An Absent Mind(9)

I ordered a computer scan of the brain, as well as some blood tests for Mr. Reimer as a complement to a clinical evaluation. The results of the latter will give me a fairly accurate depiction of where he fits on the one-to-seven Reisberg Scale. Number three represents minimal cognitive dysfunction. By the time patients get to number seven, they are usually in a care facility, unable to function at all, even to lift their heads or open their eyes for any meaningful period of time.

Assuming the tests confirm my preliminary diagnosis, I will start him on medication, which will not slow down the disease but will help alleviate the symptoms for at least a few months, or maybe even a year or two, giving him a better quality of life during that time.

I will also schedule an appointment with Mr. Reimer’s wife, the primary caregiver, not only to search out more information on the progress of her husband’s disease, but also to evaluate her own health and coping skills. She told me she has a history of heart problems, high blood pressure, and elevated cholesterol. Taking care of her husband will put a lot of stress on Mrs. Reimer, so we have to be especially careful.

I spend more than half my time doing research into possible cures, but I know deep down that any significant discovery that would eradicate this horrific disease is years away. That is too many years to stave off the death sentence that I pronounced on Mr. Reimer today.





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.