Saul
The Lynch Party
The usual suspects were once again gathered at our house. This was to be a family council meeting, they told me, but I knew what it really was—a lynch party for one Saul Reimer.
Moses, in the guise of my daughter, Florence, spoke first. She informed the others that her father—that would be me—had been diagnosed with Alzheimer’s by the preeminent doctor in the field. Joey asked if they should get a second opinion. Everyone looked at Monique. Why, I don’t know. Maybe they had a hunch that Monique and Dr. Tremblay were friends, maybe more than friends. She said another opinion wouldn’t be necessary, that Dr. Tremblay had done all of the tests and that it was clear that the diagnosis was correct. I don’t know if it was, but I guess one consolation is that I’m not going to be committed to Roxboro!
Monique explained to the others that the doctor had told her sometimes my brain stalls. My brain stalls—I like that one. I’ll try to remember it. Anyway, he told her to get me one of those yellow pads so she can make lists of what I have to do every day, things like taking the pills he’s prescribed, brushing my teeth, dressing, having breakfast, and making sure not to leave the stove on. I thought that was pretty silly. Yes, I have forgotten a few things, maybe more than a few, but I am still normal—more or less.
I told them I still remembered a lot from a long time ago. Like when Harry Potash had tried to steal Sharon Wertheimer from me in the fifth grade, and how I had decked him in the school yard. That had cost me a week of recesses, but it was well worth it!
I had always been a tough guy. In fact, I got suspended for a brawl in the tenth grade. Ian Coulter was the resident bully and self-appointed chief anti-Semite of the school. Coulter was picking a fight with Buddy Rubin, the class weakling. He grabbed Buddy’s thick glasses from his pointed nose, made a show of dropping them in almost slow motion to the icy sidewalk, and then slammed his heel down, crushing them. I could live with that, because you can’t be everyone’s protector. But then Coulter crossed the line. He called Buddy a kike.
Coulter missed the rest of the term because of a dislocated jaw and a broken arm, and it was only March. I was suspended for a month. That didn’t sit well with Larry—I called my father Larry sometimes because he seemed to like it. And for some strange reason, it made me feel closer to him, like we were buddies. Anyway, Larry went apeshit, and I didn’t see daylight on the weekends till summer vacation.
So I told the people who had taken over my living room that I could remember lots of things.
Monique put her hand on my shoulder and said, “Do you remember what Dr. Tremblay told us about how it’s normal for Alzheimer’s patients to have good long-term memory but lose short-term memory?”
“No,” I said, “I don’t remember.” But my best guess is, so far at least, that I only have Sometimer’s, not Alzheimer’s.
Joey
Looking Back
There were so many clues, but I guess it’s kind of like vegetable soup. If you have one piece of carrot in a broth, it’s not vegetable soup. If you add some celery and beets, it’s probably not, either. So when is it? There is no set amount or type of vegetables when one can definitively say that it’s vegetable soup. And I think it’s the same with Alzheimer’s. It just starts to germinate and suddenly one day it’s the real McCoy.
I remember when I met Dad for lunch downtown last year. He looked fine and was quite talkative. When I said good-bye outside the restaurant, he seemed at a bit of a loss.
He glanced up and down the street and finally said with a sheepish grin, “Son, I forget where I parked the car.”
I thought to myself that was no big deal. But when I asked him where he thought it might be, the question elicited only a blank look and a shrug of his shoulders.
“You have no idea?” I asked.
He told me that he had been preoccupied with an audit by Revenue Canada. Who could argue with that? If I were undergoing a tax audit, I might very well forget where I’d parked my car—or, for that matter, if I even owned one! Anyhow, I suggested we start walking around and looking—and there it was—just across the street, half a block away.
The real kicker, and I can’t believe it didn’t set off alarm bells in my head, was when he called me up and asked me to go to a hockey game. I love hockey, especially the Montreal Canadiens, and we hadn’t been to a game together in over twenty-five years—and then only after I practically got on my knees and begged him to take me for my tenth birthday.
We arrived at the Bell Centre a half hour early. I asked Dad for the tickets as we approached the entrance. He shuffled through the pockets of his overcoat and then his pants. By the pained expression on his face, I knew we had a problem—and we did. He had forgotten the tickets and said he had no idea where he had put them.
I could see he was getting agitated, so I said, “Pops, no problem; I’ll just buy a couple.” The box office was sold out, so I finally had to purchase seats from a scalper—what a rip-off! Luckily, I had been to the bank that day, because Dad had also forgotten his wallet.
The first period was pretty slow, a rarity when the Canadiens play the Maple Leafs. So I figured that Dad was just bored and it wasn’t his thing. But it was almost as if he weren’t in the arena. During the first intermission, he almost tripped twice going down the stairs. He said he didn’t need to go to the men’s room during the second intermission, even though I could tell by his wincing and crossing and uncrossing his legs that he probably had a full bladder.
While waiting for the third period to begin, he told me he had been toying with the idea of making a large contribution to some Catholic charity that had called to solicit a donation. He said the woman told him that they did a lot of good in the community. He said it just like he might have been commenting on the weather. Now, my father isn’t the most religious Jew in the world, but to give his money to a Catholic organization? The Combined Jewish Appeal finds it hard enough to extract a few dollars from him every year. Anyway, at the time I figured he was kidding. Now I’m not so sure.
Part Two: Coping
Saul
The Facade
It’s been almost two years since they told me how sick and useless I was. I am able to keep it more or less together most days. And I stress days, because by dinnertime my mind is exhausted. I never knew you could have an exhausted mind, but I do now. The sheer weight of having to pretend I am normal all day for my friends, or the store clerks, feels like a boulder around my neck. What happens toward sundown is like when you hear the snap, crackle, and pop when the transistors in your old television go bad. Everything numbs and becomes foggy. Sights, sounds, and smells meld into a ball and explode toward the sky. It’s as if I’m not the same person I was when I got up.
As of now anyway, I can see everything I want to say as clear as ice. It’s right there on a blackboard in front of me, spelled out perfectly. But then to actually say what’s written on the blackboard isn’t always a piece of cake. Sometimes it’s easy, like it is right now. I know what I’m saying to you is coherent and that my vocabulary is correct—but that could suddenly change and become difficult, sometimes impossible.
In the morning, I can be happy—well, maybe not happy, but not feeling sorry for myself. It’s different by lunch—if I remember to eat, and I generally do because it’s on my list, although I have been known to leave my pad somewhere and not be able to find it; if that happens, Monique usually reminds me. At least I think she does. Regardless, by lunchtime things generally start to go downhill.
Today, while I was sitting in my easy chair, she bent down to kiss me and brought her hand quickly to her mouth.
“Whew,” she said, or something like that. “You didn’t brush your teeth. Why did you check it off ?”
I didn’t bother answering, not because she was interrupting my soap opera—I really wasn’t focusing anyway—but because I didn’t know the answer. Maybe I didn’t check the toothbrush to see if it was wet or dry, like I’ve been doing. Then she scolded me, like it was my fault. First they tell you you’re sick because you can’t remember anything and then they give you hell for not remembering.
The doorbell rang, and Monique disappeared for a minute, reappearing with Arthur Winslow in tow. I was standing there with the telephone receiver in my hand. Monique took it from me and put it back in the cradle.
Arthur was in high school with me and was actually the one who squealed to the principal that I was the one who decked Ian Coulter. Coulter, even though one of the great anti-Semites of all time, lived by a code of honor and wouldn’t have turned me in, but Arthur did, and I understand why. You see, Arthur was the goody-goody of the class. He would have turned in his own mother if she had done something wrong. But other than squealing on me, he was a true and trusted friend.
Arthur lives down the street—at least I think he still does—and faithfully drops in to see me. Sometimes I think he has nothing else to do. I can’t tell if he has missed any days visiting, or, if so, how many, but that doesn’t matter now. What I do know is he cares, and I hope he keeps coming, even if I don’t recognize him one day.
I already know that there will come a time when I won’t know him, or people like Bernie. Frankly, I don’t give a damn if I don’t recognize Bernie—in fact, that could be the Lord’s gift to me, something to make up for what lies ahead. What does bother me—in fact, scares the hell out of me—is not recognizing the kids. As inconceivable as that seems, they say it will happen as sure as night follows day. Who, you may ask, are they? I remember when I was a kid, my grandmother would always quote the almighty they. I would ask her, “Who are they, Granny?” She would always answer, “You know, they.” I think maybe she had Alzheimer’s!
Saul
Love Letters
I’ve never been the sappy type and, believe me, I’m not now. But I know I am getting to the point where I soon will not be able to communicate meaningfully with anyone. That wouldn’t be so terrible, except that I don’t want to miss the chance to let the kids know how I feel about them.
In the best of circumstances, I can’t talk about anything involving emotion. That’s a given, and one that wouldn’t have changed even if I hadn’t gotten the big A. But I have never been faced with extinction before. It would be pretty shitty leaving this place without letting Florence and Joey know I love them. Yes, Monique, too, but she sort of knows. I mean, we’ve had good and bad. I don’t think it’s one of those soul mate kind of unions, but it isn’t terrible, either. My guess is she probably feels the same way. We have few things in common, and except for when we would travel, we would always be arguing. I don’t know what it was about the travel that worked out that way— but there you have it.
As for the kids, they know I’m not demonstrative. Maybe even a cranky pain in the ass. I hope they know how much I care, but in reality, how can they when I don’t reach out to them, and when they reach out to me, I slink back into my cocoon? Well, maybe slink is the wrong word, but you get the drift—I just don’t like to talk mush.
Even if I were to go today, and they were here, I probably wouldn’t be able to look them in the eye and tell them I love them and how privileged I am to be their father.
Sometimes I think my relationship with them has been a rerun of my relationship with my father—especially when it comes to Joey. Believe me, I did everything I could to dump that movie! But it’s not so easy. You can’t just say, Okay now I’ll behave in such and such a way. It doesn’t work like that—at least not for me. The only thing I can hope is that I restrained myself often enough so my actions were at least a watered-down version of my father and me.
Anyway, maybe they have done some things that didn’t make me happy, but I was no prize for much of my life. It was always about me and what I wanted. Not that I would intentionally hurt someone. That doesn’t make me a bad person, does it? I wonder what my mother and father would have to say about that.
There were so many special moments that I shared with the kids and so many things they did that made me proud. Too many to mention here. Well, to be honest, I can’t remember them all now. But believe me, there were many.
I have to put all this down in writing and give the letters to Monique so she can pass them on to the kids after I’m gone.
Monique
Saul’s Will
Today was a disaster. Several weeks back, Saul had suggested that we go downtown to see Nat Friedman, our family lawyer for the last thirty years. Actually, Saul’s lawyer and boyhood friend. I told Saul last night that we had to be in Nat’s office this morning at ten-thirty. He had a puzzled look on his face. So I reminded him that it had been his idea to meet with Nat as soon as he returned from some legal conference over in Hong Kong. Saul has been going downhill and said he wanted to put his affairs in order while he was still well enough.
Saul became agitated. “How dare you try to interfere,” he said. No, make that shouted—shouted so loud, in fact, that they could probably hear him all the way down on Sherbrooke Street. He said all I wanted was his money. That I didn’t give a rat’s ass—what a disgusting expression—about him. I sat through his tirade, which lasted only a few moments but seemed to go on forever. When he was finished, he got up and went into the kitchen, looking, I was sure, for the bottle of scotch that I had hidden under the counter. Dr. Tremblay told me it was okay for him to have a glass or two, but not his usual three or four.
I waited for him to storm back into the living room, accusing me of hiding it. But there was only silence. A few moments later, I went into the kitchen. He was sitting at the table, staring at the napkin holder. I figured it wouldn’t do any good to bring up the subject of our meeting again, so I helped him up from his chair and guided him into the bedroom beside the den.
I had moved our bedroom down from the second floor a couple of weeks before, knowing that as Saul got worse, the stairs would become not only an annoyance but dangerous.
This morning, I woke him up at seven-thirty and went into the kitchen to make breakfast while he got into the clothes that I’d laid out for him. It breaks my heart to watch him stare at a sock or a shoe, trying to figure out what to do with it. Sometimes it’s no problem, and other times I have to come back in the room and rearrange him. Today, he did it right and came into the kitchen with a smile on his face.
“We’re going to see Nat this morning,” he said, as if we had never discussed it.
I nodded as I placed his favorite pecan and banana pancakes with Quebec maple syrup in front of him. Although I sometimes wonder why I don’t just use the cheaper fake syrup, because, at this point, I don’t think he can tell the difference. But I would feel like a traitor if I did that.
He always made such a big deal of knowing if it was the real stuff. He would sometimes put his hands over his eyes and dare me to trick him. “Go ahead, chou-fleur, try to fool me,” he would say. That was his favorite name for me. It sounds better in French than cauliflower, its English translation. But he doesn’t say it in either language anymore.
Nat couldn’t have been nicer. He listened patiently as Saul rambled on about how he had scored a hole in one on the par three, seventh hole at the golf club we used to belong to. Not only was that fifteen years ago, but Nat was playing in the same foursome.
After about ten minutes, Nat changed the conversation to a power of attorney for when Saul wouldn’t be able to handle his own affairs. I sat there, squirming in my seat. I knew that even though Saul and maybe others wouldn’t think me capable of counting past ten on my fingers, I was the one who should handle everything. Who else would have Saul’s best interest at heart? And who else loves the children as much as I do and would look out for them? And I’m no imbecile. You don’t have to go to school and get a degree to have common sense.
Nat asked me if I would share with him the duties of administering the power of attorney, or living mandate, as he called it, when Saul could no longer cope, as well as be an executor of Saul’s will. I looked over at Saul. He was fumbling with the tassel on his loafer. I wanted him to say something, to give me permission. Finally, Nat asked him what he thought. He looked over at me and mumbled, “There’s no way.”
Nat could see me turning red. He got up and whispered something in Saul’s ear. Then he put on his kindest face and asked me if I would mind waiting in the conference room across the hall for just a few minutes. I started to shake, but I stood up, pushed back my shoulders, and left the office.
It was as if Saul had stabbed me with the big knife in the top drawer by the stove. Why do I stay with this man? A man who doesn’t trust me. A man who feels he has to control me.
I gave up everything for him—my religion, my identity, and, yes, even my freedom. I wanted to go back to school to get a college degree. Saul would have none of it. He said it wasn’t worth it. Frankly, I think he didn’t want me to be out of the house for too long. He always complained that I didn’t have a job, but if I tried, and I did, no matter how small it was without a degree, he would somehow find a way to stop me. And if he couldn’t, he would belittle me. And I, like an idiot, would let him do so. Sometimes I think God is punishing me for leaving the Church. Not that I had been a zealot, but I did attend Mass every Sunday and went to confession when necessary, or should I say, when I was racked with guilt.
Regardless, I belonged to something. Now what do I belong to? We’re not members of any clubs or any community organizations anymore. And except for the High Holidays, we don’t attend services at the synagogue. And when we do go, I look around and feel so out of place, like I’m not one of them. And I guess I’m not.
The bottom line is, I belong to Saul, like a piece of chattel. I have always felt I had to be on call for his every whim and desire and that I couldn’t have a normal social life with any of my old friends.
Saul doesn’t like it if I speak French. I think it’s because his French is limited, and when I am with other French people in a social situation with him, he isn’t in control. He’s basically alienated my old friends by making what I believe were intentional comments that could be perceived as bigoted—borderline things, but whatever they were, they were offensive enough so that most of them don’t call anymore.
You may be thinking to yourself, if she wanted to have a life, why didn’t she just go out and do it? It wasn’t that easy. He was domineering and overbearing and could make me feel so small—so wrong, even when I knew I was right. Nothing I did ever seemed to please him. Now, though, he needs me. So what am I going to do? Leave him? No, I’ve made my lot in life. And for better or worse, I’m Saul’s wife.
They were in there for thirty-four minutes—I timed it. Nat knocked on the door and came into the conference room alone. His face was cheerless as he told me in a halting voice that in his opinion Saul was too far gone to execute either a living mandate or a will. So the will and living mandate that he had modified five years ago would remain valid. I never knew he’d changed them five years ago, so I wondered if that was a good thing or a bad thing.