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Authors: Miyuki Miyabe
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when he walked, but even while standing.
It was hard enough for Toshiko to watch her husband cover his legs with medicated patches every day. Eventually she’d had enough. She made an appointment with a nearby hospital. When the day came, she’d almost had to drag him to the examination.
The verdict: a minor disk herniation. Shigenori was treated with a nerve block and had to spend a night in the hospital. Afterward the numbness remained but the pain was gone, almost miraculously. He passed the holidays in an upbeat mood, but by early spring the pain was back. Another injection and the pain lessened—then a few months later it was back, worse than ever.
After the third nerve block had worn off and the pain and numbness again made it hard to use his leg, he saw the writing on the wall. He would just be a burden to the Edano Squad if he hung around longer. He wrote out a summary of his medical history and attached it to his transfer request. His new posting was back to Osaki Police Station, where he’d started his career as a plainclothes detective. He was assigned to the crime prevention section and served three years as an advisor. At fifty-nine, with retirement near, they sent him to the records section. By then he needed a cane to get around.
It was just bad luck. This was the body he was born with. His mother had had a bad back and ended her life bedridden. His father had also struggled with lower back pain. Shigenori accepted his fate stoically, but Toshiko refused to give up. She started pestering him to see a specialist. He pretended not to hear.
On his retirement, the Metro Police found Shigenori a position as a security supervisor at a supermarket. The job was a thank-you for decades of service; he showed up three days a week, read the papers, and occasionally met with the rep from the security company. He could take it easy and there was no stress. Even the pain was not as bad as before, or at least it seemed that way, which made him even less inclined to pay attention to Toshiko’s suggestions that he see a specialist. He hated anything having to do with doctors and hospitals.
Shigenori had purchased the apartment for his retirement. It was only 650 square feet, with two bedrooms, a kitchen and a dining room. The building was old but solidly built, and the price was affordable despite the location near the center of Tokyo. Shigenori had spent his younger years as a foot patrolman out of a police box not far from the apartment. Somehow it felt like coming home.
The Tsuzukis were childless. Neither had wanted to own a home, but they’d worried that landlords would be reluctant to rent to pensioners. The apartment would be their final residence. Shigenori thought he would live out his days here, always depending on a cane.
But in mid-May he’d caught a cold, which was unusual. After a night with a temperature of 100.4, both legs were so numb he couldn’t make it to the toilet in the morning. He’d been able to sit up with Toshiko’s help, but couldn’t stand; his left bicep femoris was so swollen, it felt like an iron plate was embedded in his leg.
“I need another nerve block,” Shigenori had said. Toshiko didn’t listen. She got on the Internet, found an orthopedic surgeon with a stellar reputation, and dragged her husband to an examination. The diagnosis: yes, he had a slightly herniated disk, but that was not the cause of his numbness and pain.
Shigenori had spinal stenosis. His lumbar vertebrae were out of alignment and pressing on one of his spinal nerves.
“It’s common in postmenopausal women, but we see it in men from time to time. Athletes and orchestra conductors are prone to it too,” the surgeon had told him. Toshiko remembered a television personality who’d had an operation for the same thing years before.
“We still don’t understand what causes it, but it’s treatable,” the surgeon had told him. “We can adjust your spine and stabilize it with an implant. If you’d
It was hard enough for Toshiko to watch her husband cover his legs with medicated patches every day. Eventually she’d had enough. She made an appointment with a nearby hospital. When the day came, she’d almost had to drag him to the examination.
The verdict: a minor disk herniation. Shigenori was treated with a nerve block and had to spend a night in the hospital. Afterward the numbness remained but the pain was gone, almost miraculously. He passed the holidays in an upbeat mood, but by early spring the pain was back. Another injection and the pain lessened—then a few months later it was back, worse than ever.
After the third nerve block had worn off and the pain and numbness again made it hard to use his leg, he saw the writing on the wall. He would just be a burden to the Edano Squad if he hung around longer. He wrote out a summary of his medical history and attached it to his transfer request. His new posting was back to Osaki Police Station, where he’d started his career as a plainclothes detective. He was assigned to the crime prevention section and served three years as an advisor. At fifty-nine, with retirement near, they sent him to the records section. By then he needed a cane to get around.
It was just bad luck. This was the body he was born with. His mother had had a bad back and ended her life bedridden. His father had also struggled with lower back pain. Shigenori accepted his fate stoically, but Toshiko refused to give up. She started pestering him to see a specialist. He pretended not to hear.
On his retirement, the Metro Police found Shigenori a position as a security supervisor at a supermarket. The job was a thank-you for decades of service; he showed up three days a week, read the papers, and occasionally met with the rep from the security company. He could take it easy and there was no stress. Even the pain was not as bad as before, or at least it seemed that way, which made him even less inclined to pay attention to Toshiko’s suggestions that he see a specialist. He hated anything having to do with doctors and hospitals.
Shigenori had purchased the apartment for his retirement. It was only 650 square feet, with two bedrooms, a kitchen and a dining room. The building was old but solidly built, and the price was affordable despite the location near the center of Tokyo. Shigenori had spent his younger years as a foot patrolman out of a police box not far from the apartment. Somehow it felt like coming home.
The Tsuzukis were childless. Neither had wanted to own a home, but they’d worried that landlords would be reluctant to rent to pensioners. The apartment would be their final residence. Shigenori thought he would live out his days here, always depending on a cane.
But in mid-May he’d caught a cold, which was unusual. After a night with a temperature of 100.4, both legs were so numb he couldn’t make it to the toilet in the morning. He’d been able to sit up with Toshiko’s help, but couldn’t stand; his left bicep femoris was so swollen, it felt like an iron plate was embedded in his leg.
“I need another nerve block,” Shigenori had said. Toshiko didn’t listen. She got on the Internet, found an orthopedic surgeon with a stellar reputation, and dragged her husband to an examination. The diagnosis: yes, he had a slightly herniated disk, but that was not the cause of his numbness and pain.
Shigenori had spinal stenosis. His lumbar vertebrae were out of alignment and pressing on one of his spinal nerves.
“It’s common in postmenopausal women, but we see it in men from time to time. Athletes and orchestra conductors are prone to it too,” the surgeon had told him. Toshiko remembered a television personality who’d had an operation for the same thing years before.
“We still don’t understand what causes it, but it’s treatable,” the surgeon had told him. “We can adjust your spine and stabilize it with an implant. If you’d
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