Saul
Day 556—Where’s the Dog?
thE DugiN cOme
Monique
Day 584—Confusion
As I awoke from another fitful sleep this morning, I reached over to Saul’s side of the bed and felt the cold starched sheet, and, of course, no Saul. It’s been ages now, and I still can’t get used to it. I know it’s forever and that he’ll never come back. That he’ll deteriorate in that damn pseudo hospital, while I rot here in what was our home for so many years.
Suzanne Latraverse, an acquaintance from the YMCA, has been pushing me to get on with my life and get out of the house—and maybe have some male companionship. She said it was more than enough to visit Saul every day, especially since he doesn’t know me most of the time. As much as I might want to, I could never do it. Besides, I cannot understand who would want to spend any time with someone who is on the wrong side of seventy. So I must say I was more than surprised when Michael Salomon, one of our neighbors on Oakland Avenue, stopped me a few days ago as I passed his house on my way to see Saul.
Michael has been a widower for about five years now. We were friends with him and Bessie before she got her cancer. It seemed she was gone less than a month after they found it. In my opinion, she was lucky to go so fast.
Michael is a decent man, an ophthalmologist with his own practice. And not bad-looking. A bit heavy, but who am I to talk? He asked about Saul. The day before had been one of Saul’s worst days. So I blurted out, “How terrible it is for both of us, this whole Alzheimer’s thing.”
He offered a cringing smile and then asked if I would like to have dinner one night. I think I babbled something like “Maybe” or “I’ll see,” something lame like that. He said he’d call me.
When I told Suzanne, she said I owed it to myself to go. But I wasn’t sure I saw it that way. I felt disloyal even thinking of maybe having a good time while Saul was wasting away. Suzanne said, first of all, he wouldn’t know. I countered that one could say the same about someone who cheats on her spouse behind his back. Then she said that maybe if I got out more, it would make me a better caregiver, calmer and less agitated. I wanted so much to see it her way, to get out of this goddamn house and go somewhere besides Manoir Laurier.
Michael called me the next day about dinner. I asked if he would call me back in an hour. After spending the hour scratching the rash that always seems to appear when I get nervous, I reluctantly agreed to go.
When we arrived at the restaurant, the young hostess showed us to a table by the window. Guess who was at the next table? Molly Kaplan, Westmount’s unofficial gossip queen. I could feel her glaring at me as Michael put his hand on my elbow, slowing me so we could say hello. Molly was with Rachael Lipman, a shrew if ever there was one. I wanted so to twitch my nose and disappear like Samantha on Bewitched. I had a feeling they knew it and were relishing the whole thing.
The hostess seated us at the next table. I wanted to move, but I figured they would think they had caught us doing something immoral. It was the longest meal of my life.
Michael drove us back to Oakland Avenue and pulled into his driveway. I didn’t protest, but a feeling of angst gripped me as he came around to open my door. It was all I could do to get out of the car. But mercifully, he led me past his house and directly to my front door. I put the key in the lock and barely turned around to thank him. It was eleven o’clock. I didn’t sleep the whole night.
The phone rang at nine the next morning. It was Michael. He asked me to come over to watch a movie that night. I found myself quickly accepting, while at the same time wondering why. I, of course, knew the answer. I am practically a widow—God, I hate that word—lonely, sad, and desperate for company. As I showered before going to see Saul, a wave of guilt practically buckled my knees. How could I do this? How could I betray Saul? But I did go, and not only that, I had a good time—until Michael tried to kiss me good night. What was he thinking, for Christ’s sake? I may be in a one-way relationship, but I’m still married. Or am I?
Joey
Day 589—Going, Going, Gone
I went to see Dad today. He was sitting in his wheelchair, his hands curled up, his head tilted to the side. I gave him my “Yo, Pops” greeting, but he didn’t budge.
I looked down at him, his neck slouching against his chest, his lower lids bulging out, seemingly propping up his closed eyes. For the first time, it really hit me. He’s a dead man. Maybe not officially, but a dead man nonetheless.
Jesus Christ! How could that have happened so quickly? Well, in retrospect, I guess it wasn’t so fast. He’s been in that place for almost two years.
I remember when he first got there, he was so much better than the others that I just figured it would always be like that. Now he’s one of them. Well, maybe not. Because my best guess is the ones who were like he is today are probably six feet under.
I leaned over him and whispered in his ear. “Pops, I know you think I’m a zippo. I can’t help what you believe. But let me assure you that I can take care of everything. I’m up to it. I really am. Just let go. I don’t know if you’re suffering, but even if you’re not, this can’t be any picnic. So why don’t you just give it up and go. I’ll take care of Mom and Florence.”
He didn’t open his eyes or give me any indication he’d heard me. But that wouldn’t be surprising, even if he weren’t sick. He’s always figured he’s the only one who can handle anything. It’s like he’s the last man who can make sense of this world.
“Well, Pops,” I said, “I hate to tell you, but that’s not the way it is anymore, in case you haven’t noticed. So just give it up for everybody’s sake—Mom’s, Florence’s, yours—and yeah, mine, too. We don’t want to keep coming here and seeing you like this. We want to remember you the way you were.
“Do you recall how pissed we all were that your friend Christopher Rymond never once came to see you after you got sick? No, I guess you don’t. Well, I bumped into him at a restaurant last week, and you know what he told me? He said he hadn’t been around to see you because he wanted to remember you the way you were, not the way you most surely are now.
“I feel the same. But I have no choice. You’re my father. So I show up. Maybe not often, but as much as I can, given how pissed I am about the state you’re in. Anyway, it’s really tough watching you like this. So please, put all of us out of our misery. Please!”
Monique
Day 624—Our Fiftieth
Today was our fiftieth anniversary. Not quite what I envisioned when I walked down the aisle. Well, at least we got this far, which is more than a lot of people.
Saul was too far gone to remember the date. In fact, he couldn’t even understand what a wedding anniversary is. Nonetheless, that didn’t stop me from inviting the family over to room 315 at Manoir Laurier for a celebration. Don’t ask me why I did it. I know it sounds dumb. But I felt if I didn’t, I would be betraying, or maybe the right word is belittling, our union. And besides, what could be the downside? I’ve given up caring what people think. It’s too late for that.
Florence made a cake with two candles on it. The pink words on the icing just said Monique and Saul, Fifty Years. We all sat around—well, Florence and Bernie, Joey and I. Florence decided that she just couldn’t bring the kids around anymore. She said it was giving them nightmares. And I don’t blame her. I’m immune to it all now, and besides, I have to be there. But they don’t, and I agree with her decision.
I got there early and helped the attendant dress Saul. I wasn’t going to make him wear a suit and parade him around, but I did want to make sure he had on a clean shirt and sweater.
Once he was dressed, I tied the plastic bib around his neck and began to feed him. It’s a long and tedious process because he doesn’t eat on his own anymore and hasn’t for months. Just getting him to open his mouth and swallow—well, it can take forever. At least he doesn’t have solid foods anymore, so we don’t have to worry about him choking.
I usually get there to give him lunch and go back around five o’clock to feed him dinner. On the days that I can’t or don’t, Florence goes instead.
By the time the others arrived, Saul was sleeping again. I gently shook him, and he slowly opened his eyes. Florence lit the candles and held the cake in front of us. Bernie snapped a few photos with his new camera. I said, “Come on, Saul, we’ll each blow out a candle.” But he didn’t respond. So I blew out the two candles and with that, I felt, what was left of our marriage.
Florence
Day 640—What Next?
We were at Manoir Laurier this morning, Mother, Bernie, and I. Father was having one of his good days. Everything’s relative, but his eyes were open and they seemed to be following at least some of our conversation. Mother was complaining about Joey and how he hadn’t been there all week. So what else is new? She said she wouldn’t prompt him to visit anymore. That if he didn’t care, there was nothing more she could do.
Bernie defended Joey, saying that he just might not be able to cope with all of this. Mother got red in the face and started yelling at no one in particular. Venting, really. She said it has been hell for her but that she shows up. That she probably coddled Joey too much when he was young, and now he has no sense of responsibility. He doesn’t think about anyone but himself and is driven only by money.
Father looked at her like he was in agreement, his head nodding slightly as he kept her in his gaze. That seemed to spur her on. She shifted her focus to Father, talking to him like he could understand her, asking him where they went wrong. Almost like she was actually expecting an answer. Father uttered a few incoherent words, while Mother persisted, her voice shaking.
Suddenly, she pulled her hands to her chest. Her eyes widened. Her breathing accelerated. She fell back in her chair. I asked her what was wrong. She said she felt dizzy and had pain in her back. I could see perspiration on her forehead. Bernie said he would ring for the nurse.
Mother shook her head, saying it would pass in a few seconds. She closed her eyes for a moment, then raised herself up in her chair and looked over at Father. He just stared at her, mumbling. She got only a few more words out before her eyes glazed over. I screamed for Bernie to press the emergency button, and then I grabbed Mother’s purse, dumping the contents on the floor until her nitro pump fell out.
I administered it while Bernie called 911 on his cell phone. The nurses got there in a few seconds, and minutes later the medics arrived. They placed her on a stretcher and wheeled her down the hall toward the elevator and out to the ambulance.
Monique
Day 651—A Close Call
I’ve spent eleven days sharing a room with three other people in the hospital. If I weren’t already sick, this would do it. I don’t think I’ve gotten more than an hour’s sleep any night. The man next to me has a raspy cough that sounds like he is in the throes of death. The man in the cubicle opposite me is Spanish or Mexican and has a loud extended family that pours in at all hours, even though the night nurse has read them the riot act.
And then there was the poor woman in the cubicle on my right. She was only thirty-nine, and from Haiti. She had just brought her two daughters to Canada after a period of three years, when they had to stay with their grandmother down there while their visa applications went through Canada’s bureaucratic process. They were barely teenagers and so well behaved. I wish mine had been like that when they were those girls’ ages. Well, I guess Florence was pretty good.
Speaking of Florence, I told her not to visit me and to spend time with her father instead. But you know her—she spends lunch and dinner with him and then comes to see me at night.
The third morning, just after sunrise, they came to prepare the Haitian woman for surgery. She gave me a tight smile as they wheeled her away. I could tell by her eyes that she was frightened—and who wouldn’t be.
I followed the slow-moving hands of the clock beside the window all day. By dinnertime, she still hadn’t returned. Around nine that night, they rolled an elderly man into her cubicle. The woman from Haiti had died on the operating table. I told the nurse to get the number for her daughters. I will send a check to them at their aunt’s house. And then when I’m better, I’ll go see them.
I must say as bad as the conditions are in the hospital, the doctors are fantastic. They told me that I was close to death when I arrived at the emergency room, that I had arrhythmia and my heart had actually stopped at Manoir Laurier. They said the medics had used a defibrillator and administered some medications. The nurse told me what they were, but they all had such long names, I can’t remember them. She said when I arrived at the hospital, they had inflated a balloon in the arteries around my heart and cleared three blockages. They said I would have been released earlier, but I had some complications. I’m getting some other medications now, and they seem to be working, because I feel a little stronger. The doctor in charge of the ward said I should be able to go home tomorrow—not a day too soon.
Joey
Day 651—Finally, a Good Dream
I can’t remember a night that I haven’t had terrible dreams—actually, horrible nightmares. Last night was different. I had my usual glass of chardonnay and a few tokes of weed before I turned off the light and fell asleep.
Here, to the best of my recollection, is what I dreamed: Dad was sitting at the foot of my bed, dressed in a blue suit, white dress shirt, and red tie. His posture was straight, like he had a steel rod in his back. His face was serene, his smile calm. He told me that I was a better son to him than he was to his father. That our conflicts were not my fault, but, rather, a result of his being stubborn and obstinate. He apologized for the tantrums, the doubts, and his lack of emotional involvement. He said he loved me and only wanted my happiness. Then he stood up, leaned over, and hugged me. I could feel the wet tears falling off his face onto my cheek. They were warm and cold at the same time. More important, they were comforting. He stayed in that position for a long time, seemingly not wanting to stop. And frankly, I didn’t want him to, either.
I generally remember only fragments of my nightmares, just enough to haunt me. But this morning when I woke up, every gesture, every word, every movement of last night’s dream was so vivid, like it actually happened. If only it had.
Florence
Day 656—A Miracle
Last Sunday, I was at Mother’s house, preparing for her return home. It’s ironic that she had moved the bedroom downstairs for Father, and now it is she who can’t climb the stairs.
She was at the hospital for over ten days after the attack. The cardiologist told me her heart is really diseased, and the prognosis for some kind of normal life will depend a lot on her stress level.
Mother insisted that she didn’t want a caretaker living in her house. I can certainly understand that. Who wants a stranger living in your house 24/7. I told her I would take a leave of absence from my work and move in until she was strong enough to manage for herself. I have cut back my hours a lot since having the kids anyway, and even more so since Father got sick. The partners at the firm have been very understanding. As long as I take care of my clients, they have no problem with my working on my files at home.
Bernie wasn’t happy that I’d be staying with Mother, but he understood. The kids said they would come by every day after school, do their homework, and stay for dinner, so at least we could see one another.
Bernie went to pick up Mother while I left to get some groceries. I chose things I knew she might not like but that were good for her. I realized that wasn’t going to go over well, but I certainly wasn’t going to contribute to another heart attack.
When they arrived, I helped her into the house and into her room. She had begun light exercise, walking the corridors of the hospital, but she was still very weak.
I got her undressed, put her in bed, and went into the kitchen to prepare dinner.
Only minutes after Bernie left to get back to the children, the doorbell rang. I wasn’t expecting anyone at five o’clock on a Sunday afternoon. I wiped my hands on the kitchen towel by the stove and walked through the living room to the front door.
I almost keeled over when I opened it. Joey was standing there with a suitcase in his hand. He looked like a door-to-door salesman carrying his wares. I asked him what he was doing there. What he said almost gave me a heart attack. After everything I’ve told you about him, you couldn’t imagine his answer. He said he was moving in with Mother and would take care of her. That I could go home to my children. That he would stay with her until she was better.
Joey
Day 660—Why Move in with Mom?
That’s a good question. One I’ve been asking myself over and over. If I had to rank my parents in order, I’m not sure exactly how it would come out, maybe neither of them would make the top spot. Like I’ve said before, in their own way they probably did what they could. And I guess they learned their parenting skills from their parents, so you can’t really blame them. But nonetheless, I still had to endure my father’s icy demeanor. I mean, how many fathers, when at seven years old you go to kiss them good night, would offer you a handshake instead—and never kiss you again? And my mother’s being preoccupied with her favorite Florence all the time. What about me?
Anyway, what’s done is done, and here I am. I realize that no parent is perfect, despite what we thought when we were kids. And so to compensate for some of the things that go missing in our childhood, we tend to go one way or the other. I’m having trouble saying this clearly, but what I mean is that Florence is the way she is because of how she was treated as a kid, and the same goes for me.
In spite of everything, seeing Mom lying there so close to death really scared me and made me realize how mortal we all are. Especially me, now that I have the ApoE4 genes. I’d want to know someone would be there for me if something were to happen.
I told Florence I would stay with Mom until she’s better, figuring it will be a month—tops. Even I can handle that. But frankly, if it stretches on much longer than that, then I’ll have to reassess the whole thing.