1 Liter of Tears (Ichi Litre No Namida)

Chapter 7 : 20 Years Old [ "I don't want to be beaten . . ." III ]

Hospital admission and a caregiver

I've finally entered Akita Hospital. I was feeling nervous because I'm not familiar with it.

A little old lady came to look after me.

"I'm Aya," I said in a small voice. "Nice to meet you."

Mom explained to her in detail about my condition, what I could't do, and so on. But it's really difficult

to get her to fully understand.

My speech disorder's getting worse, so I asked Mom to buy a magic blackboard. I probably say some words that

other people can't understand.

The movement of my tongue's bad, so the food overflows my mouth. My way of eating looks filthy. It's a

pitiful sight.

'What am I living for?'

From Aya's diary

I feel miserable for being unable to communicate well.

I'm the one who should take the most sensible attitude. But I don't feel very confident . . .

Mom, what am I living for?

I felt dizzy. I had a tearful face. But I closed my eyes and stayed still.

There's a pigeon's nest on the branch of the tree outside the window. A chick is growing up in it. I'm

happy about that.

My little old lady helped me get into my wheelchair and took me to Building #1. Then what? I used the

Western-style toilet to relieve myself.

During rehabilitation, I tend to close my eyes when I stand holding the bar. I can't easily open them again.

I know I shouldn't be scared, but my body gets stiff because I feel I might fall over.

I should properly grasp the things I can do now and put them into practice. Then I won't have to suffer so

much mental agony that I can't get to sleep at night . . .

I can't convey my desires quickly, so I sometimes can't get to the toilet in time. Mom suggested that I should

use a urinary drainage bag during the night. The reason for that is that the caregiver gets tired if her sleep

is disturbed.

I started crying, saying, "I don't like that idea because I know when I want to urinate. I'll try to tell you

in plenty of time, so please don't do that."

"All right, all right," said the little old lady gently. "Don't cry. You won't have to have one."

That made me cry even more.

In the morning , I met the Hospital Director in the corridor.

"Good morning, Little Aya. How are you doing?"

I smiled and tried to say "O-HA-YO" (Good morning) with pouted lips. By the time I got it out, he was already

a long way down the corridor. He must be very busy.

My tearful face is taking root - that's no good.

At night, my arms and legs got tense and stiff. The little old lady got up and gave me a massage.

Because I couldn't easily express myself, I lost my temper and cried. I'm the one who should be blamed for not

being able to communicate well. There was no reason for me to get angry with the little old lady. I'm sorry.