Saul
Corroboration of My Death Sentence
Monique isn’t angry with me today. In fact, she took me for sushi in the basement of Westmount Square, a tall, boxy group of three black buildings—or maybe four. She pulled out my chair. I hate it when she does that, so I pushed it back in and accidentally knocked over the soy sauce thing. She scooped it off the table and put it on an empty table beside us. We both stood there—she with her hands on her hips, looking at me; me staring through her.
We finally sat down, but not before I pulled her chair out. She smiled and then asked me if I wanted soup or salad to start.
I said, “Soup or salad.”
She asked, “Which one, soup or salad?”
I replied, “Damn it, I said soup.”
She said, “Maybe you should have the salad; you may spill the soup.”
A young Oriental girl brought the salad. I winked at her and held out my hand. She seemed a bit startled.
Monique grabbed my arm and yanked it away, apologizing to her at the same time. Something about my having the big A disease. The girl offered a faint smile and left the ordering and writing things in front of us. Monique said she would do it for us. I told her I could do it for myself and was going to order for her, too.
She touched my arm, and I shrugged her off. I picked up the writing thing and asked her what she wanted. She told me. I searched the menu for a long time but couldn’t find it.
“They don’t have it,” I finally said. “Pick something else.”
She said, “They have it; I’ll check it off.”
She picked up her writing thing and made a quick check. I scrunched my eyes together, opened them wide, and put my own checks on the menu. Then I waved it in front of me to get the young girl’s attention. She reached over the table from Monique’s side and plucked it out of my hand.
In what seemed like just moments later, she put two plates in front of me.
“I didn’t order this,” I said.
She wanted to know what I’d ordered.
“I don’t remember,” I said, my eyes tearing, “but not this.”
She looked at Monique and nodded.
Monique said, “Why don’t you eat it anyway, dear; it looks delicious?”
I replied, “I will not,” and pushed back my chair and folded my arms across my chest.
Monique asked for the bill. Then, while we waited, she told me she’d gotten me something, and pulled a small box out of her purse. It was a silver bracelet. The front said Medic Alert. The back had a toll-free 800 number, the words Memory Impaired—Allergic to Penicillin—Call Immediately, and my new moniker, 344689. She slung it over my wrist and locked it into place, branding me like they do cattle. That made it official. Saul Reimer, number 344689, has Alzheimer’s.
Florence
He’s Still a Human Being
Mother and I have just come back from seeing Dr. Tremblay to discuss Father’s results. Dr. Tremblay said he was already into the middle stage, which he told us is normal, considering it’s been three years since he was diagnosed. That was no surprise. But nonetheless, the way he has been acting lately has frightened me. What were occasional behaviors are now normal. And what was the norm is now only occasional.
I look at him the same way. But I notice that Joey, and to some extent Mother, treat him like the disease that has taken over his existence. He may have lost a lot and be unable to function like we do, but he isn’t a vegetable and shouldn’t be treated like one.
The other day, he wanted to wear his favorite paisley tie, one that Mother has always felt was gaudy. Now that Father is basically powerless to resist, Mother told him he couldn’t wear it. I mean, what’s the big deal? She said he wouldn’t know the difference, and she wanted him to look good when she took him for lunch at Westmount Square. But I could see the sparkle leave his eyes as she reached over his broad shoulders to tie a knot on the boring brown tie.
What about his pride and self-esteem? He still has that left, but he won’t for long if they continue to paint him as if he’s already gone, as some sort of contaminated subhuman being. I believe, and I have told them both, that we should do whatever we think he wants, not what we want, so that the remaining time he has living at home can be as comfortable as possible for him. Dr. Tremblay said there is no use in correcting him when he makes a mistake. All that will do is upset him, and he won’t remember anyway.
Now, more than ever, he needs to feel our love and caring—even if Joey has to fake it. He was good at faking it when he needed money from Father, so it really shouldn’t be too difficult for him. I think Mother, although they have quarreled since I can remember, really does love Father, or at least cares for him. So even if it means biting her tongue and letting him do what he wants, why shouldn’t she?
He may not be able to function normally, but he isn’t just Saul Reimer, a middle-stage Alzheimer’s victim, whose worth is the sum total of the results of all the tests he has taken. He is my father, a man, and a human being.
Saul
Quicksand
Last night, I had a dream.
I am walking down an endless highway. One of those two-lane roads that goes on forever. The pavement changes to some kind of Jell-O, but I continue walking through it as if it were still the real road. Suddenly, the Jell-O starts to attack me. I try to move my feet. They’re stuck. I start to sink in slow motion, until the gooey liquid is up to my neck.
My parents, Hannah and Larry, appear in front of me. They look like that painting of the farmer with the pitchfork and his wife. My father says it’s almost over. My mother looks sad. Then my sister, Miriam, appears. I reach out to take her hand, but before I can grab it, they all vanish, and in their place stand Monique, Florence, and Joey. They hold out their hands. I reach out once more. This time, Monique takes my hand and pulls me out. I look down and can see my feet on the pavement. The three of them disappear, and I start to walk down the road again. Moments later, the Jell-O attacks me and I start to sink. Then I woke up.
Monique
The Vase
I went into the kitchen this morning, drained from spending more than two hours following Saul around the house. Last night’s escapade started in our bedroom and took a circuitous route up and down the stairs and, more than once, through every room except for the garage.
I walked into the dining room, as I usually do with my morning coffee, and sat at the long mahogany table with its cushioned Regency-style chairs. A lone crystal vase sat in the middle, filled with white roses. I usually change them every ten days or so, but I didn’t have a chance to get new ones this week, what with Saul being more difficult and demanding than usual. I’m not complaining. Well, maybe I am. But having a few minutes to brood and feel sorry for myself is not a crime. Wouldn’t you agree?
I glanced over at the white petals that had fallen onto the table. Most days, there are usually only a few. But today there were more petals on the table than on the wilted roses. And they were strewn about, probably as a result of a breeze from the open window.
I’ve sat here almost every morning for years, staring at the roses. After finishing my coffee, I would pick up the petals that had fallen to the table and put them in the trash. But today, for the first time, I realized the obvious. That as each petal falls, a flower loses a part of its life. And that’s what’s happening to Saul. Bit by bit, he is losing parts of himself, and eventually, when all the petals fall, he will be nothing—gone—extinct. My poor Saul.
Saul
I Am Dying
Not a quick death, unfortunately, but a gradual shutting down of my system that will probably get me to hell and back many times before the Lord takes me. I have thought about cheating him and taking the easy way out. In fact, I bought a book called Final Exit, about taking your life, after Dr. Horowitz first told me I might have Alzheimer’s. I hid it underneath some old tax statements in the den. I had forgotten exactly where I’d put it, but I came across it while I was tiding up today. For some reason, it comes tightly wrapped in plastic. I unwrapped it but only got as far as reading the back cover. It says right there on the back that it offers people with a terminal illness a choice on how and when to end their suffering.
Here’s the conundrum. Amazing! A fifty-cent word that I not only remembered but, I think, used in the right place. I may be going crazy, but I am not going stupid! Anyway, the doctors have told me, and I don’t mean one or two, but more, including Dr. Tremblay and some neuro guy and a couple of others. They have told me I probably have Alzheimer’s, but they say they can’t be 100 percent sure until after I die and they open my head to see if I have that plaque stuff on my brain. They’re pretty sure, more than pretty sure, but not 100 percent sure.
My best guess is that I am heading pretty fast toward my demise. I plan to start reading the book before it just looks like a bunch of jumbled letters with no meaning. In fact, I already seem to mix up some of the letters in words, so I’d better do it soon.
The doctors have me on so many pills, I can hardly see the kitchen counter. Ginkgo, Aricept, and something called Melamine or Memantine or something. You would think I would know the right name, given I take so many of them. They’re all supposed to slow down my memory loss, or at least the symptoms. So far, they tell me it seems to be working like it should, but then again, how would I know what is normal? There is nothing normal in this hell I’m in.
Yesterday, we went to Dr. Tremblay’s office. He wanted me to be part of a test group, one where they give some of us the real thing and the others what he called a … well, anyway, it was the fake one.
Monique said she wanted the doctor to give me the real thing. The doctor said he couldn’t guarantee it, but that I had a 50 percent chance. The drug was like an experiment or something, and the only way I could possibly get it was to be part of the group. Monique went ballistic. I have never seen her so angry. She told the doctor in a loud voice that I was a human being, not a guinea pig. Sometimes I think Monique loves me.
Monique
How Sad for Him, How Sad for Me
Saul was sitting in front of the television, a blank look on his face. He seemed so sad, so empty. And he has every right to be that way. What does he have to look forward to? What quality of life? What happiness? It takes him forever to get dressed. His taste buds are diminishing. The doctor said he’s all but lost his sense of smell. Mon Dieu, that’s half the enjoyment of eating. And I always seem to be cutting up his food when we go out. I know he can sort of do it most of the time, but I am tired of being embarrassed in public. Mind you, having people watch me cut his meat isn’t exactly a pleasure, either.
He certainly can’t enjoy wearing clothes like he used to. He doesn’t seem to be able to focus on a book anymore, and his patience when it comes to playing cards or games is almost nonexistent. As far as I’m concerned, he has no quality of life. And he is really getting depressed. I do everything I can to distract him from all the desolation he must be going through, but it’s a losing battle.
Maybe he’d be better off dead, and maybe I’d be better off, too.
I know you are probably saying to yourself, What a shrew she is! Her poor husband is ill, dying a slow, wretched death, and she’s there pitying herself. That may be how it appears, but it’s not the case. I wish people could understand what I go through every day. They all feel sorry for Saul. What about me?
I feel like I’m almost invisible. People hardly ever ask how I’m doing, and when they do, it’s seems like they are asking because they feel they have to, but they really couldn’t care less. No one gives me any support. I’m not going to go to one of those caretaker support groups. First of all, I can’t see how a bunch of people stuck in the same boat are going to be able to help one another. And I’m not going to have some social worker lecture me. Besides, as I’ve told you before, I can’t leave Saul alone.
Florence does come by, and Joey breezes in and out, usually for ten minutes. And Saul has a couple of friends like Arthur Winslow who visit on a regular basis. But I am the one stuck alone here every day, wandering the house with him at night, being the object of his physical abuse, carrying wet naps in my purse to wipe his drool. My God, what’s next?
Do you know that I’m on Valium to control my anxiety? That my stomach is on fire all day, and that I’m practically addicted to Tagamet? That I now carry nitroglycerin in my purse for my heart condition?
I wish I could just tell someone all that—someone who cares and would understand. I’ve tried with Florence, but although she listens and offers some comfort, I know it’s her father she’s concerned about. And forget Joey, that would be a waste of time. Dr. Tremblay said I should feel free to call him if I were experiencing any difficulty, but when I called him, he just said he would send over a refill for my Valium prescription. Saul may be the one with Alzheimer’s, but I’m the one suffering a long and miserable life.