An Absent Mind(24)

I already told you I have a will, and it’s down at Friedman’s office. The thing I’m writing today is a cod … ah … cod … codicil—yes, that’s the word! When I get a word, especially a big one like that, I feel like my mother should appear with a double-chocolate Howard Johnson’s ice-cream cone as a reward. There would be no worry of my gaining weight, because I don’t get that many words right, as you have probably guessed by now; besides, there’s not that much time left.

My mother is gone. It was really pathetic watching her waste away. Toward the end, her face looked like a spider colony from smoking those foul cigarettes.

I am asking Monique and the children not to have a funeral service. Just to take my body up to the crematorium. I don’t want anyone to open my casket. Just let them lower the box into the stove, or whatever it is, and get it over with. I don’t want them to hang around until the flames cut through the wood and start licking my body.

I am almost as good as gone right now. I sometimes pray God will speed things up. No Manoir Laurier, no Belfrage Hospital—just straight to the cemetery—like in that game where you go directly to jail without collecting your two hundred dollars.

I can count on the children to bury my ashes beside Mother, Father, and Miriam. It will probably be sad for them because they will see there are places for them, and, of course, for Monique.

I have a confession to make. I didn’t really tell you the whole truth about the funeral stuff. The fact is, I am worried that very few people will show up. I was never Mr. Popularity, and being kind of a hermit, I haven’t kept up with whatever friends I had, if indeed they were friends at all. I don’t want to embarrass my family. I can just see the chapel at Silverberg and Sons—empty except for a few souls scattered in the back rows. In the Jewish religion, the immediate family sits off to the side so they can weep in peace without everyone seeing them. I’m not sure they would need much Kleenex at my funeral.

I once heard Alzheimer’s called “the disease of many farewells,” so named because we slide further and further down the slippery slope to darkness, with no chance of recovery. But I have already given up on any chance of recovery.

For me, Alzheimer’s is just a slow dance with death. Soon I won’t know who I am or where I am. But Monique and the others will. I want to spare them the trouble of taking care of me or visiting me in an institution. And I want to spare myself the humiliation of being bathed, fed, and having my diaper changed—even though I may not know what is happening.

But today Monique told me everything would be all right, and that she would be there for me. And who knows, she said in an absent voice, maybe they’ll find a cure.

After she said that, I reluctantly found my way to my den and pulled that book out from under a stack of magazines. I had written myself a note and left it on my desk, telling me where the book was in case I forgot. I tossed it in the trash out back, and with it, my suicide plan. Now I’m in it for the long haul. But in my case, I guess the term long is relative.





Monique





The Cruise


Saul and I love the ocean. We have probably been on more than twenty cruises over the years. So I figured that if there was anywhere for us to spend what would most certainly be our last holiday together before he goes to Manoir Laurier, it should be on the water.

Bernie and Florence said they had to take care of their kids, and Joey said he was still trying to get his business up and running. That left Saul and me to go alone, not something that made me happy. I was afraid that he would have one of his tantrums—or even worse.

After the episode with my friend Danielle and her granddaughter, which I shared with you, you’re probably thinking, why on earth would she take him on a cruise, of all things? Well, it probably wasn’t the smartest idea, but I thought that this was about Saul. Some final pleasure, if it wasn’t too late already. And if I could do that for him, then it would all be worth it.

I chose the Constellation Mariner because we had sailed on it three or four times, and Saul might not feel as lost as he would on a ship he had never sailed on. I decided to hire a male nurse who had been recommended to me, as it was becoming more difficult to help Saul get around. And frankly, because I yearned for some adult conversation and company.

When the young man came to our door for his interview I knew right away that he was the one. He had olive brown skin which contrasted with his crisp white shirt, and a pleasant face with deep-set chestnut eyes. It turned out that he was from Lebanon and had been trained as an anesthesiologist over there. He couldn’t get certified in Quebec without going back to school for three years, something he couldn’t afford to do. It’s sad when someone else’s problems become our good fortune, but better that than the other way around, I suppose. Saul and I had enough misery already.

The trip from Montreal to Miami was easy. Amin wheeled Saul through the airport and onto the plane, then strapped him into the seat beside me. At the other end, a porter was waiting with another wheelchair and got us to a limo I had arranged, and we were off to Port Everglades, in Fort Lauderdale.

As we turned the corner after the security checkpoint, the ship came into view. I could see the look on Saul’s face, like that of a child who was seeing his first towering vessel. He pressed his face against the window and his eyes widened. Then he turned toward me and smiled. I wondered if he somehow knew this was going to be his last vacation.