November ??, 1989
My condition stabilized, and I was transferred to a general ward. A nurse from the ward came to pick me up. She had a cute smile, and her name was Ms. Takada.
While being transported from the emergency and critical care center to the general ward, I chatted with Ms. Takada. She told me that the ward I was being moved to was a complex ward for patients with intractable diseases and that I would be placed in a private room.
I was transferred to a private room, located directly across from the nurses’ station. A large group of nurses gathered to gently move me to the bed without causing any movement to my body.
Shortly after, the doctor in charge of the general ward came and explained the details of my injuries. I had severely fractured my cervical spine and sustained significant damage to the spinal cord at the neck. My internal organs had been severely injured, with my rectum ruptured—likely from being run over by the car. My pelvis was split open. I had a dislocated and fractured right elbow, and my right wrist was shattered…
Spinal cord injury… Kaeson? A colostomy was created due to the rectal rupture? Because of the rectal rupture, there is a hole at my groin area (the inguinal region) big enough to fit an entire wrist…?
I was told a series of incomprehensible terms, followed by an explanation of the devices and metal equipment attached to my body. My head couldn’t move because, since my neck bones were broken, a device called a halo vest was used to immobilize them. My head was secured to my chest, with bolts piercing the bones near my temples, and the structure was fixed down to the vest on my chest. Although it was called a “vest,” it was as hard as armor, completely restricting any neck movement. My pelvis, which was split open, was held together with a large metal fixture connecting both sides. Apparently, it resembled the shape of a torii gate at a shrine.
After the doctor left, the rehabilitation specialists arrived. They came one after the other—a male therapist and then a female therapist. The male therapist, a physical therapist, was a large man with a sturdy build. But a physical therapist? What’s that? Then came the female therapist, an occupational therapist. Occupational therapy—what is that? Does rehabilitation mean I’ll be able to move again? I didn’t understand anything. But both were very pleasant people.
In the evening, my mother came to visit. It was the first time I had seen her properly since the accident. She seemed to be trying to act cheerful, maintaining a bright demeanor.
I asked her about the accident. Apparently, I had been hit by a drunk driver and was moved from hospital to hospital before finally arriving at this large university hospital, far from the accident site in Zushi. Kobayashi, who was sitting in the back seat, had suffered only a minor pelvic fracture and an arm fracture. His injuries were not severe, and he would be able to return to work within a few months. That was a relief.
From the world of white ceilings, noisy sounds, and doctors and nurses constantly rushing around, I returned to a place with familiar faces. Starting today, I was allowed to have meals again. But I still had multiple IV drips attached to me.
The meal arrived. Since I couldn’t move my hands, someone fed me. For some reason, they also brought a straw. The food seemed to be liquid. A watery porridge that barely had the consistency of water, almost like hot water, with just a hint of salt in the miso soup. A side dish that was just some kind of soup—I couldn’t tell what it was. How could this be called a meal? The nurse said that the food would gradually become more solid and to bear with it for a while.
After the meal, my mother left. How long had it been since I had last talked with her? Even though we lived together, it felt like we hadn’t seen each other in years. Yes, we would only pass each other in the hallway every morning. I would leave the house a bit later than she did and come home much later. By the time I returned home, my feelings had shifted from relief to anxiety.