Florence
Day 668—The Visit
I pulled my Volvo into Mother’s driveway just before noon. A minute later, she appeared on Joey’s arm from the side door. Her hair was up in a bouffant. She had on Father’s favorite dress, the blue one with the silver stripes on the sleeves. Given she had been back home for just over two weeks, it wasn’t surprising that she looked tired. Her gait was a bit wobbly, but Joey held onto her elbow to steady her as she got into the front seat. This would be the first time she would see Father since her heart attack.
When we walked into Father’s room, he was staring at the television, seemingly in a trance.
But a moment later, he turned toward Mother and said, “Bonjour, chou-fleur.”
I had to hold on to her, as I thought she would collapse right there.
She reached out for his hand and stroked it. “Bonjour, mon cher,” she said.
Father smiled and put his hand on top of hers. If I hadn’t been there to see it myself, I never would have believed it.
I slid a chair under her, and Joey helped her into it. Her hand didn’t move, and neither did Father’s. They just looked into each other’s eyes, their gazes never moving, transfixed, experiencing something we weren’t privy to. Seconds later, Father’s vacuous stare returned to the television, and the moment ended.
Joey said, “Mom, he knows you’re here.”
Mother nodded, and said, “Yes, I’m sure he does.”
And I believe he did. He has those moments where you just know he’s back with you. This was definitely one of them.
Twenty minutes later, Joey looked at his watch and cleared his throat. Mother and I were familiar with the signal. It was time to go. I helped her up. She bent over Father and gave him a kiss on his forehead, followed by a kiss on his lips, and a long hug. Then she took Joey’s arm, and we left Father’s room.
Monique
Day 668—My Saul
Joey, Florence, and I went down to visit Saul today. Maybe I’m just getting used to seeing him like that, shriveled, hands closed, like he’s holding one of Dugin’s balls, his face contorting now and then. So when I first saw him today, it was not any different from any other day.
Then he looked at me. I mean really looked at me. It was as if we were connecting once again, just like when we first met. I don’t believe it lasted for more than a minute, if that, but it was truly magic.
I don’t remember if he said anything besides when he called me chou-fleur. That stunned me. Other than nonsensical chatter, he hasn’t uttered a word in over a year. It was as if he felt this might be the last time we would ever see each other. And, you know, I think it was so powerful for both of us, that even if it were the last time, what a wonderful way for me to remember him.
Dr. Tremblay said that Alzheimer’s patients sometimes open their eyes like they’re trying to communicate, wanting to say good-bye, just before they pass away. I always thought that was hogwash. If they can’t think, how could they do that? Yet I am convinced that’s what happened today. And that’s going to both comfort me and cause me anguish as I try to sleep tonight.
Saul
Day 668—I Saw Her
JuSt … hEr as Pretti…CHoo fLeuR
Joey
Day 669—Too Soon
Around seven this morning, I took Mom some tea and dry toast. I placed the tray on the dresser by her bed. She was lying on her side, facing the wall. I said, “Mom, time for breakfast.” No reply. I said again, “Mom, your breakfast is here.” Nothing. So I shook her a little, not wanting to startle her. She rolled over, away from me just a bit, but enough to alarm me. I took her by the shoulders and tried to move her into a sitting position, but she was limp. I felt her face. It was cold. I don’t know how to take someone’s pulse, but it was clear to me that she was gone.
Before bedtime, she had complained about having the worst headache of her life. I gave her two Tylenol and stayed with her until she fell asleep. I looked in on her around midnight and could hear her moving in the darkness, so it must have happened between then and seven. Anyway, I called 911, and the medics were here within minutes. I watched as the younger one felt for a pulse. After a moment, he looked up at me and shook his head.
To be honest with you, I didn’t know what I would feel when Mom died. We were never that close. But it really hit me when the guy looked up at me. I watched her lying there alone in that big bed, no one to hold her, no one to protect her. I guess it’s too late for all that.
Do you remember I told you before that I would stay with her for up to a month and then reassess the situation if she wasn’t better? Well, I meant it then, but as the time went by, I realized for the first time how much she loved me, and how just opening myself up a little to her, exposing myself a bit, just taking a chance—how much better it made me feel.
I actually realized it a few days after she got back from the hospital. I had made her a sandwich for lunch and called her into the kitchen. She shuffled in from the living room in her worn pink slippers, which she must have had since before my bar mitzvah. Her body wavered from side to side. I reached out and took her arm, guiding her to the chair by the window.
She looked up at me and said, “Joey, you have been out of my life for too long.”
I knew she was right, and it wasn’t proximity she was referring to. It was an emotional distance that had stretched further and further as time went on—until now. Sadly, with that epiphany less than a couple of weeks old, she’s gone.
And now I feel like I’m rootless. Florence has Bernie and the kids. Even Dad has the staff at the home, although whether he even knows that is another story. But when I leave here today and go back to the apartment, I’ll basically be an orphan. I have no real attachments to my sister or her family. I can’t even remember the last time I went over when it was just us being together and not a family meeting about Dad. Sure, I’ve got some friends, but no one who would go to the mat for me, and as for girlfriends—maybe I should have kept Maria or even Gabrielle. But that all doesn’t matter now. They’re gone from my life, and there are no replacements on the horizon.
So here I am. Alone. No mother. No father. No one.
Florence
Day 669—Shock
I usually don’t drink, but last night Bernie and I celebrated our wedding anniversary at the local bistro with a bottle of champagne. So this morning when the phone rang, I just let it go to voice mail. Less than a minute later, it rang again. Daniel must have been up, playing one of his video games, and he answered. I heard him yell for me, so I fumbled for the phone, dragging the cord toward me.
When I finally got the receiver close to my ear, I heard Joey on the other end. He stumbled and stuttered, but finally he was able to give me the news. I won’t say I was totally surprised. Mother did look somewhat pallid and unstable on her feet yesterday. But still, you don’t think of a parent dying so suddenly. It’s different when you’re prepared, like we probably will be with Father when his time comes.
I rushed over to the house. Joey answered the door. I could see a medic standing in the doorway; he was on his cell phone. I asked him if he could leave me alone with Mother for a few minutes. Then I walked through the open door, sat on the bed, and pulled her close to me. She was cold and pale and moist. I held her tightly against my chest. Somehow, I couldn’t cry. I think I felt that by crying I would be acknowledging her passing, and I wasn’t ready to do that—not yet anyway.
I talked to her like I often do with Father, his eyes closed, his body limp except for the odd twitch. I have often wondered if he hears me, but you know what? I don’t do it for him, and wasn’t doing it for Mother now. I was doing it for me, to bring me closer.
Florence
Day 671—Mother’s Funeral
This isn’t the way it was supposed to happen. Father was the one who would go first, even though Mother had a bad heart. That’s what we’ve all thought for the longest time. The doctor reassured us that she probably died quickly and without pain. Thank God for that.
Now here we are in the mourners’ area in the sanctuary at Silverberg and Sons, waiting for the last few people to take their seats. The place looks about three-quarters full.
From here, I can see Nicole Drapkin, one of my classmates at McGill. The handsome man beside her must be her new husband. And there’s Jamie Ram. I can’t believe he came. I haven’t seen him for at least twenty years. I used to have a crush on him back in high school, before I met Bernie. And there are several more people I never would have guessed would have bothered to show up. I can even see a couple of Joey’s old girlfriends toward the back. It’s funny how death sometimes spawns renewed friendships. Maybe that’s God’s way of compensating the next of kin for their loss.
Mother’s casket is sitting below the lectern, from which I’ll be giving a eulogy after the one by Rabbi Phillips. I really hope I can hold it together and not break down. That’s going to be hard to do, given my emotional state. So I’ll just try to block out the people and read my notes.
I asked Joey if he wanted to say anything. He said I could say it best. And I guess he’s right. That’s probably because I spent more time with Mother. Although I’m sure Joey’s turnaround in going to stay with her before she passed away brought them closer.
Father is sitting beside me in his wheelchair. Joey and I had a heated discussion as to whether he should come. Joey was afraid his appearance might embarrass us. I told him that was ridiculous. First of all, everyone here knows about Father’s condition. But putting that aside, the important thing is what Mother would have wanted. I know she would have wanted him here, and I know Father wouldn’t have it any other way, if he could voice his opinion.
Father’s eyes seem to open every few seconds, look at the casket, then close again. It’s like he’s doing whatever he can to focus, that he knows what’s happening. And who knows, maybe he does. Well, the rabbi is about to deliver his eulogy…
Joey
Day 671—Mom’s Funeral
I think it was a mistake for Dad to be here. What was Florence thinking? I told her he wasn’t in any condition to come to the funeral. And once again, I was right. It started off okay, with him sitting between us. But when the rabbi finished his eulogy and Florence stood up, Dad started wailing. I couldn’t figure out whether he wasn’t with the program and just howling, or if he truly knew what was happening and was grieving. Either way, it took Florence and me what seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a couple of minutes, to calm him down so that Florence could move to the lectern.
I must admit she was very eloquent and probably right about Mom and Dad’s relationship, at least the part she talked about. She didn’t get into their constant bickering, but I guess you don’t do dirty laundry at funerals.
She did, however, talk about their devotion to each other, and how Mom loved us, bragging to her friends all the time about what great children we were. I could see a few of her friends in the front pews nodding in agreement. That’s all very nice, but it would have been better had she—and Dad—told us instead of their friends, if, indeed, Dad did feel that way. And that’s something I guess I will never know for sure, given the state he’s in now.
Saul
Day 671—Monique’s Funeral
Whatt’s the BoX? why sha’s nOt herre?
Dr. Tremblay
Day 678—The Reimers
I have just returned to my office after having spent the morning at Manoir Laurier. During that time, I visited Mr. Reimer’s room to check up on him. His son and daughter were there. I offered my condolences on their mother’s passing last week. I have seen the daughter quite a bit during my visits, but I haven’t seen the son—Joey, I believe is his name—since he came to me a few years ago about his ApoE genes.
To be frank with you, Mrs. Reimer’s passing didn’t come as a great surprise. I had seen her several times since her husband was diagnosed. It’s been probably a little more than six years now, to the best of my memory, but without the file in front of me, I can’t be exactly sure. She appeared to be a strong woman, certainly stronger than most spouses I encounter. But with her heart condition and unwillingness to allow Mr. Reimer to spend a few hours a day at the Schaffer Centre so she could get some well-deserved time off, coupled with her adamant refusal to join any caregiver support groups—well, in my mind, it could not really have ended much differently.
Mr. Reimer is definitely in the last stage of the disease. His reflexes are almost non-existent, his muscles completely rigid now, and his swallowing quite labored. As I stated before, he may comprehend the odd snippet of conversation, but that’s something that we’ll never know, given his inability to communicate logically at this point.
I checked the chart while I was there, and the “Do not resuscitate” and “No heroic measures” orders were still there. Since the children were present, I wanted to get a quick confirmation that this was still their choice. Both the daughter and her brother reaffirmed their decision. That’s the hardest part of my practice, watching the suffering the family goes through toward the end. But I believe it’s coupled with relief, both for themselves and the patient, that it’s almost over.