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| Me and Chieko |
Walking down the hall towards Chieko's room at the hospital where she now lives, I pass the open doors of four-person rooms holding rail-thin elderly folks lying in catatonic quiet. Some have tubes running from their noses to machines beside their beds. Others lie with mouths agape, eyes staring at the ceiling. There is no music. No conversation. Just the quiet hum of machinery.
I knock on the last door of the hallway, call out a greeting to Chieko, and step inside her private room. She glows with welcome, reaches for my hand, and I help her to sit up. Her five English textbooks lay beside her on the bed, radio nearby. The schedule of the daily radio English classes is posted on her wall.
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| Schedule of radio English classes that Chieko listens to daily |
As we talk, our conversation drifts to her morning activity. She joined several others who live at that hospital in the recreation room where they sang traditional songs from their childhoods. She pulls out the songsheets and I read the songs while she explains the stories.
Then she mentions Michiko, a woman she has become friendly with. Michiko is 102 years old, and she has resided at that hospital for a very long time. When she was 100 years old, she was diagnosed with colon cancer. After a lengthy and delicate operation, she has lived on, bedridden and with tubes leading from a colostomy opening to a pouch by her bed. Chieko mentions she seems happy and enjoys their group singing.
Yet when they were alone, Michiko confided how bitter her life has become. Her friends and many family members have died. She is lonely. Unable to move on her own. Yet she lives.
I ask, "Why was she operated on at such an advanced age? Surely 100 years is long enough to live?"
"Her family requested it," Chieko told me.
Is it so hard to let go?
Chieko went on, explaining how doctors are bound to prolong life by their Hippocratic oath. They feel they cannot stand idle and allow a patient to die.
But what of quality of life?
So many of the elderly are sequestered in hospitals here that many people have no idea what it is really like to grow old. The loneliness. The frustration. The bedsores. And for many, the mental incapacitation.
Then she mentions Michiko, a woman she has become friendly with. Michiko is 102 years old, and she has resided at that hospital for a very long time. When she was 100 years old, she was diagnosed with colon cancer. After a lengthy and delicate operation, she has lived on, bedridden and with tubes leading from a colostomy opening to a pouch by her bed. Chieko mentions she seems happy and enjoys their group singing.
Yet when they were alone, Michiko confided how bitter her life has become. Her friends and many family members have died. She is lonely. Unable to move on her own. Yet she lives.
I ask, "Why was she operated on at such an advanced age? Surely 100 years is long enough to live?"
"Her family requested it," Chieko told me.
Is it so hard to let go?
Chieko went on, explaining how doctors are bound to prolong life by their Hippocratic oath. They feel they cannot stand idle and allow a patient to die.
But what of quality of life?
So many of the elderly are sequestered in hospitals here that many people have no idea what it is really like to grow old. The loneliness. The frustration. The bedsores. And for many, the mental incapacitation.
Chieko herself is now in constant pain. Among other ailments, the cartilage in her right shoulder has worn away. She can feel—and hear—the bones rubbing against each other.
"Are you taking any pain medication?" I ask.
"Yes. Chinese medicine." (Chinese medicine is commonly prescribed by doctors in hospitals here.)
As I left, I asked, "Is there anything I can bring you? Do you need anything?"
"No, I don't need anything. I don't need this life either. Ninety-eight years is enough. I don't need to live to 100."
As I left, I asked, "Is there anything I can bring you? Do you need anything?"
"No, I don't need anything. I don't need this life either. Ninety-eight years is enough. I don't need to live to 100."
Oh dear. When my father had esophagus cancer he chose to not remove the esophagus. He chose quality of life. He beat it with chemo and radiation painful treatment which left him unable to taste or enjoy food. Anyhoo. The story goes on. More ailments more grief. A nursing home dementia. Broken hip. I felt relief and grief when he died. I enjoy your blog posts.
ReplyDeleteThank you for your comment. Old age is hard. Your poor father. My heart goes out to you.
DeleteMy father refused treatment for cancer after witnessing my mother's prolonged death. He chose to die at home, which he did six months later. He was 62.
What a sweet and sad story. When we are young enough to still be lucid, we should all be permitted to design our death, so to speak. If this, then that. Leaving the decision to doctors and family will always cause grief and guilt. If we make our own choices, the burden won't rest with anyone. Seems so simple to me.
ReplyDelete