Beautiful Distance

As I entered the hospital, I was greeted by the vibrant pink azaleas lining the hospital gates, a sight that seemed to rival the beautiful May skies my wife had always admired. May was her favorite month, with its layers of orange, yellow, and blue skies that mirrored the cocktail she once sipped at a fancy hotel where we had celebrated our engagement. The hospital interior, with its matching pink curtains and walls, felt like a hotel, a far cry from the small and large hospitals she had previously stayed in.

I make it a point to visit her on Mondays, Thursdays, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, often more frequently when I can. This arrangement has caused some difficulties at work, as I occasionally need to excuse myself early or ask my colleagues to handle some of my workload. While some people are sympathetic and offer their best wishes, I can sense the strain on their relationships and an increase in their workload.

When I share stories about my wife, people become curious about her diagnosis, the stage of her illness, and her prognosis. I've encountered countless questions from various individuals, all eager to know how long she has left. However, I try to refrain from disclosing the specifics of her prognosis, as everyone's time is finite and unknown. Instead, I prefer to say, "I'm looking after my wife, who is ill," to avoid sparking discussions about life expectancy and its implications.

In Japan, taking 'condolence leave' is seen as a professional obligation, but it doesn't quite capture the essence of what I'm going through. I understand that most people in the hospital don't view time off as a personal 'right,' and they may assume that my ability to work will improve if I can live fully without regrets. Despite this, I struggle to find gratitude in merely being allowed time off, as it seems meaningless once someone is dead.

Recently, the hospital has called us in multiple times, informing us of my wife's critical condition, her losing consciousness, and the declining oxygen levels in her blood. These situations have occurred repeatedly, and I've had to rush to her side in the middle of the night. While it's reassuring that her condition has improved, I can't help but wish that my colleagues would understand my situation without needing an explanation of her life expectancy.

My wife remains focused on moving forward, toward life, and I wonder how to convey the importance of this perspective without succumbing to the countdown narrative or implying that I'm losing hope.