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| Photo by Marianne |
Chieko had moved to a countryside seniors' home to die. Before the move, she said her farewells and divided her wealth among her relatives.
But death did not come. After a year and a half, she moved back to her house in the city where she had always lived alone. After five days there, someone rang her doorbell. As she rushed to answer the door, her heart pounded. She sat down and hit the button, which she had had installed in her house years ago, to alert her local fire department.
An ambulance was dispatched, and she was taken to the city hospital. She was still there a couple weeks later when she called me.
I saw her the next day, and was delighted to see how well she looked! Her ankles and feet, which had been as swollen as can be for the last eight months, were back to normal. "When I first came in, I was put on oxygen, given an IV, and had wires attached all over. Yesterday they removed the oxygen, and now all I have left is this heart monitor," she said, gesturing to the wires coming out from her shirt. "I have liquid in my lungs and around my heart, so they want to monitor that."
She went on, "Here, I eat everything I am served. The food is really good. At the countryside home, they didn't even have a nutritionist. Not even a full-time cook! Just part time workers that didn't know what they were doing. I never ate the meals there. Here, I am eating everything. You don't need to bring me rolls anymore. Please don't worry about me."
"At night when I can't sleep I write out this English textbook in my notebook," she said as she pulled out her book. "Writing has been helping me to remember the spelling of the words. The time passes quickly when I write, and then I can sleep." I picked up her notebook, complimented her on her beautiful penmanship, and read the story she had written.
"I can understand it when you read it!" she said, eyes alight, when I finished reading.
When it was time to go, she told me, "Please rest assured that I am in good hands. No need to worry about me."
This is one of many things I love about my 98 year old friend. She correctly assumes I would worry about her. She paints me as one who cares and is concerned.
Of course, I am concerned, but it makes me happy that she takes that as a given.
