Secret Meeting

My mother has passed away. It was only three weeks after she was given her prognosis. She had Trousseau syndrome, with multiple liver cancers and a concurrent cerebral infarction. The last thing my mother taught me was that in the face of the absolute nature of "death," "living" is overwhelmingly powerless.

1. Prognosis

On June 6th, I received a LINE message from the visiting nurse who had been coming since late May, saying, "Your mother's condition seems really poor, so I think you should have her examined by her attending physician."

What did she mean by having her examined? Tests?

After repeating hospital admissions and discharges four times last year, undergoing two surgeries, and suffering three compression fractures,

"I don't want to be hospitalized anymore. I hate hospitals."

Seeing my mother say this as if squeezing the words out, I had already decided to "prepare to care for her at home." I didn't want to put her through any more pain with tests or hospitalizations as she was barely eating and growing weaker by the day. However, I figured that if a medical professional like the visiting nurse was saying she should be examined, it must be a serious matter, so I took her to the night clinic of the hospital where she had been admitted before.

The test results revealed 11 cerebral infarctions.

Furthermore, because her inflammatory response was abnormally high, additional tests revealed that what appeared to be cancer had spread to her liver. I had her admitted to the hospital, and by the time I left, the date had already changed.

Even though these facts were thrust before us, neither my father nor I yet understood the gravity of the situation.

Four days later, on June 10th, we heard the details from the attending physician who had performed my mother's previous surgery.

Multiple liver cancers. Cerebral infarctions scattered throughout. Surgery is not possible. In this condition, anticancer drugs would only be toxic. Consider a palliative care ward.

Finally, the doctor said, choosing his words very carefully.

"In terms of life expectancy, I think you have a few more weeks." Until March of last year, my mother was healthy enough to go shopping by bicycle every day. Even in the CT scan she had this February, no particular abnormalities were found.

A sudden change. No other words came to mind.

2. Secret Meeting

After the detailed explanation of her condition, the head nurse came and said,

"We are going to move your mother to a private room."

When I heard that, I asked timidly, "Doesn't a private room incur an extra bed charge?"

"No, since the nurse determined it was necessary, it is waived. You may visit at any time, 24 hours a day."

That is what they said.

Is it really that serious if I can visit 24 hours a day?

My mother, whom I was seeing for the first time in four days, could no longer move her body or speak. She was conscious, but could not utter a word. She could nod when I spoke to her, but even opening her eyes seemed like a struggle.

I never imagined things would turn out like this.
What were the last words I exchanged with my mother? I cannot clearly recall.
I think it was probably just a mundane, business-like conversation.
I consciously avoid trying to remember, as I fear an irreparable regret will well up, wishing I had told her something more important.

Taking the head nurse's words that I could visit whenever I wanted at face value, I would drive to my mother's hospital room alone almost every day after finishing work and having dinner.

It was a different feeling than visiting with my family during the day.
Even though I was going all by myself to see my mother, who had little time left, I felt a strange sense of excitement while driving on the quiet roads.

How improper. Feeling excited to go to the hospital.

But at that time, I felt as if I were having a secret meeting with someone I shouldn't be seeing.

I walked through the quiet hospital ward where no one else was walking, opened the curtain of the private room, and said,

"I'm here. How are you feeling?"

When I spoke to my mother brightly as usual, she turned toward me weakly and opened her eyes. She seemed to want to say something. Was it a thank you, or was she in pain and exhausted? I couldn't read it from that expression peculiar to a stroke patient.

My mother could no longer speak, but when I talked about trivial things, her expression would sometimes soften as if she were smiling a little. It must have been exhausting for her to keep her eyes open. She only opened her eyelids heavily when I raised my voice a little.

It was truly a conversation like any other. Nothing special. Just a slice of daily life.

But I cherished this time so much.
Even now that I have lost my mother, I often think back on this scene.

3. Transferring Hospitals

The hospital she was admitted to was a so-called core hospital with an acute care ward, so it existed for people whose goal was treatment. They could not keep a patient like my mother, whose remaining time was known and for whom nothing more could be done, for a long period.

As the attending physician had explained the other day, we had to look for a palliative care ward. The hospital had a medical coordination department, and a specialized nurse brought me a list of nearby palliative care wards. In the same city, there were only two hospitals with palliative care wards. Moreover, they only had 30 beds each.

Is this really all there is?

I asked without thinking. They were full, there were people waiting, and there would be no vacancies for the time being.

Just as I thought.

I sighed in resignation.

Thinking, "Will I make it in time?" I asked the nurse, "If there are no vacancies anywhere, does that mean I have to be discharged?" She replied, "No, in that case, it is fine for you to stay at this hospital until the end," which made me feel a little relieved. That said, while I can visit at any time, 24 hours a day at the current hospital, there are restrictions on visiting hours once moved to the palliative care ward. It seems I can stay overnight, but I felt a little sad that I would no longer be able to have our "secret meetings" where I would sneak in to see her at night.

4. Palliative Care Ward

Even though I was told there was nothing more that could be done, seeing the nurses and rehabilitation staff frequently coming to care for my mother made me think that if a spot in the palliative care ward didn't open up, staying as we were might be fine. Just then, on June 24th, I suddenly received a call saying, "You can be admitted tomorrow."

I had just been told at the end of last week that there were no vacancies. What could this mean? I thought that since terminal cancer can change suddenly, it must truly be unpredictable. A vacancy in a palliative care ward means someone has passed away. This might be a little similar to the feelings of a patient waiting for a transplant from a donor. I had mixed feelings.

On the morning of June 25th, she was transferred to the palliative care ward. In the end, being able to see her through to the end here was the best choice for both my mother and our family. There are always medical professionals here, watching over my mother 24 hours a day. If she were at home, someone would have to be with her constantly. I have work, my father has dementia, and since my mother's long-term care certification had expired, we lacked the manpower and time to set up a new home-based end-of-life care system.

Unlike a regular hospital, the palliative care ward does not have a unique smell or
[[phN_open]]hustle and bustle[[phN_close]]. Nurses do not run around looking busy. There are no electrocardiograms, and no IV drips. A space without the sound of electronic beeps or nurse calls has a completely different atmosphere from an acute care hospital.

That is surely because all the inpatients have terminal cancer and know that they have little time left. It is a place where people who are not undergoing active treatment, but are trying to meet the end of their lives by alleviating pain and suffering as much as possible and leaving things to nature, have gathered. It was a space where a very quiet, calm, and unique time flowed.

My mother's room was a private room with a large south-facing window that felt comfortable, and it was about 10 tatami mats in size. She could no longer speak or see, but if it were my mother, she would likely have said, "Wow, what a nice room. Are you really sure I'm allowed to use a place like this?"

5. Memories of You Played by My Mother's Ear

On the morning of July 1st, I received a call from an unfamiliar phone number. Thinking about the area code, could it be from my mother's hospital? A call from a palliative care ward could not be a mere inquiry. Surely, that is what it is.

A sudden tension ran through me.

Has it finally come?

I was clearly shaken, to the point where I almost dropped the phone.

"Agonal breathing has started since a little while ago. The nephrosis (swelling) in her legs is also worse than yesterday, so I think it would be best if you came as soon as possible." I ate the breakfast I had started, called my father, headed to the hospital room with my husband, and a little later, my children and an old friend also rushed over. When I arrived at the room, my mother was breathing with her lower jaw gasping, in what felt like "the classic agonal breathing." But her chest was not rising and falling. Her breathing was shallow. I could not feel a pulse in her wrists. Only the pulse in her throat was moving weakly. Ah, there are only a few hours left. Thinking that, I took out my smartphone and played the Sunday evening ABC radio program "Memories of You," which my mother always listened to, on radiko. My mother didn't have any particular hobbies, but this was the only radio program she listened to every single week without fail, looking nostalgic.

"Oh, Grandma used to listen to this radio show all the time. I remember it," my high school senior son muttered.

It was also really fortunate that it was the beginning of the month and my data plan was full. Then, I had my mother hold prayer beads, and by her ear, I repeated, "Thank you so much for everything until now. Everything will be fine afterward, so don't worry, leave it to me. You don't have to endure the pain and suffer anymore, so just say [[phN_open]]Namu Amida Butsu[[phN_close]] (Hail to Amida Buddha). Let yourself be saved by [[phN_open]]Amida[[phN_close]] Buddha. Keep chanting [[phN_open]]Namu Amida Butsu[[phN_close]]." My friend gave a bitter smile at my words, saying, "Hey, Acchan," but I love Buddhism and have a view of life and death heavily influenced by it, so these words came out quite naturally. People always die and are reborn. Every result must have a cause, and that cause is something one sowed in a past life. If you are saved by Amida Buddha in the afterlife, you can go to the Pure Land for eternity. I deeply empathized with such teachings, and I really wanted my mother to be saved by Amida Buddha.

6. Unanswerable Questions. Seeking Salvation in Buddhism

What kind of foolish things are you saying? Shouldn't you be conveying words of gratitude or other things! Some might say that. People tend to believe in things they can see. That is because, thanks to the remarkable development of science over the last few hundred years, all sorts of mysterious events have been explained by science. But human death, especially the death of someone dear to you, is struck by an inexplicable fear and sadness that cannot be solved by science or knowledge alone. At such times, isn't it actually natural to seek salvation in religions that have existed since

[[phN_open]]

ancient times

[[phN_close]]? The fact that many people have sutras chanted at funerals while claiming to be non-religious might also be because they unconsciously want to be saved by a power that transcends all things.

7. Between Calm and Agitation. The reason I was able to accept my mother's rapid change calmly, despite being shaken, was largely because I had been entrusted with all of her financial information, such as her bank cards, I knew the contents, amounts, and timing of her bank withdrawals, and I had consulted with a funeral home in advance, received an estimate, and made arrangements, so I knew what to do next. But more than that, I think I was able to watch over my mother's passing as part of the natural flow because I had been thinking about unanswerable questions like what it means to live, what death is, and what happens after death for a long time. It was as if I accepted death not as something to be abhorred, but as something that should be. If possible, I would have preferred it to be later, but well, since it has already come, it can't be helped. It's not right to keep you at the entrance, so please come in, sort of feeling. Everyone will definitely die someday. But no one knows when that will be. Even though it is a future that will definitely arrive, no one tries to think about how to die or what happens after death. Perhaps it is because even if you hear various stories, you cannot truly understand it until you become the person involved. But when you become the person involved, it might already be too late. Therefore, I don't think it is a waste to think about what happens after death and how to live so that you can be saved after death before it is too late. My mother taught me something important at the end. "Living" is overwhelmingly powerless. In the face of "death." Death has an irresistible, strong gravitational pull, and no matter how much we resist, we cannot win. We are simply made to realize our own powerlessness. That is the overwhelming power that death possesses. 8. Regrets Remain. Acting on That Premise

My mother passed away very naturally.
Without pain or suffering, she finished her final breath and closed her mouth on her own.

Ah, I even felt moved by her final moments, thinking that this is how a human being dies. It was as if she had been absorbed into the great flow of time, becoming something greater than sadness, loneliness, or heartache.

But perhaps, my mother...

Wanted to go home.
This wasn't how it was supposed to be.
She wanted to live longer.
She wanted to eat this and that.

She might have been thinking those things. As time passes, more and more thoughts well up inside me.

No matter how much you do, you can never reduce regret to zero. Because as long as people are alive, desires will always emerge one after another. But I think that is also proof that you have lived your life forward with all your might, so there is no need to fear having regrets or to feel guilty at all.

Strangely, when I looked at my mother after her final breath, the wrinkles between her eyebrows had vanished, and she looked as if she were smiling very peacefully. It might have been unexpected, but it was as if she were saying,

"Thank you all for coming. I really wanted to hear that radio. Thank you."

The sky on the day we said goodbye to my mother was wide and clear.

My mother would often laugh innocently, saying, "Look, that big cloud, it looks like Sun Wukong is running around in it. It looks so pleasant." "You're right. It really does look pleasant." I laughed with her many times.

Whenever I see white clouds, I always remember those words.

It's sunny today, too. The clouds are beautiful.
Watching over my father who has dementia, I continue to live my life today.

#note Creative Awards
#Essay Category
#Mother's Death
#End-of-life Care
#Palliative Care Ward
#Palliative Care
#Living
#Thinking About Death
#Grief Care
#Terminal Cancer
#End-of-life Planning
#View of Life and Death
#Buddhism
#Dementia