When considering the amount of medicine,
children’s doses are calculated by body weight.
Yet once we become adults,
body weight is rarely taken into account.
In older adults,
declining kidney function must also be considered.
Within the single phrase “adult dose,”
many hidden assumptions quietly remain.
After finishing the explanation
of the prescribed medicine,
I watch as the medicine bag settles
into the person’s hands.
In that moment,
before nationality, one thought appears:
—Will this medicine be taken properly?
Each time the explanation ends,
a small uneasiness lingers softly.
In Japan, cold remedies often contain
many roles within a single box—
fever, throat, nose, cough—
an attempt to ease several symptoms at once.
Abroad, medicines are more often divided
by individual symptoms.
Only what is necessary is chosen,
and unnecessary ingredients are avoided.
This attitude may seem rational,
yet somehow a little fragile.
It is not a matter of which is correct.
The wish to be wrapped in reassurance all at once,
and the impulse to choose for oneself.
Behind the different forms of medicine
lie not only ways of protecting the body,
but also quiet reflections of how people live.
While explaining these differences,
what I truly face
is not only ingredients or dosage.
How much pain the person feels now.
Whether this medicine
can bring even a little relief.
And one more silent wish remains—
—May this medicine be taken as directed.
In the instant the medicine is handed over,
an unseen moment, almost like a prayer,
flows quietly between us.
If it helps, even a little, that’s enough.