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I have told ten stories about the Great War. But this 11th story is about my aunt. It was a war within a house—cruel, hidden, and impossible to escape.
1. The Mask of Wealth and the Rot Within
She was beautiful and married into a wealthy family. But the family was rotten inside. Her father-in-law brought syphilis into the house. Her mother-in-law's baby died, covered in spots. To fill that "hole," they took in an orphan. That boy became my aunt's husband. This was the dark reality of the house.
2. Forced Labor and Lost Motherhood
Both my aunt and uncle were "outsiders" with no blood connection to the family. They were merely tools to keep the family name alive. My aunt was forced to work day and night, both in the house and at the factory. Under terrible bullying, she was not even allowed to hold her own children. The children were sent away and grew up without a mother's love. The home was like a forced labor camp.
3. A Battlefield Beyond the Air Raids
She survived the firestorms of the Osaka air raids. But what waited for her was not peace; it was constant attack from her own family. Her husband had no hobbies. He only worked and escaped into cigarette smoke. It was not just tobacco that ruined his lungs. It was the "poison" the house kept breathing out.
Conclusion: The 11th War Diary
People say the war ended in 1945. That is a lie. My aunt's war continued until the day she died. It was a lonely battle, hidden in history, ending only after years of endless cruelty. Sadly enough, she herself had teased her son's wife.

My mother's mother was said to be the daughter of a samurai.
Her name was Yaegiku - a flower that blooms in layers.

I never knew how she met my grandfather.
No one spoke of it.

She bore one son and five daughters, in an era that urged women to "bear and multiply."

My grandfather went to China (Manchuria) before or during the war for work.
The food did not suit him. He returned home and soon passed away.

My mother, still a child, asked her brother,
"Why is Father sitting?"

"There's no money," he answered.

It was not a lying coffin.
It was a cheaper seated one.
He was cremated sitting upright.

My grandmother rarely expressed her own thoughts.
"Yes, of course."
"Thank you kindly."

But when her book-loving eldest daughter was killed in an air raid while returning a borrowed book -
and her body was never found -
surely "yes" was not enough.

Still, she made rice balls from the little rice they had and fed strangers collapsed on the roadside.
Even when her family tried to stop her.

Later she developed facial paralysis.

After the war, she worked for the occupying forces.
People did not look kindly on that, but survival leaves little choice.

When her children grew up, only three remained at home.
When her son married, he said,
"My wife will already have to be careful around Mother.
Sister, please live on your own."

Her daughter left in tears.

Her daughter-in-law was extremely frugal.
Chicken was sliced thin and long to reduce what went onto each skewer.
There were two growing boys.

One day, my grandmother quietly said,
"I would like to soak slowly in a warm bath."

She always bathed last.
No extra hot water.
Only cooling remnants.

That, too, was her war.
The war had not ended.

Even bedridden, she refused water and food,
saying diapers were wasteful,
that it was too much trouble for others.

Eventually, her body failed.

I was nine months pregnant with my second child when she passed.
I did not return to Osaka.

In my heart, I whispered:

Grandmother, I'm sorry.
At last, your war is over.

My uncle lost his father in the war and grew up with his mother.
He worked during the day and studied English at night in Kobe.
He once studied so hard that he was hospitalized.

He rose in a foreign company through ability, built a house, and raised three daughters.
My aunt, who had only a middle school education, welcomed foreigners into her home and supported him quietly.

I went to Kobe University.
Once, I was scolded for talking about academic background.
"Don't judge people by education," my aunt said.

Later, I understood.

I enrolled in the same English school my uncle had attended.
I ranked first twice and earned tuition waivers.
I scored 550 on the paper-based TOEFL and studied in the United States.

That year changed me.
For three months, I could not understand anything.
In America, I had to decide first: Yes or No.
And then explain why.

When I returned to Japan, that way of thinking was not always welcome.
So I learned to separate them.
Japanese thinking in Japanese.
English thinking in English.

Now, after illness and many changes in the world,
I have decided to move into a senior residence and stop being a housewife.
I will use that time to recover, to write, and to play music.

Perhaps I am still a person who fights.
But now I am learning to fight less.

I will live the rest of my life
between Yes and No.

My mother was born in 1936 (Showa 11) and was nine years old at the end of the war. As the fifth daughter, she was protected by her older siblings and her ailing mother.

The most vivid memory she recalls is the Osaka air raids. In 1945 (Showa 20), the city was repeatedly bombed. Her home was completely destroyed in the final raids. At that time, she was carried by her aunt, running to escape. She did not run herself, but witnessed a bomb striking a middle-aged man ahead of them, splitting him in half - an image that left a deep impression on her.

She described being utterly terrified, hiding in a river while waiting for the danger to pass. She also remembered the scarcity of food, sharing what little they had, and wondered what would happen to those who had died.

After the war, life was difficult. She excelled in middle school but almost gave up on attending high school due to poverty. Encouraged by her teacher, she pursued further education. Later, despite facing discrimination as a child from a single-parent household, she eventually became a bank employee through connections.

Now, my mother lives alone in a dementia care facility. Seeing someone who was once so strong in this final stage of life is painful. Yet by recording her experiences, I hope to preserve a part of her life and the legacy she leaves behind.

I was born in 1958, thirteen years after the end of the war.

At a marketplace, I once saw a former army lieutenant with one arm missing.
Hiding behind my mother, I asked,
"Why doesn’t he have an arm?"
"Why does he receive money from others?"

I did not know war.
Yet I saw its scars.

War felt distant, almost unreal -
and yet strangely close.

My junior high school was rough.
Long skirts, bullying, tension.
To study without becoming a target required quiet intelligence.

In high school, I attended Osaka Prefectural Tennoji High School.
There were no uniforms, only a school badge.
The atmosphere still carried traces of the student movements.

A social studies teacher raised a red flag during class.
"History is science," he declared,
using original handouts instead of textbooks.

A female teacher once performed a Buddhist "Nenbutsu" dance alone in front of us,
while students stood in a circle watching.
The passion of postwar democracy still lingered in the classroom.

I did not understand why it was called "freedom."

Later, at Kobe University,
the first thing I encountered was Marx.

At home, war was spoken of as the struggle of ordinary people.
At school, it was an ideological battle.

I belonged fully to neither.

War felt like a fictional world just beyond my reach -
yet I was always somehow bound by it.

I thought entrance exams would set me free.
I believed university would liberate me.
Instead, I found another kind of battle.

I grew up standing between worlds.

Even now,
I sometimes feel I still carry
a child who lost something in a war
she never fought.

And yet,
I continue to challenge the future.

"Tomoko, listen... I finally found my mother's bankbook, in all that trash. The balance is zero."

She spoke in a voice that trembled.

Why had she served her mother-in-law all those years?
She had not truly devoted herself; my aunt lived as she pleased.
Yet those left behind had to deal with the aftermath.

The house was overflowing with things.
The bankbook had been hidden among them.

Upon closer inspection, it turned out that my aunt had, during the years when she was still capable, sent all her savings to her daughter.

In the end, she chose her daughter.

A woman who had been bullied by a strict mother-in-law,
who worked endlessly and had little time for her children,
yet loved her own daughter fiercely.

Did she break under the weight of such harsh family relationships?
Or was she simply a woman swept along by the tides of war?

I do not really know.

All that remains is the empty bankbook,
quietly telling the story of her choices.

My mother was the fifth of five daughters.
Just above her was my fourth aunt - the aunt in this story.

She was not particularly fond of studying.
After graduating from junior high school, and because the family was not wealthy, she apprenticed herself to a kimono dressmaker. I do not know the details, but she became highly skilled with a needle.

When she was young, she fell in love with a man.
However, he came from a background that was discriminated against at the time. Their families strongly opposed the marriage. The two, who had hoped to wed, were separated. My aunt was sent to stay with her older sister's well-to-do in-laws-effectively removed from the situation.

She may not have agreed with the decision, but she could not resist it.
As a daughter of that era, she had little choice but to follow the current of her family's will.

Later, through an arranged meeting, she married the man who became my uncle.
He came from a poor family and had only a high school education, yet he worked for a Canadian - affiliated company. At night he attended an English school, improving his skills. In a performance-based corporate culture, he advanced through ability rather than credentials. Eventually, his annual income exceeded ten million yen, and he filed his own tax returns.

Watching him, I realized that in the English - speaking business world, merit often outweighs academic background.

My aunt supported him quietly.
She hosted home parties for his foreign colleagues. They were never extravagant, but she prepared thoughtful meals with what she had. I was invited several times. There was warmth in those rooms, and I sensed that she found joy in walking beside her husband.

Their three daughters grew up and chose their own paths.
The eldest became a hairdresser and married someone in the same profession.
The second fell in love with a Korean resident of Japan. There was tension again, yet my aunt did not oppose the marriage. Perhaps she remembered her own youth.
The third seemed happily married, but her child was born with severe hearing loss, bringing unexpected hardship.

Life does not unfold as we wish.
Even when prejudice is overcome and effort bears fruit, new trials emerge.

My aunt never spoke about her first love.
I do not know whether she carried regret.
Yet I sometimes feel that something of it remained within her.

Perhaps life cannot always be fought against.
Perhaps we must live as the current carries us.

Still, within that current, my aunt chose to protect her daughter's love.

She spoke little.
But in her silence, I believe there was strength - the quiet strength of a woman who lived through her time without bitterness, and without surrendering her dignity.

My mother was the fifth of five daughters.
She had one older brother-said to be exceptionally bright. He is my uncle.

Their father, my grandfather, went to China during the war for business. The food did not suit him, and after returning to Japan, he soon passed away. My grandmother was left alone to raise her children and worked tirelessly to support them.

The eldest sister was killed in an air raid. Her body was never found.
My grandmother would bring precious rice balls to bodies lying on the ground - strangers - thinking one of them might be her daughter. Eventually, she developed facial paralysis.

The second sister began working immediately.
My uncle, during the war, entered what was considered a prestigious aviation school. After Japan's defeat, the school was closed. The family was far too poor to send him to university.

He joined the Telecommunications Public Corporation (Den-Den Kosha).

He told me this story many times.

In those days, university graduates and high school graduates followed completely different career tracks. Their promotion routes differed. Their salary tables differed. No matter how capable one was, that barrier could not be crossed. It must have felt humiliating at times.

Still, he worked steadily, married, and was blessed with two sons.
It seems he was determined to send them to university - something he himself could not do.

After retirement, he and his wife traveled abroad extensively.
He was known to be stubborn and eccentric, yet for some reason we got along well. Perhaps we were kindred spirits - two odd ones.

When I visited his home, a large computer and screen dominated the living room. He said he was making money in the stock market.

"Tomochan, I haven't spent a single yen of my retirement money."

He said it often.

I sometimes wondered what he was saving it for - but I kept silent.

After my aunt passed away from cancer, he was left alone. The funeral was small, and even relatives were not informed. One day he called me, asking me to tell my mother - his younger sister—and my own sister.

He was born in 1931.
He does not attend day services. He still goes to the supermarket by bicycle or on foot.

"I'm parting ways with Nomura Securities," he once said.
Whether he truly did, I do not know.

If there had been no war, what kind of life might he have lived?

All I can do now is pray for the continued health of my still - living uncle.

I once heard about a third war.
It was the story of my husband's uncle.

He was born the eldest son of a konnyaku shop owner.
During an air raid, he first helped his family escape.
Then he stayed behind with his father to protect the family business.

When the fire spread, they fled.
Near the Abe River, he opened a manhole to hide.
After letting his father go in first, he stepped aside for a woman who ran up behind him.

At that moment, a bomb fragment struck his face.

He survived, but severe scars remained.
He searched for doctors, tried every possible treatment, but the keloid scars never healed.

He believed he would never marry.

Then he met the woman who became his wife.
When he asked, "Is a face like mine acceptable to you?"
she replied, "I don't mind at all."

They married and had two daughters.

After the war, he devoted himself to the anti-war movement and joined the Communist Party.
He became a respected haiku selector.
Many of his poems quietly reflected his anti-war convictions.

He lived modestly in public housing with his mother and wife.
After both passed away, he lived alone—yet never seemed lonely.

In his later years, he moved into a small private room in a care facility,
where he continued reading and enjoying haiku.

When I developed facial paralysis and later published a book about it,
he wrote me a letter.

"Even as a man, my facial keloid was painful.
Yours is not a scar like mine, but I can only imagine how hard it must be to live with paralysis."

In that letter, I felt both his hidden suffering and his deep kindness.

He has now passed away.
He was likely born in the Taishō era.
I am told his death was peaceful.

From him, I learned many things:
how to live with scars,
how to hold convictions,
how to refine words,
and how to turn one's own pain into understanding for others.

The third war was his story -
and quietly, it became mine as well.

Teruko was my mother's older sister.
Her name means "a shining child."

During the war, she lost her own older sister in an air raid.
She also lost her fiancé to the war.
From then on, she lived as the eldest daughter of the family.

She worked for many years at Nippon Telegraph and Telephone Public Corporation, retiring after a long career as a telephone operator.

She learned everything she could—kimono dressing, tea ceremony, embroidery.
She earned many certificates.
But she never became a teacher.

She simply continued working,
quietly supporting her nieces and nephews.

When I was in university in Kobe,
my friends and I often said to her, "Treat us."

She never refused.
Instead, she would take us to surprisingly nice restaurants,
standing a little straighter, almost proudly.

Was she happy then?
Or was that only my imagination?

When my parents were unwell, she often came to help.

If rice remained stuck at the bottom of the electric cooker,
she would not use detergent.
She poured in hot water,
waited for the grains to loosen,
caught them in a strainer,
carefully gathered them with a sponge,
and then ate them herself.

I used to think,
"You don't have to go that far."

But perhaps that was the memory of someone
who had once struggled for food,
who had to feed her younger brothers and sisters
during a time of real hunger.

She lived her entire life in a small apartment
with a shared toilet and no bath.

People advised her to buy a condominium.
She never did.

She wore her registered seal around her neck on a string.
After she passed away, we learned that she had saved eighty million yen in a safe.

Did she choose not to spend it?
Or could she not bring herself to?

She died alone at night in that small apartment.
It took some time before anyone noticed.

And yet, when I think of her,
I do not think first of loneliness.

I remember the way she treated us generously.
I remember her steady work.
I remember the quiet dignity in her hands
as she gathered the last grains of rice.

Teruko.

A shining child.

She was, in her own quiet way,
exactly that.

My father passed away at the age of eighty-four.
It was liver cancer.

After he died, I wrote about him.
I felt I had to.

He was a martial artist, an eighth-dan master at the Kodokan.
He taught physical education at a public high school in Osaka and led the judo team to national tournaments many times.
He was respected and loved by countless students.

Yet his own childhood had been far from easy.

He was born in Kochi, the eldest son of a wealthy farming family.
His father was a strict elementary school principal; his mother was frail and often ill.
Though he once won a local sumo tournament, academically he struggled under his father’s rigid expectations.
When his grades were poor, he was transferred to another school.

Because his wife was in delicate health, the family eventually moved to Osaka.
My father became a teacher.
But many relatives repeatedly asked his father for money, and my grandfather became extremely frugal.
My father and his younger brother were not allowed to go on school trips. Even shoes with holes were not replaced.

Perhaps in reaction to that upbringing, my father grew into a man with little sense of money.

He bought things freely for his students.
He once chased a runaway student all the way to Hokkaido.
He cared deeply for a Korean student and for students from historically discriminated communities.
Outside our home, he was a large-hearted man.

Inside the house, however, it was different for me.

My grandparents and my father fought bitterly. Objects were thrown.
I wished we could live separately from them.
My mother would quietly say, "We don't have the money."

When I was twenty, commuting from Osaka to Kobe University, one of my father's former students—who had become a first-class architect—arranged the building of a house for us in Nara.
My mother gathered the funds.
But it was too far for me to commute, and I moved into a dormitory.

My father was pleased when I was admitted to university.
A former student said to him,

"Good thing she didn't take after you, Sensei. They say children resemble the mother's side."

I was told he looked slightly embarrassed, yet proud.

He had never been tall, so he mastered groundwork in judo.
Later he injured his leg and needed a cane.

Then came liver cancer.

We set up a nursing bed at home. His mind remained clear.
One day he asked my mother for a hand mirror.
He looked at his own face carefully -
and a tear slipped down.

Soon after, he fell into a coma.

I returned from Shizuoka to see him, but no one knew when the end would come.
My husband told me to stay.
But I worried about my classes and went back to Shizuoka.

A few days later, an email from my sister:
"He has passed."

I printed a week's worth of assignments for my students, informed my supervisor that afternoon, and drove to Nara.
That night, I lay beside my father.

Years earlier, when I told him I wanted to study in America for a year, he agreed without hesitation.
My mother had cried, saying, "You won't be able to marry. Graduate school and America?"

My father said,
"Let her live her life the way she wants."

There were many things between us.
Not all of them gentle.

Yet within me, my father is still vividly alive.

In The Apothecary Diaries, there is a small but powerful scene.

Why does Shisui chew a ground cherry?
Is it really for abortion?
Or does it have another meaning?

The story does not only talk about herbs and poison.
It also shows the position of women and the reality of their bodies.

In one scene, Shisui chews a ground cherry and lightly blows it away.

Maomao begins to say, "That's not proper. And besides-"

Shisui stops her.

"I know."

Those two words feel heavy.

---

Was the ground cherry really that powerful?

Physalis alkekengi has been believed to:

• possibly cause uterine contractions
• help start menstruation in folk medicine

In traditional East Asian medicine, herbs that "move the blood" were not recommended in early pregnancy.

However, chewing it once would not reliably cause abortion.
Its effect would depend on the amount, the person, and the stage of pregnancy.
In many cases, nothing might happen.

So why is the scene so memorable?

---

The strength of intention

The weight of the scene is not about the medical effect.
It is about intention.

Maomao understands that:

• it may not be safe in pregnancy
• it has meaning in the rear palace
• it is not an innocent action

When Shisui says, "I know," she shows that she understands.

She is not acting without knowledge.
She is choosing.

---

Women's bodies and survival

In royal courts and pleasure districts, an unwanted pregnancy could destroy a woman's position.

Who is the father?
What will happen to her status?
Will her future be safe?

Pregnancy was not always a blessing.
Sometimes it was a danger.

That is why knowing about herbs, menstruation, and the body was a way to survive.

---

This is not only a story of the past
Even today, it is not always easy for women to speak first about contraception.

In many cases, it is women who suffer physically and emotionally from unintended pregnancy.

That is why I feel strength in women who use knowledge to protect themselves.

Shisui's ground cherry is not simply a plant.
It is a symbol of choice.

A quiet strength.
A strength with resolve.

A Traditional Medicine Perspective

I was 29 years old when I developed facial paralysis during the final month of my first pregnancy.

Late pregnancy is a time when the body changes greatly. Blood circulation and the immune system can shift. Facial paralysis -especially Bell's palsy - is reported to occur more often during late pregnancy and shortly after childbirth.

In modern medicine, possible causes include:

• Reactivation of a virus
• Swelling around the facial nerve
• Changes in the immune system
• Circulatory problems

Proper diagnosis and treatment at a medical institution are important.

---

Encounter with Acupuncture

In addition to receiving medical treatment, I chose acupuncture as supportive care.

Although my symptoms were on my face, the treatment was not limited to my face. Needles were placed on my legs, abdomen, and other parts of my body. At that time, I did not understand why.

Later, as I studied traditional East Asian medicine, I learned about the idea of treating the whole body, not only the local area.

---

How Traditional Medicine Understands Facial Paralysis

In traditional medicine, facial paralysis has been described for centuries.

It is believed to have multiple possible causes, such as:

• External factors (often described as "wind")
• Physical weakness or fatigue
• Poor circulation of energy and blood

The face is also an area where several meridians pass, so it is thought to be influenced by the condition of the whole body.

---

The Role of the Stomach Meridian

The Stomach Meridian of Foot-Yangming runs from the face down through the abdomen and into the legs.

In traditional theory, digestive weakness or imbalance in the body may influence the face through this meridian.

This is a traditional interpretation and does not prove a direct medical cause-and-effect relationship.

Since I had experienced repeated stomach problems when I was younger, learning this theory encouraged me to look at my health more holistically.

---

The Position of Acupuncture Treatment

Acupuncture for facial paralysis does not replace medical treatment. It may be chosen as supportive care alongside standard treatment.

The goals of acupuncture may include:

• Supporting healthy blood flow
• Relaxing muscle tension
• Helping restore overall balance

Results vary from person to person.

If you experience symptoms of facial paralysis, it is essential to seek proper medical evaluation first.

---

My Current Clinical Perspective

Through my own experience, I learned the importance of looking beyond the symptom itself.

Traditional medicine offers a framework for understanding the body as a connected whole. I believe it should be used in a complementary way, alongside modern medical care.

I will continue to prioritize safety and lifelong learning in my clinical practice.

The gym I had attended for many years closed, and I moved to a new one. Four months have passed.

Leaving a familiar place takes more courage as we grow older.
At the new gym, many class names were unfamiliar to me.
I decided to try several of them.

That was how I unexpectedly discovered UBOUND.


Discovering UBOUND

UBOUND is a fitness program that uses a small personal trampoline.
Instead of jumping high, you bounce low and rhythmically.

Simple as it looks, it works your cardiovascular system, lower body, and core all at once. It is far more demanding than it appears.

Music is essential to this class.
EDM (Electronic Dance Music) and other dance tracks with clear, strong beats guide every movement.

As I bounced to the rhythm, the feeling of 'exercising' gradually faded away.
It felt more like letting my body be carried by the music.


At First, I Was Afraid

To be honest, I was scared at first.
My only thought was, What if I fall off the trampoline?

But once the music started, unnecessary thoughts disappeared.
Focusing only on staying balanced,
I realized I had no space left for worries.

This felt good.
Stress melted away with the beat.

I was overwhelmed by the coach's strong physique, confident movements, and perfectly chosen music.

I couldn't believe I could jump like this on land.
I almost forgot my age.

It felt as if tomorrow would keep coming.
As if my future was still open.


Another Discovery: Aqua Aerobics

Another class that changed my perspective was aqua aerobics.

It had existed at my previous gym as well.
But back then, I was fully focused on learning swimming techniques and had little interest in what I thought was 'dancing in the water.'

Aqua aerobics uses water resistance and buoyancy to provide a full-body workout with minimal stress on the joints.
Moving to music turns exercise into something joyful.

One day, after a swimming lesson, an aqua aerobics class followed - taught by the same coach as UBOUND.

Before the class began, 'Cinderella Honeymoon' was playing by the pool.


Avantgardey and Me

I am a fan of Avantgardey, a Japanese dance group known for their synchronized movements, expressionless faces, and bold use of retro Japanese pop songs.

I wondered, Is this coach a fan too?
So I joined the class.

The music was exactly my taste.
The movements were difficult - but above all, they were fun.

At the end, 'Cinderella Honeymoon' played again.
I was completely carried away.

The coach quietly asked, 'Does anyone know Avantgardey?'

Before I knew it, I raised my hand. 'Yes. I'm a fan.'

It didn't matter whether I was good or not.
I was enjoying myself.


I Am Jumping

I am jumping.
On land.
In the water.

Toward the future.

Perhaps I have found my 'oshi' - a Japanese word meaning someone you wholeheartedly support, a word I once thought belonged only to the young.

Now, it makes perfect sense.

Maybe I can still go on.
Maybe there is still a future ahead of me.

These are the days I am living - at sixty-seven.

Even after the coldest season of the year has passed, the harsh cold continues.
This winter, many of the patients who visit my clinic complain of feeling cold in their bodies.

As an acupuncturist who works mainly with women, I see many kinds of coldness every day: cold feet and toes, cold calves, a cold abdomen, or a deep coldness throughout the whole body.
People with these symptoms often have digestive problems, imbalances in the autonomic nervous system, pain in various parts of the body, or have been struggling with infertility for many years.
Their situations are truly diverse.

When I work with people who are suffering from infertility, I sometimes feel a quiet sense of guilt, because I am someone who already has children.
Even so, I know that they genuinely and deeply want a child.

They rely on Western medicine and undergo treatments that are far from inexpensive, hoping to one day meet a beloved baby.
When things do not go as hoped - when fertilization occurs but implantation does not - some are advised by their doctors to try acupuncture and come to see me.

However, acupuncture does not guarantee pregnancy.
All I can do is help regulate the autonomic nervous system, warm a body that has grown cold, and gently soften a body that has become tense - to support a return to a physical state in which giving birth is possible.

Through these daily encounters, a question often arises in my mind:
Why do people want to have children?

In reality, there are also acts in which a life that has begun is intentionally ended.
In my own life, I have encountered such experiences more than once.

When I was young, someone close to me became pregnant but was unable to give birth due to her circumstances.
At that time, information was not as easily available as it is now, and within very limited options, she was ultimately forced to choose abortion.

I do not know how that experience affected her life afterward.
But I can imagine that the act of ending a life leaves something deep and lasting in the heart.

Later, when I was working as a teacher, I learned - after the fact - that a young woman had been placed in a similar situation.
As an adult and as someone involved in education, I asked myself what I could have done.
Even now, I have no clear answer to that question.

In this world, there are people who long deeply for children.
At the same time, there are lives that were never born,
lives that were not wanted,
and lives that were born only to carry heavy realities afterward.

I myself have given birth to two children.
During the birth of my first child, the afterbirth was not properly treated, and I suffered severe bleeding. My life was in danger.
At that moment, it would not have been surprising if I had died.

To bring one life into the world is also to place the mother's life at risk.
Giving birth contains that level of danger.

In life - especially for women - there are paths of giving birth, not giving birth, and being unable to give birth.
Many people find babies adorable.
But depending on the family relationships that are formed, those feelings can change.

There is no single answer that is "right."

People live while being supported by others.
Even so, we are born alone,
and whether we build a family or not, we die alone in the end.

That is why I believe it is important to live while looking honestly at one's own life, without comparing it to others.

And within that life,
whether one gives birth, does not give birth, or cannot give birth,
I hope we can live without blaming ourselves.

Last November, my son and his family of five came to Japan from New Zealand.
They stayed for one month so that the children could experience Japanese school and daycare.
The two older children were in first grade and preschool.
The youngest was only four months old.
To be honest, my husband and I were speechless.
A long international flight with a baby sounded very hard.
But my daughter-in-law said lightly,
"Babies don't move much. It's actually easy." (Maybe my son said so.)

They stayed in a different apartment,
and we helped with walking the children to school and daycare.

The two older children spent their days surrounded by Japanese,
in Japanese schools and childcare settings.

The third grandchild was just starting to be shy around strangers.
When I held the baby, he soon looked for his mother or father and began to cry.
I could not hold him for long.

After a month, the family returned to New Zealand.
Since then, we have watched the children grow through FaceTime.

At the beginning of the new year,
my daughter-in-law posted a video on Instagram.

The baby was sitting on the floor.
When his mother spoke one short sentence,
he laughed out loud.

Again and again,
she spoke, and he laughed.

I took a deep breath.
So he can laugh like this now.
He is growing so fast, and so richly.

The next day on FaceTime,
the baby was sitting in a baby chair,
hitting the table with both hands.

One of the older children brought a bottle with a straw to his father - my son.
When the father shook the bottle a little,
the baby watched closely and moved his hands,
as if to say, "I want it."

There were no clear words yet.
But there was clear communication.

Watching this, I remembered the past.
I thought of my son when he was small.

When I was in graduate school, I studied in the United States for one year.
My TOEFL score was high enough, and it was a formal program,
but at first, I could not understand the lectures at all.

I could hear the sounds,
but they did not become meaning.

After about three months, one day I thought,
"Oh... maybe I understood that."

From that moment, my understanding grew quickly.

From this experience, I learned that listening is the foundation of language.

So when my child was born,
I thought that if I could give him something,
it would be both English and Japanese.

I decided on certain times to speak Japanese,
and other times to speak English.

But my son started speaking a little later than other children.
I worried, and even asked the public health center for advice.

Then, one day, he suddenly started speaking.

Was it Japanese? Or English?

During a walk at daycare,
my son was riding in a stroller.
At the end of a bridge, he saw an old woman selling vegetables and fruit.

Suddenly, he said, "Apple."

It was the English word for apple,
spoken before the Japanese one.

The teacher and the other children were surprised.

Words do not appear in the order we teach them.
That was when I truly understood this.

When my son was in fifth grade - about 10 years old -
he took the Eiken Grade 2 exam.
After the interview test, he came home.

I asked casually,
"What did you talk about?"

He answered happily,
"A really big wall in China."

He had never seen it.
He did not know the exact name or history.

But we both understood:
a very big wall in China.

That was enough for the conversation to work.

At that moment, I realized something.
Words do not need to be perfect to be understood.
Even without full knowledge,
if meaning is shared, communication happens.

I felt he might pass the test.
And he did.

Now, that son is a father.

He shakes objects, shows them, and waits.
He speaks to his baby and responds.

Words do not begin only when sounds become clear words.
They begin earlier,
between people,
inside relationships.

The one month my older grandchildren spent in Japan.
The baby's laughter and tapping hands.
And their father's "apple,"
and "a really big wall in China."

All of these connect into one line.

And now I feel this:

Words are not something we teach.
They are something that grow,
between people.


( About Eiken Grade 2)
Eiken is a well-known English test in Japan.
It is often taken by junior high school and high school students.

Eiken Grade 2 shows an upper-intermediate level of English.
People at this level can understand everyday topics,
express their opinions,
and have simple conversations about social issues.
It is roughly similar to a high B1 or low B2 level on the CEFR scale.


(About TOEFL)

TOEFL stands for Test of English as a Foreign Language.

It is an international English test for people whose first language is not English.
It is mainly used to check whether students can study at universities or graduate schools in English-speaking countries.

The test measures reading, listening, speaking, and writing skills.

I have decided to move into Matsuyama Eden-no-Sono, and I have started preparing little by little.

I recently had an important exam in the acupuncture studies I am learning. It was just finished, and both my mind and body are still tired. Even though I like writing, it is not easy to organize my thoughts. Still, I want to move forward, even a little, and keep a record of this time.

I decided to start with my clothes.

By "clothes," I mean not only everyday clothes, but also underwear and kimono. Last December, when I visited my new room at Matsuyama Eden-no-Sono for an air conditioner installation, I already brought two or three sets of clothes for each season-the ones I thought I would wear most.

Now, I must decide what to do with the rest.

Although it is called a "home for the elderly," it is more like an apartment, and storage space is limited. This is not only a practical problem, but also an emotional one. I ask myself, "Is this still clothing for me, or is it already unnecessary waste?" I understand the answer in my head, but it is still hard to put clothes that once supported my life into a garbage bag and take them out with kitchen waste on garbage day.

In the past, after my children became independent, I also had to throw away their belongings. At that time, I wrapped them carefully before putting them in garbage bags, and tried to change my feelings. I think this time is similar.

Some clothes are unused, so I thought about selling them on Mercari. However, clothes are more difficult than I expected. Size, body shape, and personal conditions matter. Not everyone can wear my clothes. Selling them together is also not easy. I realized again that clothes are very personal items.

So gradually, I felt that it might be better to let them go by myself, instead of forcing myself to find someone to take them.

I feel that my parents' way of life, and my husband's parents' way of life, have influenced me greatly. My mother is still alive, but she has dementia and lives in a care facility. My parents' house is now empty, but it is filled with a large amount of my parents' clothes. My mother was someone who could not throw things away. In the future, my sister and I will have to decide what to do with them.

On the other hand, after my husband's parents passed away, my husband hired a company to clear everything out. Their house was renovated and is now used by other people.

Things that are important to us can become a burden to those who are left behind. I feel we need to be more aware of this.

I decided to move into Matsuyama Eden-no-Sono at the age of 67 because I wanted to decide my own future while I still could. I could have continued my small acupuncture and English conversation salon, Canon Acupuncture & English Salon, for a longer time. But everyone must leave this world someday. No one can die alone. In Japan, especially, the burden on those who remain is often heavy. My children live far away and have their own lives. I do not want to trouble them. I do not want to leave them a burden.

I have written a will. I have chosen body donation, and after that, scattering of ashes. I chose not to leave things behind.

Organizing my clothes is only one small step toward that goal. But even this "small step " is taking more time than I expected. It would be easier to throw everything away at once. Still, I want to move forward while carefully organizing my feelings.

That is why I am writing this as a blog.

At the age of 49, I entered a night school for acupuncture and moxibustion while working as a teacher.
I studied there for three years.

My reason was personal.
When I was nine months pregnant, I developed facial paralysis.
I wanted to understand why this happened to my body.

I wanted to study Eastern medicine, but I was surprised by the thick textbooks on anatomy and physiology.
Learning about muscles and bones was very difficult for me, and I was not good at thinking in 3D.
Still, at the age of 51, I passed the national exam.

More than 15 years have passed since then.
Even now, after listening carefully to my patients, I study on my own using books and the internet and think about treatment.

The other day, I opened an anatomy book to help my husband, who has pain in his right leg.
While explaining it to him, many memories came back.

I thought, "I really worked hard to learn this."
It felt nostalgic and comforting.

Anatomy was once very difficult for me, but it has always stayed close to me.
Now I feel that anatomy may be my lifelong friend.

I will play the taishogoto at a Christmas party for a welfare group.
Many people there are blind or have weak eyesight.
I joined as a volunteer, but I feel I learn more from them.

I practiced at home for the first time in a while.
When I looked ahead, I saw a paper cup.
Inside were pencil shavings.

They were from a pencil my 6-year-old grandson sharpened when he went to a Japanese school.
It has been exactly two weeks since we said goodbye.
They stayed in Japan for one month and lived in another apartment.

People often say,
"Grandchildren come and you are happy.
Grandchildren go home and you are happy."
I did feel tired.
I had a bad cold, and I looked after two grandchildren.
One is 6 years old.
One is 4 years old and goes to kindergarten.
The third is only 4 months old.

But those pencil shavings brought back many memories.
Scenes and conversations came back to me, one after another.

The 6-year-old boy was allowed to join a first-grade class.
On the last day, he gave a thank-you speech.
He did not know he would give the speech in class.
His father, my son, wrote the words and made slides for him.
They practiced together.

With help from his teacher, he showed paper slides to the class and spoke in Japanese.

"Thank you for letting me be part of the class for one month.
The horizontal bar and mats were very interesting.
We do not have them in New Zealand.
Please come to New Zealand someday.
Thank you very much."
(He bowed.)

Many children were surprised by his good Japanese.
They asked him to say it again.

His indoor shoes were size 21 cm.
Both his parents are tall.
How tall will he become, I wonder.

In New Zealand, children do not use pencils or pencil sharpeners at school.
Is he enjoying math now, his favorite subject?
Is he getting along well with his friends?

I hope I can live a long life and quietly watch these children grow.

Tomorrow is the last day of our grandchildren's one-month experience at a Japanese elementary school and daycare. We were invited to dinner to celebrate their final day. Next week they will spend a week in Okinawa and then go back home to New Zealand.

I would be lying if I said I won't feel lonely. Of course, I love them very much. But it is not the kind of loneliness that makes me cry or hurts sharply in my heart. Maybe I have become used to saying goodbye over my lifetime.

People are born, meet many others, and say goodbye many times. I don't really remember how I felt saying goodbye to friends and teachers when I was a child. It's too far in the past. As a teacher, I felt sad when students graduated, especially when they gave me thank-you messages. But as the years went by, I became too busy preparing for the next group of students, and my emotions slowly faded.

After I got married, I often wondered if my husband and I were truly a good match because we were so different. With raising two children and working as a teacher, life passed very quickly. As an English teacher, I wanted both children to grow up bilingual, so we sent them to an immersion program even though it was far away. When I hesitated, my husband encouraged me by helping our 5-year-old son practice his commute.

Later, when our son entered junior high school, he had to choose either the Japanese school path or the International Baccalaureate path. He was tired from the long commute and didn't have enough time for sports. His grades were not improving, and he was entering a rebellious age. Around that time, through my school trips to Australia and Canada, I became close with people who supported study abroad. They told me that a boys' school in New Zealand wanted Japanese students. I had tried sending some of my students, but their English level wasn't high enough. As a last option, I suggested it to my son. He decided to go. It was December of his second year of junior high school. We didn't even go to the airport; we just said goodbye at the Shinkansen entrance. I think that was the hardest goodbye of my life. I was the one who suggested it, so I couldn't show sadness or cry. But inside, my heart hurt deeply. It was one of the hardest goodbyes of my life.

In the end, he never came back to live in Japan. He finished university in New Zealand, became a dentist, got permanent residency, married a New Zealander, and became a father of three.

When my daughter moved out, it also hurt, but in a different way. Still, because she stayed in Japan, I didn't cry.

Now, it is another goodbye to my son, his wife, and the grandchildren. Because we have visited New Zealand many times and always say goodbye after each visit, I think we have grown used to it.

Are some goodbyes heavier than others?
Are some kinds of heartache sharper than others?

These days, I am preparing myself for the final goodbye I will one day have to say to this world. I want to avoid causing trouble for my family, though I know things don't always go as planned.

Sometimes I wonder: If my husband leaves this world before me, will my heart hurt intensely again?
Or if I leave first, will he feel sad? I don't think he will be very sad he is that kind of person. He will simply take care of everything in his calm, practical way.

And that is fine. In the end, each person dies alone.
As we grow older, I think learning to be comfortable with solitude is an important part of life.