Canon's Diary

On the evening of April 30th, after dinner, my father said, “I’m going to the city hospital for a bit.” He had been running a slight fever for a few days, and although we were keeping an eye on it, it seemed his condition was worsening. The signs had been there for some time, but even when my mother suggested calling an ambulance, he repeatedly refused, insisting it wasn’t necessary. As a man of the Showa era (1926–1989), he was used to enduring pain until the very last moment.
“I’ll take you to the city hospital,” I replied. It seemed he had already contacted the hospital’s emergency department in advance.

Back in my room, while preparing to leave, I found myself unsure of what to bring, and confusion started to set in.
“Calm down,” I whispered to myself.

Just as when we found out about my father’s cancer, I had taken him to the city hospital many times before. We could’ve taken a taxi, but worried about the return trip, I often ended up driving him myself.

My father once showed me a shortcut to the hospital, which went through a narrow, dark residential area.
“Don’t cross the narrow road in front of the hospital. Take the main street around,” he would always instruct me, every time we took that route.
“I know,” I would reply quietly, then turn left onto the main road and drive up to the hospital.

After checking in at the reception, my father was wheeled into his room. Though the emergency ward was quiet during the Golden Week holiday, we weren’t the only patients there. My mother and I sat in silence in the waiting room, simply waiting for time to pass.

Sitting beside me, she curled her small back and murmured, “I’m worried.”
I didn’t respond. I simply closed my eyes in silence.

In that waiting room, my mind wandered through memories with my father.

I recalled a black-and-white photo in an old album, with me still in diapers, standing alone in front of Taro Okamoto’s Tower of the Sun.
The Osaka Expo was held in 1970, so I must have been about two and a half years old.
I imagine my father drove us all the way from Tokyo to Osaka.
Sadly, I have no memory of that trip.

My father often took my sister and me out. I can’t remember exactly where we went, but I do recall sitting in the back seat of his car with my sister.
I also remember whining every time, wanting to go home early.

When I was in early elementary school, living with my grandfather, there was a photo taken in the factory on the first floor. I was scowling at the camera with a toy gun in one hand.
In another photo, I proudly posed beside planes and cars I had built out of blocks.
There was one showing my awkward face just after making my sister cry.
In yet another, I wore a Kamen Rider transformation belt — a popular Japanese superhero character —and seemed to be communicating with someone through a toy walkie-talkie.

I remembered how, back in our Meguro days, I used to tie a bath towel around my neck like a cape, wearing the belt and jumping around the house.
I suppose I was the kind of child who liked playing alone.

I don’t have many memories of talking with my father. Nor are there many photos of the two of us together.
But I’m certain it was he who took all those pictures.

I recall that he was really into photography back then.
He loved taking photos but didn’t like being in them.

Even so, the gaze with which he looked at me through the viewfinder quietly resurfaces in my mind now.
Perhaps it was a silent expression of love, never put into words.

I wonder where those photos are kept now.

Then, the doctor called us into the treatment room.

My father lay on the bed, looking as though he were asleep.
The heart monitor beeped irregularly, and the blood pressure reading was low.

The doctor explained that a stent might be blocked, and that he would be admitted starting tonight.
For the time being, he would be monitored in the emergency ward.

As we began the admission process, we were asked to sign two consent forms.

One confirmed our agreement not to pursue life-prolonging measures should his condition suddenly worsen.
The other stated that if he were to become delirious or agitated, he might need to be temporarily restrained for safety.

They told us that my father had already been consulted and had agreed.

The doctor’s explanation felt cold, but I understood in my head that these were necessary, practical decisions in a medical setting.

Whether my mother understood the full meaning or not, she quietly signed the papers as the doctor instructed.

While I accepted it all with reason, I also felt a deep, aching sadness stir inside me—
and I noticed my hand clutching my bag had stiffened just a little.