Pulling a Minister’s Chair, With My Tax Money

 One small scene on television keeps bothering me:
a senior politician arrives, and someone carefully pulls out a chair for them to sit down.
They look perfectly capable of doing it themselves—so why does this ritual persist?

 

One example of what feels like wasted tax money to me is the presence of people whose job is to pull chairs for senior officials such as cabinet ministers.

A healthy-looking politician arrives, and someone waits attentively, then ceremoniously pulls out a chair so the politician may sit.
I cannot help thinking: surely they can sit down by themselves. Yet this practice shows no sign of disappearing.

I do not know the exact status of those who perform this role, but they are likely civil servants or something close to it, paid with public funds.

When I asked an AI about it, I learned that these individuals are often ministerial secretaries or protocol officers—national civil servants whose role is to ensure that senior officials are seated smoothly and without disruption.

Directing someone by saying, “Please sit here,” or “Please speak into this microphone,” is not meaningless. It resembles the work of staff at a wedding hall. Given that senior officials move constantly from one venue to another, such coordination may indeed be necessary.

Even so, something about it still does not sit right with me.

These actions themselves may be what elevate certain people into “important figures.”
There are people who work to make important people look important, and politicians—who are supposed to be public servants—end up reinforcing their own authority using tax money.

When politicians raise their own salaries at will, postpone reductions in the number of seats, and leave issues of money and politics unresolved, it is hard not to feel disillusioned.

I am not paying taxes in order to help glorify such politicians.

That said, in a country where democracy is functioning, however imperfectly, perhaps constant complaints like this miss the point.

When it comes to taxes, my frustration may turn into misplaced anger.
Perhaps this, too, is simply the habit of those at the bottom.

Has the Singularity Already Begun Around Us?

 I once believed that AI singularity would arrive all at once, transforming society in a dramatic and unmistakable way.
But lately, through everyday interactions with AI, I have begun to feel that something quieter—and perhaps more personal—has already started.

 

Today feels a little warmer.
Perhaps the headache and sore throat that began yesterday will ease as well.

Recently, I watched an old sketch from the NHK comedy show LIFE, featuring an AI with emotions.
It was a work from six or seven years ago, yet I was struck by the scriptwriter’s foresight in imagining a world even closer to our present reality.

The progress of AI has become exponential, and its momentum is difficult to measure.
It no longer seems impossible that AI could one day resemble Mamoru from Lupin III—a being approaching something like divinity.

I once thought that AI singularity would arrive all at once.
But that does not seem to be the case.
At least on a personal level, it may already be quietly underway.

When I ask AI a question, it often ends with a suggestion:
“Shall we explore this further?”

When I reply, “Yes, let’s do that,” another response appears.
If such exchanges were to continue endlessly, knowledge would expand without limit.

What I once believed AI could not do—posing human-like questions—
now seems possible with only the slightest prompt.

And when countless people, myself included, present their questions to AI,
those very questions become nourishment for its growth.

In that sense, apart from a society-wide singularity,
there may already be a kind of turning point in the relationship between AI and humans—
one that has arrived quietly, right around us.

Since ancient times, humans have devised ways to reduce physical labor.
Now, it is becoming clear that the greatest burden has always been intellectual labor.

Which Stresses Can I Reduce, and How?

My blood pressure has been high lately. With the cold weather, the loss of my brother, and the weight of work, I find myself asking how to live with stresses that cannot be avoided—and how to adjust to them.

 

My blood pressure has been high recently.
Perhaps because of that, I have headaches and feel unwell.

The cold weather over the past weeks, combined with thoughts of my brother, is probably the reason.
Work-related stress has also been considerable.

These are things I cannot avoid.
I have no choice but to accept them.
So the question becomes how to come to terms with them.

For the cold, the answer is simple: dress warmly.
This morning was cold again, so I will start wearing thermal underwear from tomorrow.
I am sensitive to both cold and heat, but the rise in blood pressure caused by cold is something I can address.
What can be done, should be done properly.

I want to keep my neck, wrists, and ankles warm as well.
Still, I wonder why winters in Japan feel so relentlessly cold.

As for blood pressure itself, I try to drink less alcohol and reduce salt.
I know that as hot pot meals increase, so does my use of ponzu sauce.

As for my brother—he is gone now, and there is nothing that can be done about that.

I find myself recalling many things: our past, the funeral, scattered memories.
I have not yet fully come to terms even with my father’s death.
So how am I supposed to accept my brother’s?

I believe I will accept it someday, but I have no idea when.
Perhaps I never will, not until I die.

People have to live while repeatedly accepting the deaths of others.

As for work-related stress, there is little I can do about it.

Routine tasks should be carried out together with colleagues and clinicians, supporting one another.
Academic society responsibilities weigh heavily on me, but these too cannot be avoided.
If I run away, others will suffer.

These societies and study groups, and the people involved, are what raised and shaped me.
This is my way of giving something back.

It is my mission.

Swiftly and accurately,
I want to handle each task, one by one.

 

A Mother, Siblings, Uncles, Cousins, and Nieces

 After a night of rain, the autumn leaves were gone.
The funeral ended quietly, leaving behind fatigue and concern for one mother.

 

The rain that started last night stripped most of the autumn leaves away.
At last, water reached the dry ground.

My younger brother’s funeral came to an end without major trouble.
“Without major trouble,” that is—except for one moment.
After the service, my mother, as the chief mourner, was scheduled to give a five-minute speech.
She spoke for ten, then fifteen.
The funeral staff grew visibly anxious, and we eventually asked her to shorten what was becoming a full life story to about a quarter of its length.

My mother, siblings, uncles, cousins, and nieces gathered to see my brother off.
At the meal afterward, we exchanged brief updates on our lives, almost as if it were a reunion.

Even we were exhausted by the end of the day.
I cannot help but worry about my mother, who must be far more tired than any of us.

 

Why It Is So Difficult to Summarize a Human Life

 The passing of my younger brother has slowly brought a quiet ache into my daily life. As the winter deepens, I find myself thinking about what it truly means to reflect on someone's life — not as a pathologist, but as a brother.

 

With the arrival of true winter, I finally put on my down jacket today.
It has a warmth that leather cannot match, and I will rely on it again this season.
The dry air has already begun to irritate my throat.

Since my brother passed away, a gentle but persistent sadness has been settling in.
The tension I had been carrying has loosened, and fatigue has begun to surface.

Thanks to another pathologist joining our department, daily work is manageable.
Still, while I relaxed for a moment, peer reviews and research assignments piled up.
I had intended to start fading out from such responsibilities, yet each task now feels heavier than before.

Bereavement echoes quietly in the heart.

While my brother was alive, communication was not always easy, but when I held his hand, he would squeeze back.
If I looked into his face, his eyes met mine.
And his body was warm.

None of that remains now.

As a pathologist for more than thirty years, I have faced many bodies.
I have learned from each case, and I believe those lessons have contributed—however slightly—to improving medical care.
I have also fulfilled the important role of explaining findings to grieving families.

We did not perform an autopsy on my brother.
Aspiration pneumonia was the likely cause, and the microscopic picture was easy to imagine.
People with Down syndrome often show somewhat accelerated aging, but at sixty, the difference is small.
There was nothing medically new to discover.
If anything, the remarkable part was how healthy he had remained until the end.
And yet, he died.

There may be value in summarizing his physical condition, but I did not feel compelled to do so.

It is never easy to summarize a human life.
One may look at the body, the way the person lived, or what they left behind.
But no matter the angle, no definitive conclusion emerges.

When I remember my brother, only the good comes to mind.
He had nothing but good in him.

Even as One Among the Many

 The world moves on with quiet indifference, even when personal loss brings life to a halt. In that flow, what does it mean to live as just one among countless others?

 

The scenery outside the commuter train window looked no different from usual.

Although I am on bereavement leave, I came in today because a colleague was off and I felt I should at least help for half a day.
A hospital struggles when a pathologist does not work.

Since I left home a little later than usual, there seemed to be more students. People walked across the platform as always, waiting for the next train.

The view before and after my brother’s passing has changed very little.
Of course, that is only the broad landscape—nothing is ever exactly the same.
The world moves quickly, and the people within it are swept along, each facing changes in their own lives.

If we isolate each individual’s story, the shifts are immense. Yet from the perspective of society—or humanity as a whole—the change seems slow and almost gentle.

I am only one member of that humanity, just one among the many.
In that sense, I am no different from a single bee or ant in a vast colony.

And yet, if you focus on just one ant, that ant unmistakably carries its own singular life.
I, too, am one such ant, and even an ant has its own role.

What exactly my role is may not be something I can clearly define.
But living the present moment with honesty—that, at least, is something I can do.

The Meaning Behind “Support Team”

 Losing someone close is always painful, but parting with a younger sibling brings a different kind of sorrow. Reflecting on my brother’s life reminds me how society labels people—and how words shape the way we see them.

 

Saying a final goodbye to someone dear, knowing you will never meet again, is deeply lonely.

I have experienced such farewells many times before, but parting with my younger brother feels different.
For my mother, it is a gyakuen—a child passing before the parent—and her grief must be far greater than mine.

Even so, she often said, “He must go before I do.”
As a mother, perhaps she now feels a kind of quiet relief.

People with Down syndrome can live fulfilling lives when supported by those around them.
From that perspective, they are sometimes described as “socially vulnerable.”
But why “vulnerable”?
And why do we still use the word “disability” so casually?

In the pathology department, I am responsible for what used to be called the “employment program for people with disabilities.”
Each time I said those words, I felt a subtle discomfort.
Recently, the name was changed to “Support Team,” and in that sense I feel relieved.

From now on, I can simply say, “This is the work of our Support Team.”

Yet when someone asks, “What is the Support Team?” I will inevitably find myself using the word “disability” to explain.
The path toward better language—and better understanding—still feels long.