Those Who Wait, Those Who Forget, Those Who See Off May 4, 2026 (Mon)

Matsuyama Airport was so crowded that there wasn’t a single parking space left.
Were people departing for trips, or coming to pick someone up?

I gave up and drove toward the port instead, where I found an interesting wholesale-style supermarket. I did some shopping and went home.

After dinner, I read through the three newspapers I hadn’t managed to read the day before.
In one of them was a story about a man in his mid-eighties who had been waiting for two years for his wife to return. She had Alzheimer’s, her memory had worsened, and she left home one day and never came back. No matter how long he waited, she did not return. Searches had found nothing.

It said there are many people like this across Japan.

I found myself thinking about my grandparents.

My grandmother had always been frail, but from around her seventies she began saying to her daughter-in-law—my mother—almost every day:

“If you don’t have money, please tell me. Just don’t take it from my wallet without asking.”

There is a term for this kind of symptom—paranoid delusion of theft. I wonder if that is the proper medical name.

In the end, she wandered, fell, fractured her femoral neck, was hospitalized, became bedridden, and passed away.

My grandfather had lent money to many of his siblings and never been repaid. He became extremely frugal, as if saving money were the only purpose left in his life.
Yet his second son, who lived separately (my father’s younger brother), took his bankbook and he lost tens of millions of yen.

His memory, too, deteriorated. He died about six months after my grandmother.

My father must have suffered greatly between those two parents, but he rarely spoke about it.
He was a physical education teacher and a judo practitioner. A strong man. He developed liver cancer, had surgery, and lived about five more years.

My mother injured her back repeatedly—compression fractures of the spine—from changing the diapers of my large-framed father.
A few days before he died, my father asked my mother to bring him a hand mirror. He looked at his emaciated face and let a single tear fall.

When I heard that story, my chest tightened.

I couldn’t help wondering whether dementia might, in some way, be an easier way to reach the end.

My mother, who had cared for and seen off so many people, developed dementia quietly while living alone, before those around her noticed.
She now lives in a care facility. She can hardly remember anything new. Even when we talk on LINE, she repeats the same things. She is ninety years old.

Sometimes I find myself wondering what her life was, in the end.

My husband’s parents were steady, serious people.
His father, in particular, was strict yet sincere. He worked as a teacher with conviction and even hosted gatherings at home inspired by the Nonchurch Christian movement of Kanzo Uchimura.
But he did not do housework or childcare. Neither did my own father. Perhaps many men of that pre-war generation were like that.

When my husband once suggested he help a little with housework, he replied,
“Then I don’t know why I got married.”

He later developed heart problems, suffered a stroke, and had to live with a urine bag. A proud man, he sold his car and stayed indoors. His cognitive function declined rapidly. After incidents of wandering and ambulance calls, he entered a facility.

Although he had been able to walk while wandering, in the facility he was always in a wheelchair. He never walked again, lost his speech, and died at eighty-seven.

My father was eighty-four.

My mother-in-law also began repeating herself, fell at home, fractured her femur, and entered a facility. It overlapped with the COVID period, making visits difficult, but she recognized me until the very end. She passed away at ninety-four.

Nutrition, and communication with others.
I am made to think deeply about how essential these are.

Having seen these grandparents and parents, I began to fear genetics and life patterns.
Two years ago, when proper nouns started coming to mind less easily, I felt afraid.

My primary doctor said I was fine, but I insisted on a referral and spent about ten days in a neurosurgical hospital for testing.
The result: “At present, no dementia. Age-appropriate forgetfulness.”

Then the question becomes how to maintain this state.

I hope that the facility where I now live will guide me in a good direction.

My grandparents or parents could easily have gone missing.
My husband or I may someday do the same. We are prepared for that possibility.

But even if we prepare ourselves, what comes will come.

In this era of declining birthrates and an aging population—now and in the future—
what should we be doing?

I thought about this while taking a short walk.
It is very difficult.

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#FemoralNeckFracture
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#Essay