An Absent Mind (14 page)

SAUL

DAY 185—THE BARBERSHOP

Went to the barBers today with … you know … the one with the kNockers …Sang the moOn song. It was fuN.

Joey

Day 197—Scary

Y
ou have to hear this. I went to see Dad today. He was sitting in the small lounge by the elevator on the fourth floor, talking to another patient. From what I could tell, they were speaking mostly gibberish. So I walk up to him—and you have to believe me on this one—and say, “Yo, Pops, what’s going on?”

He stands up, takes my elbow, and motions me back toward the elevator. Then in a firm voice he says, “Look, I’m in a meeting now. Would you mind coming back later?”

I did everything in my power not to break out laughing. It was amazing. I’m not making fun of him or anything. I mean—come on—he’s my father, for Christ’s sake! But some of the things that come out of his mouth now …

And wait, it gets better. When I left—which, by the way, was not when he told me to leave, because within a few seconds he had forgotten that he even said it—I hailed a taxi at the front entrance.

As a deliveryman was leaving the side entrance, a woman dressed in a bathrobe came flying past him out the door and grabbed me through the open window of the cab.

“Son,” she said, “please don’t leave me here. I promise to behave. Let me come back home.”

I was floored. And frankly, I didn’t know what to do or say. Thank God a nurse rushed out, corralled her, and guided her back into the building—but not before the woman pleaded again for me to take her with me.

I closed the window of the taxi and gave the driver the address of the garage where my car was being serviced. The cabbie didn’t say a word until we got there. Then he turned around and hissed, “You should be ashamed of yourself. How could you treat your mother that way?”

I said, “She’s not my mother.”

He said, “Just get out of my cab. You disgust me.”

It was obvious I wasn’t going to change his mind, so I just threw the fare on the front seat and slammed the door. You couldn’t make this stuff up if you tried.

Monique

Day 217—Dinner for Two

I
never want to see this place again. It’s bad enough when I’m home alone at night, thinking about all the terrible things that must be going on here, but to be here and witness them myself—it’s criminal!

Sometimes I wish Saul would have killed himself when he was first diagnosed. It would have saved him from this miserable existence, and saved the children and me from our unbearable agony.

Today was awful. I’m told it will get even worse, but I can’t imagine how. I was late—I usually like to get there before lunch so that I can help Saul with his food. It isn’t that the people on the staff aren’t good, but there just aren’t enough of them to give the personal attention I want for him.

When I reached the fourth-floor lounge, an elegant lady with snow-white coiffed hair, dressed in a silk suit with a fancy silver broach, was sitting erect at one end of a long banquet table covered with blue-and-white-checkered plastic. Saul sat at the other end, in his polo shirt, hunched over. They were the only two at the table. The scene reminded me of one of those dinners between a husband and wife in a European castle, where they were so far apart that they couldn’t hear each other talk—and probably preferred it that way.

Saul was quite agitated. Wouldn’t you be, having to suffer like he is? He was banging on his plate with his spoon, softly at first, and then louder, as if building up to a grand crescendo. One of the staff took the spoon from his hand. He picked up his fork and started banging again. Suddenly, the woman at the other end of the table shouted at him to shut up and stuck her tongue out.

The others in the lounge didn’t even look up. But Saul did, and he started to bang louder and louder. Now the woman was on her feet, furious, waving her fist at Saul with such ferocity that I was scared she was going to go over and punch him. The orderlies didn’t seem concerned—all in a day’s work, I guess.

The woman continued shaking her fist and called him a bastard, yelling that his teeth would fly if he didn’t shut up. Then she began using the “F” word, saying she was going to f…ing kill him if he didn’t shut up. Well, let me tell you, I would have f…ing killed her if she’d gotten any closer to him.

This went on for just a few moments—Saul banging, and the woman threatening him. Then, just as quickly as it started, it stopped, and it was as if nothing had happened.

Saul

Day 217—The Woman

biTchy! BitCh!

Monique

Day 231—Just Another Day at the Manoir

D
o you remember the lady who sat across from Saul at the lunch table a couple of weeks ago? The one who threatened him because she didn’t like him banging his fork? Well, today when I arrived at the Manoir just after noon, there she was, sitting in her same spot. One of the attendants told me that she causes a big scene if anyone tries to take her place at the head of the table. Another woman was seated beside her, also dressed to the nines. They seemed to be caught up in very serious conversation. You would think they were solving the world’s problems. But when I moved closer, I realized that neither one was saying anything coherent, in French or English.

The other chairs were occupied by an assortment of loonies. I’m sorry. I don’t mean that, but sometimes I really believe that all these people are so much further gone than Saul, that their behavior is rubbing off on him, propelling him quickly down the abyss. Look at him sitting over there, oblivious to me or any of the others. That’s not the way he was when he arrived here. And look at that Italian guy chewing his food over and over. It reminds me of when I went to a spa years ago. They taught us it was healthy to chew every piece of food twenty times before swallowing. This guy must be doing it a hundred times. It will be dinnertime before he finishes lunch.

And look at the man beside him, whistling through his false teeth. The sound is driving me crazy. And the woman who seems to have hijacked her fellow diners’ orange juice cans and keeps moving them around like some kind of shell game. Other than that old witch and her friend, none of them is even talking to any of the others, let alone aware of the others’ presence.

I must be honest with you. I am torn about coming down here, but I do come every day. The kids haven’t been pulling their weight. Well, that’s not really fair. Florence has been here a lot, considering her work and that she has to be there for Howard and Daniel. And she always brings some of Saul’s favorite foods, although he doesn’t seem to remember he likes them.

I guess its Joey I’m upset with. Sure, he shows up a couple of times a week. But he lives less than ten blocks away and only stays for a few minutes. He spends more time with that damn dog than he does with his own father. The social worker downstairs said maybe he can’t face the thought that his father is dying. I frankly think he just doesn’t really care that much, and that this whole thing is cramping his style. He’d rather be out with his friends than be here with his family. I must say I am disappointed, more than disappointed.

The head nurse on Saul’s floor told me that he has been acting up at night, and they have been giving him some drugs to calm him down. I guess that’s okay, and maybe the drugs make whatever time he has more pleasant. He deserves that.

Joey

Day 242—Dog Day Afternoon

M
other has always hated him, and Florence claims Bernie is allergic to cats and dogs. So ever since Dad was admitted to Manoir Laurier, I have become Dugin’s guardian.

Let me get one thing straight: I’m no dog lover. But having shared that with you, I felt an obligation to take Dugin in, knowing how much he means to Dad.

They don’t let dogs into Manoir Laurier, even for visits. So if it’s a nice day and I can get away from my work for a while—which, I must admit, isn’t often—I take Dad out for a walk with Dugin. They still have a connection, that’s for sure. Even when Dad is in a foul mood or not totally with the program, his face lights up when he sees Dugin. And the feeling is obviously mutual. You can tell that by how Dugin drools and wags his tail.

What drives me crazy is the hair he sheds all over my black suede sofa. That’s where I usually start my pitch to the ladies—you know, a couple of glasses of chardonnay, some kissing and fondling, and then into the bedroom for the grand finale. At least that’s the way it used to be. Now the chicks look at the scuzzy gold hair and won’t go near the couch.

I ordered a new leather one from a discount outlet, but it won’t be here for another couple of weeks. And now it looks like it won’t really matter by then.

You’re probably asking yourself, why won’t it matter? Well, Dugin was vomiting a lot last week and didn’t seem to have much energy. So a few days ago, I took him down to Dr. Nelson’s office. He examined him and did some tests, blood work, and an X-ray. He called me the next day and informed me that Dugin has liver cancer.

I told Mom. She reacted like I had just mentioned I had a headache. And it didn’t play much better with Florence. Both of them told me I was nuts to worry about a mutt when Dad was going through so much. Maybe reality is they’re both feeling sorry for themselves for what they’re going through.

Regardless, I wasn’t going to let Dugin suffer, so I called Dr. Nelson and told him we all agreed—I was too embarrassed to tell him my mother and sister didn’t give a shit—that Dugin should be put down.

This afternoon, I took Dugin to Dr. Nelson’s. The receptionist showed us into a room with a table in the middle. Dr. Nelson came in a few minutes later. He reached down and placed both hands around Dugin’s face and told him he would be fine and then hoisted him onto the table. He asked me if I wanted Dugin buried or cremated. Good question. What would Dad want? Not that it really matters, I guess, because he won’t know anyway. Or will he? I often wonder how much, if anything, he does understand. Dr. Tremblay said even in his condition, maybe a fair amount. Not all the time, that’s for sure, but probably more than we think.

I told the doctor to have him cremated and give me back the ashes. When Dad goes, I’ll place the urn beside his at the cemetery. That’s what he would probably want.

Dr. Nelson started preparing the syringe. Dugin lay in front of me. I thought I saw him grimace for a moment, and then he stopped, almost as if he wasn’t going to let anyone know he was in pain. It was obvious he had been suffering quite a bit the past few days. I could see it in his eyes, which had turned a muddy yellow, and the way he could barely lift himself up on the sofa.

Dr. Nelson put his hand on my shoulder and told me to take whatever time I needed to say good-bye, and then he started toward the open door to his private office. I almost called out, “I don’t need any time; let’s get on with it.” Then I glanced down at Dugin, lying on his side, looking up at me. He seemed so alone, so frightened. “I’ll just take a few moments,” I told the doctor.

I plunked myself down on a chair beside the table. Somehow, Dugin pushed his bloated body toward me and turned his head so he was now facing me. I patted him a few times and then languidly stroked his soft mane, mumbling that we all loved him and would miss him, and that he would go to a better place.

I didn’t want to stop, knowing that by doing so I would be bringing his life to an end. Finally, and reluctantly, I called for Dr. Nelson. He came in and picked up the syringe and inserted the needle into a vein in Dugin’s leg.

Now I was stroking him with both hands. He moaned once and then whimpered, his eyes sad and glassy, and, I felt, fully aware of what was about to happen. Dr. Nelson looked over at me. I nodded quickly, knowing if I didn’t, I would lose my resolve. The doctor slowly pushed the plunger down, releasing the liquid. Moments later, Dugin’s body heaved one last time and his eyes closed. At least he won’t suffer anymore. I wonder if we can say the same about Dad.