Oblate

When I was working in pediatrics,
for children who couldn't take antibiotics,
I would instruct parents staying with their children to mix the medicine into ice cream.


An antibiotic in granule form called clarithromycin,
even though the surface has a banana-like sweetness,
once you put it in your mouth and it starts to dissolve,
an intense bitterness spreads throughout your mouth.
IV drips and oral medication.

These two medical procedures

are crucial for children who lack physical strength.
At the time, I was working at a general hospital,



and I focused on the types of ice cream sold at the shop.
The lineup was rather old-fashioned.
Uji Kintoki ice cream, Azuki Bar, Suika Bar.

It was all popsicles.

Not very cool.
One day at lunch,

while I was scouting for lunch at the shop,
Tomomi-san (the lady at the shop)
spoke to me in a low voice right next to me.

“eri, I’ve got something good in stock.”

“D-don't tell me, that thing...”

Tomomi-san grinned
and pointed at the freezer.

I was surprised.

She had introduced three types of ice cream:

vanilla, chocolate mint, and strawberry.
Unfortunately, the nearest convenience store from that general hospital was about a 20-minute walk away,
and mothers and children forced to be hospitalized from far away were having trouble because they couldn't buy ice cream.

I roughly threw a cup of ramen,
the three types of ice cream, and some Miyako Kombu into my basket,
and hurriedly paid.

“Leave the black-market deals to me,”
Tomomi-san whispered in a voice only I could hear.
I slipped the Miyako Kombu
into the pocket of Tomomi-san's green apron.

That was her payment.

“I won't thank you,”
Tomomi-san began ringing up the next customer.

I ran back to the pediatric ward.
“I made it.”
It was time for the children's post-lunch medication.
Both the children and their mothers were completely exhausted.

A small, pure white, box-like private room.
A bed with high rails, different from the usual.

A thin arm with a splint and an IV needle inserted.
A wet cough with phlegm.
With a bright red face,
the fever and bad mood were at their peak.
The mother was beyond frustrated,
and had teary eyes the whole time.

I knocked, knock-knock, and checked inside the room.
They were just struggling with the medicine.

“Hello, Hinata-kun.”

I presented the three types of ice cream
and some black-rimmed glasses made of paper.
I met Hinata-kun's gaze and spoke slowly.

“To defeat the illness,
you have to take your medicine to get better.
So,
I have a request for you, Hinata-kun.
Starting today, you are a doctor.
I want you to experiment
to see which ice cream goes best with the medicine.
I want to ask you to do this job for the children hospitalized here, what do you think?”
There was a moment of silence.

“I'll do it.”

Hinata-kun put on the glasses.
We medical professionals and our patients

are built on a foundation of trust.
It is important to sugarcoat things, but
whether the patient can be convinced is key.
That is the basis of

‘informed consent’ in medicine.
“Get well soon, Hinata-kun.”

The rest I leave to his mother.

This is to turn this event into a memory with his mother.
The episode of having cured the illness together with his mother will turn into great confidence for the child.
Watching the two of them, I quietly
opened the door and stepped into the hallway.

Such are my memories of medicine.


Yesterday, while on the night shift, I answered a nurse call.
It was 12:30 AM.
When I went to the room,
the patient was looking down.

They began to speak as if squeezing the words out.
They were having trouble swallowing their medicine,
so they had purchased some oblate (edible film).

The cardboard box that arrived weighed 18 kilograms.
A 50-year supply of oblate.
The cost was 6,000 yen.

I burst out laughing.
A 50-year supply of oblate in the middle of the night is not good.
I have an extremely low threshold for laughter.

A 50-year supply of oblate.
A 50-year supply of oblate.
A 50-year supply of oblate...

They would have to use it until they are 130 years old.

That is too much of a power word.
50 years of oblate...

The patient started laughing along with me.
The door slid open.

“Hey,
I can hear your
‘nyah-hah-hah’ laughter!
eri, you're too loud.”

Saki-chan, the nurse on the night shift with me,
poked her head through the door.

A 50-year supply of oblate.
No matter how old you get, worries about medicine never end.


And
I wonder what I should do to raise my threshold for laughter.

It seems like I should try
dissolving even that.