nights quietly listening to the sound of someone's life coming to an end.

I thought I had gotten used to it.

I thought I had to get used to it to keep going.

But, in truth, that is not the case.

I didn't get used to it.

I just learned the procedure for trying not to feel.

The hand holding the pen remained still again today.

"Sou-kun."

A raspy voice called out.

"Yes. I am here."

Tanaka-san was looking at the ceiling. The hospital room ceiling. The white ceiling that never answers back.

"You were still awake?"

"It is my job."

"Does your job... include holding my hand too?"

"Because you looked cold."

Tanaka-san tried to smile just a little. But his lips wouldn't move quite right.

"I see."

Silence fell. Only the sound of the monitor continued.

"I..."

"Yes?"

"I have regrets."

I couldn't respond.

I know the words of comfort.

I've used them hundreds of times.

But right now, any of them would be too shallow to offer this person.

"What is it that you regret?"

Tanaka-san closed his eyes. Then, he began to speak slowly.

"It was nothing but work."

"I left early in the morning and came home late at night."

"I worked on my days off, too."

"I thought that was just how things were supposed to be."

His breathing became a little ragged. Even so, he continued to speak.

"I didn't even go to my son's sports day."

"Not even once."

"I thought I could see them whenever I wanted."

He gave a small laugh. It was a dry laugh.

"Before I knew it, it was already over."

I listened in silence.

"Even when my daughter got married."

"I don't remember what I said at the ceremony."

"I was only worried about work calls."

The IV drip fell.

Drip.

Drip.

"My wife, you see."

Mr. Tanaka's voice trembled just a little.

"One day, she stopped making dinner."

"She stopped saying anything at all."

"But I didn't even ask why."

After a moment of silence, Mr. Tanaka said,

"She passed away before me."

"Without even a thank you."

"I'm sorry"

"I couldn't say it properly"

I put a little more strength into the hand I was holding.

"I should have lived my life better"

Mr. Tanaka muttered.

"I worked"

"I supported my family"

"I built a house"

"But you know"

He looked slowly at the ceiling.

"I still don't know what I lived for"

I searched for words.

I couldn't find any.

I didn't feel like I would find any, either.

"Wake up in the morning"

"Work"

"Eat"

"Sleep"

"Repeating that for decades"

"And before I knew it, I was here"

I kept holding his hand.

"Hey, Ao-kun."

"Yes."

"What do people live for, I wonder?"

I couldn't answer.

For their family.

For happiness.

There is meaning in having lived.

None of those are wrong.

But they wouldn't reach Mr. Tanaka right now.

They didn't reach me, either.

"I don't know."

That was all I could say.

"Even a nurse doesn't know?"

"...No."

"There's no need to apologize."

Mr. Tanaka let out a small sigh.

"Ao-kun."

"Yes."

"You are kind."

I tried to smile reflexively.

A smile to reassure the patient.

A smile to reassure the family.

A smile I have pasted on hundreds of times.

But my mouth would not move.

"I am not kind at all."

"Is that so?"

"I haven't been able to do anything."

"You are holding my hand."

"That is all."

"That is something I am grateful for."

My gaze dropped. I could not take my eyes off our joined hands.

"Being alone is scary."

"Yes."

"But right now, I am a little less afraid."

I could not reply.

Mr. Tanaka's fingers moved slightly.

I tightened my grip on his hand just a little.

"I'm here."

"Yeah."

"I'll be here until morning."

"Thank you."

"Ao-kun."

"Yes."

"When my family comes."

Tanaka-san caught his breath for a moment.

"That thing we talked about... will you tell them?"

I looked at the hand I was holding.

"From me, you mean?"

"I might not be able to speak well anymore."

After a while, I nodded.

"I understand."

Tanaka-san's fingers moved slightly.

"Tell them I'm sorry."

His voice trailed off there.

Tanaka-san's eyelids slowly closed.

Breathing becomes shallow. It becomes long. It becomes irregular.

The family was already on their way.

The doctor had also been contacted.

There is not much I can do now.

Just not letting go of their hand.

That was all.

Outside the window, it was beginning to turn white little by little.

Dawn is near.

32 years old. 10 years since I became a nurse.

6 years since I was assigned to the palliative care ward.

I have attended to over 300 people in their final moments.

I stopped counting that number halfway through.

Because every time I counted, I felt like something inside me was wearing away.

Mr. Tanaka's hand was gradually becoming cold.

I increased the pressure of my hands wrapped around his just a little.

That was all I could do.

Outside the window.

The eastern sky was beginning to be dyed a pale orange.

It's beautiful, I thought.

That's what I thought.

That was all I thought.

I didn't feel anything in particular.

Only the electronic sound of the monitor continued to ring quietly.

That was the most painful part.

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