Things That Remain Even When They Fade

Why is it that when someone passes away,
we only seem to remember the good memories?
Rather than what they didn't do for us,
we only recall what they did.

I think that's a bit unfair.

It has been ten years since my father passed away from cancer.
I have always made it a rule to visit his grave on 'Father's Day' and his birthday.
This is a remnant of when he was alive,
when I would show up at my parents' house with a small gift on those days,
and I have continued to do so even after he passed away.

My father was a 'stubborn Showa-era father' who put work first.
He would leave for work before I woke up in the morning,
and he loved going out for drinks with his colleagues at night,
so he was hardly ever home.


I have no memories of him raising me,
nor do I have memories of him playing with me.
He never displayed the portraits I drew of him at nursery school,
or used the shoehorns I made for him.
He never bought me a cake for my birthday,
nor did we ever celebrate together.

He was short-tempered, stubborn, and impatient,
and he would often yell at my mother or get into arguments with her.
Even when my mother asked him to take her somewhere,
he never did.
My mother would often vent her frustrations about him to me.
That is why, for a long time, my father was,
'the bad guy who bullied my mother' to me.

My feelings toward my father changed
after I entered 'society'
and started 'working' myself.
That was when I learned the 'harshness'
of what my father faced calmly every single day.

Until he retired,
my father worked without taking a single day off.
He never once complained or grumbled to his family about work,
or said things like 'I'm tired' or 'It's tough.'
I understand now just how incredible that was.

My father's back was broad.

My father's 'cancer' was first discovered in his 'pharynx'.
He underwent emergency surgery, and when they examined his whole body, they found 'cancer' in his 'colon' as well. But in reality, the 'colon' cancer had come first, and the 'pharyngeal' cancer was a metastasis. The 'colon' cancer had already progressed, and the chances of survival were low.

After his first major surgery,
my father said he had a dream about the 'Sanzu River'.

A boat for three people had come to pick him up at the shore,
and there was one seat left empty.

On the other side of the river, my father's mother was standing,
staring at him.

The boat would not depart until all three people were on board.
My father did not get on the boat.

When he woke up,
the anesthesia had worn off, and his wounds were throbbing with pain.

Before he knew it, human hands were growing out of every hole in the air conditioner on the ceiling of his hospital room.
An unbelievable number of ghosts were clinging to the walls of the room,
packed tightly together,
beckoning to my father.
A countless number of hands were reaching out to grab his.

My father said he was terrified and desperately shook off the hands that were grabbing him.

After major surgery, it seems that patients can experience what is called "postoperative delirium,"
where they see hallucinations due to pain and the trauma of the procedure.
I heard this from a nurse.

After my second surgery,
I was a bit delirious from the pain,
and there was a time when I pushed away a nurse
who had come to check on me, with a look of pure rage on my face.

From the way my father looked then,
it was as if I could hear him saying,
"It hurts so much, I can't stand it."
Our family apologized profusely, but
the nurse seemed used to it,
and just said, "It's alright," as she continued her work.

My father was a patient man.
The painkillers he received from the hospital
were only used once before he passed away.
He completed both his radiation therapy and chemotherapy.
He said, "Everything tastes like sand," his appetite faded,
and he grew thinner and thinner.

One day, the doctor at the hospital told us,

"There are no more treatments we can provide at this hospital.
From now on, we will be transitioning to palliative care."

While there were still treatments available,
my father endured every side effect.
The strong desire to "cure this cancer" was the only thing keeping him going.

But now, there were no more ways to fight.
The back of my father, which had always looked so large,
shrank before my eyes.

A while later,
my father, who had been recuperating at home,
was admitted to a hospice.

The night before he moved to the hospice,
I had a chance to talk with him alone.

That father of mine, who used to do nothing but yell at my mother,
"If I had been hospitalized sooner,
maybe Mom would have had an easier time."
He actually said things like that.

I have an older brother,
who has been a recluse since he was young,
and he never got along with our father,
not having spoken to him for over twenty years.
About that brother,
"I want him to go out, have many experiences,
and enjoy his life."
he said.

He told me he was "not worried about me at all," and talked about what would happen after he was gone.

And finally,
"If I could, I would want to live longer."
he said.

On the night he was admitted to the hospice,
my father took his last breath.
When his strength suddenly left him,
it looked as if his "soul" was departing along with his consciousness.

After I resigned myself to the fact that he couldn't beat the cancer,
death came to collect him far too soon.

My father's hand was heavy.
It was different from when he was sleeping,
the weight of a hand that would never move again.

For the first time, I truly understood what it meant for a person to die.

When I gave birth to my child,
the sheer 'vividness' and 'certainty' of a life being born
made me think that 'uncertain things like ghosts surely don't exist,'
but when my father's breathing stopped,
I thought, 'I wouldn't mind if you were a ghost, could you please appear one more time?'

But just like 'life,' 'death' is also 'vivid and certain,'
and I realized that my father would never appear before my eyes again.

The approximately two years my father spent battling his illness
were the times I talked to him and spent with him the most in my life.

We weren't particularly close,
but I still shed tears at our final parting in this life.

Even though I had more than enough time,
I felt a little regret that I should have had a drink with him and talked more,
and gotten to know the person called 'Father' much, much better.

I watched the sunrise from the hospital room.
The city was busily beginning its preparations for the day.
It made me sad
that the world didn't change at all
even though my father was gone from this world.

My father passed away without knowing about 'COVID,'
which tormented the world.
He surely never imagined that such things would happen
after he died.
He passed away without knowing about summers where temperatures exceed 40°C,
or that rice would become scarce and prices would skyrocket.

That is why I always tell him.


'Dad, I can't go out for a drink for a while because of the self-restraint measures.'
'It's murderously hot today.'
'I'm having trouble because rice is so expensive.'

My father was not a 'bad guy.'
In his own way,
he cared deeply for his family.
Something like the 'lingering scent' of that affection
remains warmly around me even now.

Even if Dad disappears from this world,
there are things that do not disappear.

Dad,
let's have a drink together someday.