Music Playing: Yasashii Kimochi by Yasuharu Takanashi
I recovered but not well enough to go home. I would conclude it was probably for the best because I found my lungs could no longer get enough oxygen. I was used to oxygen tubes but I didn't care for the idea that these were permanent. The place was rather nice but I very much didn't want to stay, however, I knew I hadn't a choice. If I returned home, I'd probably die sooner and I fought too long for that to happen so soon.
I suppose I had known that I wasn't really meant to last long, well, not as long as Ryuuko. As I thought more about her, I had remembered how delighted that I was to know that I was going to have a little sister but, underneath the joy, I recall that I felt a twinge of sadness and that I was afraid. I wasn't born healthy and I was afraid that any sibling I would have would pass away sooner. I recall that I felt relieved to see that she was healthy.
As I often drifted in and out of my memories, I recall the bout of resentment. It wasn't towards her, exactly, rather, I was resentful towards the circumstances. Circumstances were cruel enough to send me into the world the way that I am, yet were kind enough for Ryuuko to be born healthy, free of the defects that burdened me. I recall that this was rather unfair, really, and I resented that more so. As I mused more on this, I had realized I had been projecting some of that resentment onto Ryuuko, as, in the end scheme of things, she could live a normal life but I had been selfish enough to take a good much of that away.
I wondered what sort of affects my attempts as raising her had on her psyche. I haven't taught her anything, I cowed her into submission, I smothered her, coddled her too much, neglected her health, and, in the end, I've made her overly dependent on me, probably unable to cope with the loss that will be my passing. It'd be a miracle if that loss didn't kill her. I couldn't stop thinking about that. Without me, how is she to fend? I couldn't shake the feeling that I had doomed her. If anything, I started to wonder if I'd see her again at all.
I would see her again, when the nurse opened the door. I was reading, if I recall, and I found myself interrupted. Her hair was brushed and she was dressed rather nicely in a beige sweater and a dark colored dress (I assume black or a dark blue) with knee-socks and black shoes. For a split moment, she looked like she was about three and I made note that she would have worn this particular outfit if she were attending a funeral. I wonder if she'll be dressed this nice, when the time comes.
Not that I minded but she was quiet, unusually so. I couldn't quite sort out why but I concluded that she hadn't anything to say. I suppose that was fine because, regardless of her silence, I pulled her into an embrace. I felt bittersweet and that whole embrace was bittersweet, as, somehow, I knew I'd be sick again. The previous illness severely scarred my insides and, even though she couldn't see it, I was hanging on by threads, yet I couldn't bring myself to stop fighting.
I clung to her for a little while, until visiting hours were over. No one had to pry her from me, as I let go for what I assumed would be the last time. At least, I let her go with some reassurance.
True to my assumptions, I came down with something. I was poked, prodded, and swabbed before the doctors told me what my diagnosis was. Tuberculosis. I was terrified but I immediately came to terms with it. Still, I'd fight and hope that I'll survive this, however, I had little confidence that being the outcome. In thinking of the disease, I started writing letters. I wasn't writing to anyone in particular but, then, I started writing letters to her, the little sister I had dreaded leaving behind.
It settled my nerves, somehow, and I was writing multiple drafts of the same letter. To me, it had to be well thought-out, especially if I were to pass away. Eventually, I settled on one draft and ended up composing multiple pages, pages of things I wanted to say. My words had to be well thought out, as, really, the odds were not in my favor and I needed them to count more so than they ever would if I had said them.
As I wrote those pages, I started to wonder if I were writing them for her or myself. In at least one of those pages, I told her to be strong and, of course, she needs to be but I've hindered that, however. I feared for how she would fare in my absence and, from what I could tell, she wasn't faring well. She was afraid and, regrettably, I hadn't taught her how to cope. In some senses, I was most likely projecting into this letter to keep myself strong throughout all of this.
In the end schemes of things, I hope that I could leave this world confident that she'll be safe and that she can manage but, most of all, I hoped she could forgive me for the things I've done.
