I looked at the patient information again at the door.“Little French, no English.”
Oh! I need to greet her in French, I thought.
Near the bed was a paper: “This patient is blind.”
Ooh la la!What should I do?
About a month had passed since I started volunteering.My listening seemed improving slowly.But it would not work at all for this patient.I paused; my mind was spinning.
At our last meeting, we had talked about her.I remembered an experienced volunteer had made a connection through a greeting and a gentle touch.
I decided to follow her example.
“Bonjour Madame” I said and gently touched her hand.
She turned her face toward me, as if looking straight into my eyes.I introduced myself – name and nationality, and sat on a chair at her bedside.
But alas, my stock of French was almost gone; I could not continue.
She was still holding my hand.I could not leave her after only a greeting.
I dragged the chair closer to bed and touched her cheek with the other hand. Her skin was smooth and warm.Her hair was soft.
She kept my hand and smiled a little.
Volunteers called her Madam H (pseudonym), not her given name — out of respect.She was 84 years old, an immigrant from Armenia and a quiet patient.
My relationship with Madam H began like this.Each week, we looked at each other’s eyes.I took her hand, stroked her face and hair.Most of the time, we talked through our hands in silence.Sometimes I sang Japanese children’s songs to her.
About 5 months passed.
One day, as I was about to leave, she pulled my hand hard with a sharp “Écoute!”
I sat back and looked at her eyes.
She began softly in her mother tongue.Then gradually she became louder as theexcitement were building up in her.I listened without understanding a word —fascinated.
As her story developed, her face shone, her expressions became more lively and far richer.She must be telling me a very memorable story, I thought.
When her story reached the climax, her voice became very excited.Bright smile like a sunflower blossomed one after another.
Then a laughter “Hohoho! Hoh!Hoh!Ho ho!”
Her excitement and joy was contagious.
Once she finished telling a memoir, she looked into my eyes, again, released my hand and said, “Au revoir!”
“Au revoir.À la prochaine”. I stood up.
Something very warm spread in me.Madam H had shared with me a part of her life, her joyful moment.
On April 5, Easter morning, I woke up in Mont-Tremblant. The rain during the night had melted some remaining snow, leaving its surface jagged, and the driveway half flooded and muddy.
It was not pretty at all.The oncesmooth, white snow was now brown, covered with tiny gravel, dust, and dead spruce needles. Broken trees and branches — the wreckage of winter storms — were scattered everywhere.
There were no colors yet. Bare brownish grey trees, and tired, discolored evergreens in the hills. Dirty patches of snow at their feet.The sky was leaden.
I sighed — I was impatient for spring.
In the afternoon, I went out, in rain boots, with a shovel in my hands.I scraped the ice and slush on the path.Much heavier than the dry winter snow.Finally I walked in the puddles, hearing splashes.
Splashes!Water!The sound of water! The last time I heard water was 6 months ago!
Then I heard a much stronger sound from the ditch along the road.All during winter, the ditch was frozen hard and buried under a thick blanket of snow.Now that the blanket was half gone, the forceful current of melted snow was exposed, and heard.
The water broke the dead silence of winter. More sounds and colors will follow — birds, grass, leaves and flowers.
The sound of water — the first sign of spring and resurrection.
Mom gave me a name at birth. Dad went to the registry office, only to find it was refused by the government law. An officer suggested an alternative, and I was tentatively registered by that name.
Mom had wished me to be noble 尚, but the government made me to be straight, 直. I became a straight girl.
At school, I learned to write my name in Kanji (Chinese characters). One day Dad showed me a paper. “This is you,” he said.
The paper read; “I name you as 尚子 (noble girl.)”
What? Who is she? It is Dad’s writing. It says he named me. As 尚. Who is this noble girl?
Some time later, a family legend slowly dawned on me. About the government law and a tentative name. It might be about me!
A question was born in my mind that day; “Who am I?” “Who am I, Really?” It never left me ever since.
Dad beat me almost every day. His loud “Naoko” was followed by severe beatings. I was afraid of him. I kept quiet, hid myself, became a good girl, and clenched my teeth when beaten.
When I was born, Dad was almost 58 and had raised 8 children himself after his wife had died earlier. He remarried Mom who was younger than many of his children. He was sickly, occasionally suffered from strokes.
I was afraid of Dad. Afraid of being beaten. Panicked when he fell, anticipating I was going to lose him.
This was how I grew up.
One day, Dad fell ill with the biggest stroke in his life. I was 21. Everything changed. He became bedridden as his right side was paralyzed, and he lost his words. There wasn’t loud “Naoko” or beatings – not any more.
I looked down on him, bathed him, and cleaned him. If I wanted, I could even kick him around!
I felt safe, for the first time in my life.
For 9 years, I carefully observed him slowly withering, like a piece of wood.
I discovered something. Behind the frightening father was a wounded child, just like me. He only wanted his mom’s love and understanding. He was sad as his mom was far beyond his reach. He was frustrated as he could not do things as he wished.
I had thought Dad did not want to name me, but he was only unable to do so.
I came to understand Mom’s wish behind the name 尚子. As she was from Okinawa, a dynasty governed by 尚 (Sho) family for 450 years, she wanted me to have the soul of her mother land.
And, behind the name 直子, I saw God’s message, “Come straight to me.” He deprived my parents of a sweet opportunity to name their baby, in order for Him to name it (me) directly.
The journey in search of the meaning of my name seemed over.
It was not. I lost my name again at 50 when I moved to Canada.
Meanings were dropped and the name became only a collection of sounds. No more noble or straight, but NAOKO. Pronounced quite differently too. Anglophones say Na-O-ko, Francophones Nao-KO, whereas in Japan I was NA-oko.
My name was broken to pieces.
Who am I, really? Once again.
Each and every day was for survival. Language barrier, cultural differences, food, air, smell, scenery – “everything foreign” stood in front of me. A very long adjustment and integration.
It was Mom and the little-used name 尚 noble girl that brought me back to my search.
Mom developed Alzheimer’s. I decided to visit her for about 3 weeks around her birthday.
One Quebecois friend noticed my annual visit to Japan. She approached me asking if I could take her there. I explained it was not for fun or sightseeing, but we ended up visiting Mom’s birth place together.
I joined my palms at the family altar facing my ancestors. Though I hadn’t known anyone in the photos, I felt deep connection with them. I felt Mom, her ancestors, Sho family, and my root deep within me.
It was an integration with the name 尚, reconciliation, belonging and becoming.
I learned many things from the life in Quebec. In November, 2025, I experienced something extraordinary.
One day right in front of my eyes, I saw all the pages of Maktub flip over at an enormous speed. Then a laser beam pierced my body from infinity to infinity.
I was light itself!
All the names dropped their meanings. At the same time, their profound meanings surfaced. 直子, 尚子, NAOKO as sounds and accents.
In late February 2026, I took out the naming paper from the safe when I was about to write this story for my updated website.
I’d thought the old naming paper was a symbol of Dad’s rejection. But on that day, I saw it differently.
It was a gift. The biggest gift only he can give me.
Without the paper, I would never have ventured into a journey to look for the real me, let alone found it.
Dad transitioned without finding who he really was. When I found it, I felt he as well as his (our) ancestors also reached who they were. He had offered the opportunity to me.
Tears of gratitude trickled down.
This is not the end of the story.
A few days ago, on my birthday, the first words that came out of my mouth surprised me – “Happy birthday.” I realized I had never celebrated my own birthday.
The naming paper had prevented me from accepting my existence as a blessing.
For the first time, at the age 77, I embraced my existence as a blessing and nestled down into its warmth.
A real birthday gift from Dad.
It was a very long journey, but I returned at last…
