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Authors: Sarah Benwell
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and I would have left the house together, walking the first two blocks before we parted ways. And we would talk, run through study topics, or argue gently about what we’d have for tea.
I miss that, and I almost pick up the phone to ask her whether she could get some prawns on her way home. Maybe something sweet for dessert. But she has enough to worry about without me adding extra errands, so I do not. Instead, I pull the soaked pajamas from my laundry basket and take them to the sink. At least I can spare her from this shame.
As the water runs, splashes against the porcelain, I remember:
Life, runs like water
down the hillside.
Laughing.
Fast. Takes no prisoners.
I plunge the clothes into the water, watch them billow and then sink.
If a warrior had disgraced himself this way, I bet he would not stay on this earth for long.
And I don’t want to either. Not like this. I want . . .
I don’t know. The half thought shudders right along my spine, and I taste bitterness against my tongue.
I force myself to swallow. Breathe. Look at myself in the mirror and draw that thought out into something logical and safe.
I do not want to die. No.
But I don’t want to end in a puddle of my own waste, gasping for breath like a foul stinking fish.
• • • •
Back at the computer, with poetry and conflict still ringing in my ears, I seek concrete answers. What can I do? How can I ensure that this is not my ending?
I type “disgraced samurai” into the search bar, expecting to see accounts of ritual seppuku, of shame turned into honor, but instead, there’s this:
Although the notion of dying by the sword is strong, and accurate, it was not the only path. Wounded samurai who could no longer fight might find work around the village or in fields. Many became useful and valued members of society once more.
Useful and valued members of society.
I do not feel useful and valued. But why? If it was good enough for the warriors of old, why do people look at me the way they do? As though I am a burden, or an animal.
Have the rules changed? Am I suddenly less of a person than I might have been in the old days? Of less use in these lesser times of need?
I type “long-term sickness Japan” into the search bar. I know what I have is not long-term, but . . . it is not the forty-eight hour flu. It counts.
There are pages filled with figures about health insurance; I skip over those. I see how Mama tightens her purse every month. I do not need the numbers.
There are statistics comparing Japan with other countries. I don’t want to read those, either. What I want is to know why people don’t see me for who I am; whether anybody could.
I scroll past this : BetterEndings.com, and as I keep scrolling it takes half a second for my thoughts to shift from these people acknowledge that the situation’s awful , to, better than what? and then I scroll back up, curious, and start to read.
Here at the Better Villa, we aim to make your stay as comfortable as possible, with medical and assistive care to suit your needs.
In Japan some 80% of terminal patients die in hospitals; Better Endings provides a halfway point, allowing the comforts and freedoms of your own home, while providing the best possible care.
Consider us as an alternative today!
I suppose it makes sense. As endings go, this place does not look so bad. But there are still guardrails on the beds, and staff in crisp white uniforms, and no matter what the gardens look like or food tastes like, people still go there to die. There’s still rasping breaths and body fluids and, I bet, the taste of good-byes in the air.
What does a Better Ending look like?
When the time comes, Better Endings’ staff will do everything in their power to make you and your loved ones comfortable. We have a meditation room and temple, and can provide family lodgings in addition to your own. Further, all visitors have access to our extensive, beautiful grounds and are encouraged to wander
I miss that, and I almost pick up the phone to ask her whether she could get some prawns on her way home. Maybe something sweet for dessert. But she has enough to worry about without me adding extra errands, so I do not. Instead, I pull the soaked pajamas from my laundry basket and take them to the sink. At least I can spare her from this shame.
As the water runs, splashes against the porcelain, I remember:
Life, runs like water
down the hillside.
Laughing.
Fast. Takes no prisoners.
I plunge the clothes into the water, watch them billow and then sink.
If a warrior had disgraced himself this way, I bet he would not stay on this earth for long.
And I don’t want to either. Not like this. I want . . .
I don’t know. The half thought shudders right along my spine, and I taste bitterness against my tongue.
I force myself to swallow. Breathe. Look at myself in the mirror and draw that thought out into something logical and safe.
I do not want to die. No.
But I don’t want to end in a puddle of my own waste, gasping for breath like a foul stinking fish.
• • • •
Back at the computer, with poetry and conflict still ringing in my ears, I seek concrete answers. What can I do? How can I ensure that this is not my ending?
I type “disgraced samurai” into the search bar, expecting to see accounts of ritual seppuku, of shame turned into honor, but instead, there’s this:
Although the notion of dying by the sword is strong, and accurate, it was not the only path. Wounded samurai who could no longer fight might find work around the village or in fields. Many became useful and valued members of society once more.
Useful and valued members of society.
I do not feel useful and valued. But why? If it was good enough for the warriors of old, why do people look at me the way they do? As though I am a burden, or an animal.
Have the rules changed? Am I suddenly less of a person than I might have been in the old days? Of less use in these lesser times of need?
I type “long-term sickness Japan” into the search bar. I know what I have is not long-term, but . . . it is not the forty-eight hour flu. It counts.
There are pages filled with figures about health insurance; I skip over those. I see how Mama tightens her purse every month. I do not need the numbers.
There are statistics comparing Japan with other countries. I don’t want to read those, either. What I want is to know why people don’t see me for who I am; whether anybody could.
I scroll past this : BetterEndings.com, and as I keep scrolling it takes half a second for my thoughts to shift from these people acknowledge that the situation’s awful , to, better than what? and then I scroll back up, curious, and start to read.
Here at the Better Villa, we aim to make your stay as comfortable as possible, with medical and assistive care to suit your needs.
In Japan some 80% of terminal patients die in hospitals; Better Endings provides a halfway point, allowing the comforts and freedoms of your own home, while providing the best possible care.
Consider us as an alternative today!
I suppose it makes sense. As endings go, this place does not look so bad. But there are still guardrails on the beds, and staff in crisp white uniforms, and no matter what the gardens look like or food tastes like, people still go there to die. There’s still rasping breaths and body fluids and, I bet, the taste of good-byes in the air.
What does a Better Ending look like?
When the time comes, Better Endings’ staff will do everything in their power to make you and your loved ones comfortable. We have a meditation room and temple, and can provide family lodgings in addition to your own. Further, all visitors have access to our extensive, beautiful grounds and are encouraged to wander
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