The One-Winged Butterfly Goes to the Bathroom
A few years ago, I had cancer.
Thyroid cancer. A lump of cancer had formed on that butterfly-shaped thing right below my Adam's apple. Fortunately, it was caught in the early stages, so I had half of my thyroid removed through surgery and was able to avoid any further trouble. Now, the scar has completely faded, and every six months, the doctor and I observe my butterfly, which has become one-winged, saying things like, "Everything looks the same, doesn't it?" "Yes, it does." It's quite peaceful.
I was hospitalized right in the middle of the COVID-19 pandemic, so hospital life was boring. I am a natural-born attention seeker, so I'm the type who finds supreme joy in having people show me affection when I'm sick or injured, but during this period, only my husband was allowed to visit. And even then, it was a fleeting encounter where he just picked up my bags in the lobby.
Unable to enjoy the benefits of visitors, I showed my proactive side by taking tons of selfies of myself during my hospital stay and sending them to my family to get their attention, but they didn't seem very worried. All that happened was that my phone filled up with ugly photos of me looking pale. After all, visits are only worth it if you can actually meet.
Because that was the kind of hospital life I had, I don't have many strong memories of this event, which was actually quite a big deal in my life, but the one thing I remember vividly is the few hours after the surgery.
Having just woken up from anesthesia, I couldn't speak, of course, since my throat had just been sliced open. I was in the middle of an ordeal where I had to barely swallow the saliva that kept pooling in my mouth while lying on my back. There was an indescribable sense of terror that I might accidentally block my airway, and I wanted someone to worry about me, but there was no one to talk to, and even if there were, I couldn't speak. I felt like the Little Mermaid who had lost her voice. I just had to surrender myself to my uncooperative body and the overwhelming sense of loneliness.
If I had just closed my eyes and let go without resisting, it would have been easier, but for some reason, my consciousness was wide awake. I became obsessed with trivial things that I wouldn't normally care about at all—like the sensation of my Adam's apple moving when I swallowed saliva, what the topic of the voices leaking in from the hallway was, or how my butt didn't feel quite settled in its position. My consciousness was dominated by such unimportant matters.
I wanted to move so badly, I wanted to scream so badly. The more I realized I couldn't do anything, the more my desire grew. Every cell in my body was self-conscious. Is this what it's like for a monk sitting in Zazen? If I could empty my mind of the rising worldly desires, I might indeed reach enlightenment.
Just as I was trying to think about something else, I suddenly realized that a new desire was sprouting in my body. Wait... could this be...?
I need to go to the bathroom.
The moment I became aware of it, the urge to urinate came at full speed. The terror from moments ago flew off somewhere, and from then on, I thought only of urine. Urine, urine, urine... No matter how hard I tried, the desire wouldn't disappear and kept asserting its presence with vigor. Its name was the urge to urinate.
What should I do? Can I hold it? Should I call someone? No, I shouldn't bother the busy nurses for something as trivial as a bathroom trip. Even at this point, my Japanese tendency to be considerate got in the way. I imagined myself having a massive accident, shuddered at the subsequent embarrassment, and couldn't help but press the nurse call button.
"Ah... kah... go... kigi... get... kaha..."
This was the best scream a mermaid holding in her urine could muster. After pleading "Kogige... Gogige..." a few times, I succeeded in drawing out the words, "Ah, you need the bathroom, right?" from the nurse. It got through. If the person on the other end were a prince, this might have been a happy ending. But in reality, things don't turn out like in fairy tales.
"You're wearing a diaper, so it's okay."
Having said that, the prince left. I was wearing a diaper. Oh, I see, a diaper. A diaper? What? What about the bathroom?
From that point on, my opponent changed from the urge to urinate to the diaper. It's just pants made of paper, after all. Can this thing handle everything? There's no way. My bladder is currently at maximum capacity. I can't imagine there's physically that much space in this scrap of paper. If the diaper bursts, won't it be an accident anyway? And for that matter, am I really wearing a diaper?
Once there is one thing to doubt, everything becomes doubtful. To believe, or not to believe. I have no choice but to believe. Even with that resolve, I was still resisting. I discovered that I had a level of resistance to peeing in a diaper while in bed that surprised even myself. My final enemy was my last shred of pride.
I know it in my head. There is nothing to be ashamed of. I am a bona fide patient, fresh out of surgery and on strict bed rest, a mermaid who cannot hold her bladder, and I am wearing a diaper. There is only one answer. I must release myself into the diaper. I know that. That is why I am wearing it.
But my body won't listen. My bladder refuses. As if to say, 'I will absolutely not let it out in a place like this,' the gate will not open.
Go, now, go! You can do it!
No matter how much I cheer myself on, it's no use.
3, 2, 1, GO...!
Even with a countdown to spur me on, it's a dud.
My will and my body are completely out of sync. Even though I feel like I'm about to burst, I don't know how to let it out. How did I go to the bathroom before? Was going to the bathroom, breathing, and talking always this difficult? How unconsciously have I been living until now? In this extreme state, even philosophical questions raced through my mind.
At the same time, I realized just how much my body was trying to live. Every respiratory organ was desperate not to let go of the air barely passing through the gap in my throat, and my bladder, pushed to its limit, was screaming that it wanted to go. On that bed, I felt a vitality within myself like never before.
A fleeting, dramatic moment that Hollywood would never make into a movie. I was in the midst of a roller coaster of conflict. How long did that time last? It felt like an eternity, though in reality, it might have only been a few minutes. And every story must have a climax. The moment I choked on a tiny bit of saliva that flowed into my throat and my abdominal muscles relaxed, my life overcame my pride. Release. I won't say any more. The strength left my whole body, and all my consciousness was released. Feeling a gentle warmth in my lower body, I was truly happy.
For a while after being discharged, I lived my life whispering like Ozawa from Speed Wagon, but the skin healed, my voice returned, and now almost no one knows about my illness. Even I almost forget about it, but being a natural-born attention seeker, I sometimes want to talk about it like this.
I am going to the bathroom again today. Drinking water, letting it out, and drinking again. I am breathing in as much oxygen as I can from the air and exhaling carbon dioxide. The potato chips I ate late last night are sitting heavy in my stomach. My sleep-deprived eyes are wide open again today. I regret the words I just spoke, and my heart is racing for my day off tomorrow. There are unpleasant things every day, but there are just as many things to look forward to.
A body that won't do what I want, days where just being alive is what counts,
because I forget so easily.
The one-winged butterfly is here.
I am going to the bathroom again today.