An Absent Mind (15 page)

Dr. Tremblay

Day 261—An Update

I
t’s been a while since I have given you an update on Mr. Reimer. Unfortunately, but predictably, the news isn’t very good. It’s been less than a year since Mrs. Reimer called me to inform me she was having her husband admitted to Manoir Laurier. Frankly, I thought she should have done it long before, for both their sakes, but the pattern seems to be for a caregiver-spouse to go through torment, agony, and especially guilt, until he or she can’t take it anymore. I believe that’s what happened to Mrs. Reimer in this case.

I’ve been to see Mr. Reimer several times in the last few months at Manoir Laurier. His case is fairly typical, the timing of each stage approximating the median. I would have to say he is in the late stage of the disease now. That doesn’t mean he will die in the next weeks or even months, but his cognitive and physiological abilities will continue to deteriorate at an even more rapid pace, until his entire system shuts down.

One thing we really don’t know empirically is how much, if anything, patients at this stage can comprehend. We do know that their ability to communicate coherently is practically nil. Sometimes a slight gesture, eye movement, or facial expression may be conveying any thoughts they may have. Occasionally, for a brief moment or moments, for some reason especially near the end, they may appear lucid and say a few words. Whether this is by rote or an actual mental decision, we don’t know at this point.

A wince may mean they’re in pain, and then we have to do tests to discover what, if any, other medical problem they may have that might be causing them discomfort.

There are two existing tools used to identify the severity of dementia, the Reisberg Scale, I’ve alluded to previously, and the Functional Assessment Staging. Both have shown communication abilities in individuals with late-stage Alzheimer’s disease to be minimal to nonexistent. There’s a fine line between the two. The former means there is at least some comprehension, even, if as stated, it is minimal. The question is, Can they really make any sense of it, and if, so how much? So far, there has been no conclusive research on this subject that I am aware of.

Yesterday, I told Mrs. Reimer that her husband would be better off on the third floor where there is more supervision. At first, she was adamant that he stay where he was, but I could see through her tears that she really wasn’t in a state of denial, but just was having trouble coping with the cruelness of it all. I assured her it was best for Mr. Reimer.

She looked up at me, patted my arm, and said, “I know, I know.”

Monique

Day 430—A Step Closer

T
oday is a day that I’ve thought about for a long time but prayed would never happen, even though Dr. Tremblay suggested it months ago. Saul is finally being moved from his room on the fourth floor down to the third. As I think I mentioned a while back, the third floor is reserved for those with … those who are the … what I’m trying to say is it’s the floor for the ones I used to call the zombies. You probably remember my referring to them that way when Saul first got here. Well, now he’s one of them, one of those who are incapable of almost any normal functions, physical or mental.

The move was scheduled for two o’clock. We had a family discussion and decided it would be less disruptive if we moved the furniture and his belongings while he was downstairs at the sing-along—not that he sings anymore. That way, hopefully, he wouldn’t really notice and become more confused than he already is.

The room is almost the same size, although the windows are on the left side instead of the right. Apart from that, and the walls being green, with his furniture and paintings, it should look almost the same. This is one time when I hope he won’t notice anything.

Now it’s five o’clock, and they haven’t moved a thing. The men who were supposed to do it were held up in traffic due to the snowstorm. I can’t blame them for that, but meanwhile we had already packed up the room on the fourth floor, and here we are in Saul’s new room on the third floor with bare walls and no furniture except a stool I took from the corridor and Saul’s wheelchair. It seems so lonely and cold.

So far, Saul doesn’t look like he notices anything different. At least I don’t think so. But he’s making some of the strange noises he sometimes makes when he gets agitated, so maybe he does.

But to be honest, I think the whole thing is affecting me more than him. To be alone, just the two of us, in this empty room, unable to communicate … Oh my God, I would give anything to turn back the clock.

Saul

Day 430—Where?

NOWhere noThiNg

Monique

Day 551—A Modern Day Torture Chamber

I
went to a movie last night. It was a beautiful evening, so afterward I decided to walk over to Manoir Laurier. It was about nine o’clock when I exited the elevator and approached the open door to Saul’s room. I heard hysterical howling interspersed with a barrage of swearing. A nurse, with an unlit cigarette and a lighter tucked in her hand, walked by the room, not bothering to look in, and turned right toward a small balcony off the end of the corridor.

What I saw when I got inside Saul’s room is almost beyond description. There he was, flailing away, trying to escape the restraints wrapped around his body. There were ropes strung through the sidebars, pinning down his legs, hips, and chest, so only his head could move. His face was a flushed crimson as he struggled to get up. He was like a madman, his words barely intelligible, his shrill ranting piercing the air, his head bobbing up and down. What in God’s name were they doing to him? What did he ever do to anyone to deserve this kind of treatment?

I was able to loosen one of the ropes that bit into his hips and was working on the one that shackled his chest, when his head came up from nowhere and butted me in the forehead. I fell to the floor, my face covered in blood. Saul peered through the bars—trying to figure out what was going on, I guess.

It might have been the sight of the blood that precipitated what happened next. He went totally crazy. Now, half-freed from the restraints, he shook the bed, causing it to rock from side to side in such a way that I was sure it would collapse on me. He was like an animal, guttural sounds emanating from his contorted mouth as his eyes bulged.

Finally, he broke through the last restraint. It was like one of those Tarzan movies, where Tarzan would beat his chest before sliding down a vine.

As he looked down at me, I wasn’t sure if he was about to kill me or save me. I guess I’ll never know, because the nurse, who had seemed disinterested before she had her nicotine fix, rushed into the room. She pushed a panic button on the wall, then just stood there transfixed, not sure if she should help me or try to hold Saul back. She didn’t have to make that decision, as within seconds four attendants swarmed into the room, pulling Saul to one side and me to the other. I sobbed as the nurse gave him a shot of something while the others held him. Seconds later, they lifted my slouching husband back on the bed and started to tie the restraints again.

I pushed one of the attendants aside. “Don’t do that to him,” I shrieked. “He’s a human being, not an animal. Leave him alone.”

I must have scared the devil out of them with that outburst, because they stopped in their tracks and looked over at me.

The bulky one with a shaved head said they were doing it for his own good, and so that what had happened to me wouldn’t happen again.

I said, “What about drugs? Wouldn’t they accomplish the same result?”

He just shrugged.

Later, I went to see the night administrator. She told me sometimes, as in Saul’s case, when patients are extremely agitated, they have to use restraints so that the patients won’t hurt themselves. Then with a pacifying smile, she said that as Saul’s disease progresses, he will become more docile and will not need to be restrained. Did she think that would make me feel better?

Saul

Day 556—Where’s the Dog?

thE DugiN cOme

Monique

Day 584—Confusion

A
s 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?