Archive Notes: This is an English translation and rewritten version of a blog post originally published in Japanese on October 12, 2019. [Japanese version]
Saturday, September 21
Just after 8:00 PM, my father found my mother collapsed on the kitchen floor, completely unconscious.
I rode alongside her in the ambulance as she was rushed to an emergency hospital.
She was admitted directly to the SCU (Stroke Care Unit), which handles the most critical emergencies.
The CT scan revealed heavy bleeding in the thalamus region of her brain. The attending doctor explained to us that she would likely never regain consciousness.
My daughter drove over to join us at the hospital. I finally made it back home late that night and explained the heartbreaking situation to my father.
A ventilator was inserted through her mouth to assist her breathing.
Sunday, September 22
My son came over to help, and together with my father, we headed back to the hospital. When we arrived, we were told she was being moved to a different room and were asked to wait in the lounge for nearly an hour.
She was transferred to the SCU within the neurosurgery ward.
Wednesday, September 25
She underwent her second CT scan.
By this point, she was showing a surprising ability to breathe on her own. Apparently, she was able to stay off the ventilator entirely during the scan without any issues.
Friday, September 27
My sister-in-law and I visited the hospital together, where the attending doctor called us in for an update.
He explained that the ventilator put in place as an emergency measure needed to be removed within two weeks. If she couldn’t breathe on her own, a tracheotomy would be required to connect a new ventilator system.
I informed the doctor that my mother had previously entrusted me with a formal document stating her explicit refusal of life-prolonging measures.
We decided that starting the following week (from September 30), the medical staff would gradually reduce the ventilator support to monitor her spontaneous breathing and prepare to remove it completely.
Wednesday, October 2
Around 11:30 AM, the doctor called my cell phone to double-check our consent before removing the ventilator.
He reiterated that if she suddenly required immediate re-intubation after removal, they wouldn’t be able to proceed.
When I visited her in the afternoon, she was wearing an oxygen mask and looking relatively stable.
Thursday, October 3
In the morning, the doctor called again to inform me that my mother’s condition had taken a turn for the worse. Her blood pressure had temporarily dropped all the way down to 50.
However, by the time I arrived at the hospital in the afternoon, she had managed to bounce back.
From then on, she continued breathing on her own with the support of an oxygen mask.
Saturday, October 5 (Two weeks since admission)
She underwent her third CT scan.
Monday, October 7
I arrived at her room at 10:30 AM to attend her long-term care certification assessment. Her room had been moved—likely because her immediate condition was no longer considered a critical emergency.
Afterward, the doctor called me in and explained, “Since her condition has stabilized, we will start making arrangements to discuss transferring her to another care facility.”
Thursday, October 10
In the morning, the coordinator in charge of facilitating facility transfers called my cell phone. That afternoon, the coordinator, the head nurse, and I met to discuss options.
They presented me with three candidate hospitals, but none of them felt right. I couldn’t accept the options and spent the rest of the day agonized and alone, unable to sleep.
I started wondering: Is it really impossible to care for her at home?
I sent an email inquiry to her care manager to explore possibilities.
Friday, October 11
I went to consult my mother’s primary care doctor at her local clinic and talked with him for about 40 minutes.
He told me that while home care was technically possible, it would place an immense burden on the family, so he couldn’t strongly recommend it.
However, when I asked him, “Is it possible to stop nasal tube feeding?”, it opened up a completely new conversation about end-of-life care at home.
Her primary doctor stated very clearly, “If I were in your mother’s position, I would ask to stop both tube feeding and IV drips as well.”
That was the moment I made up my mind.
It made me realize that medical staff rarely initiate conversations about these deeply personal views on life and death unless the patient’s family brings them up first.
Later, I received a call from the care manager. I shared what the primary doctor had told me and asked for advice on setting up home nursing and caregiving services.
I learned that once we prepare the home support system, we will attend a joint conference to officially transfer her care from the hospital.
In the afternoon, I went to the hospital alone and asked to speak with the head nurse.
Seeing my mother without her oxygen mask, with her breathing, blood pressure, and pulse all stable, brought a huge wave of relief.
I spoke with the head nurse—who had been present during the transfer discussion the previous day—and shared how my feelings had shifted, asking about the next steps.
“We will do everything in our power to ensure a smooth transition for your family.”
“Until then, please rest assured we will continue to take good care of her here.”
“I think you’ve made a truly wonderful decision,” she said, giving me the gentlest push forward.
Her kind words brought tears to my eyes.
Afterward, I explained everything to my family and received their full agreement.
A glimmer of hope has finally emerged that we might be able to fulfill my mother’s wishes.
And yet, that heavy, leaden lump in my throat still hasn’t gone away.
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Tomorrow, two of my cousins are coming to visit her, so I’ll head to the hospital to meet them.
How many decades has it been since I last saw my cousins?!
I decided to write down this timeline just to process everything.
Looking at it lined up like this makes it seem so simple—even though it’s been an terrifyingly tumultuous three weeks.
About a year ago…
Here is my mother holding little Riona, who had just been born.
Alright, time to keep pushing forward tomorrow!
