Rain Turning to Snow

Rain Turning to Snow

My sister disappears into the cavernous Grand Junction terminal while Iwatch from the car. One more day. Then I can flyaway too.

I thread my way out of the airport parking lot onto the highway that will takeme back to my parents' house. Discount stores and fast food places give way tobarren desert flats. "Outrageously adult." That's what I wrote in my notebook onthe plane coming out here. I'm fifty years old, a feminist, for Christ's sake. I canhandle one day alone with my parents.

Tomorrow's our appointment with the neurologist. I've already made a list ofDad's symptoms, a rebellious act in itself, to record his shortcomings behind hisback. Tomorrow I plan to enlist the doctor as an ally. I want him to force Dad toacknowledge he's sick, encourage Mom to take charge. Most traitorous of all, Iwant him to tell Dad to stop driving.

It's almost dark by the time I pull into the long gravel driveway. Dad meets meat the door.

"How're you doing?" I ask.

"OK, I guess, considering our problem."

I throw my sweater and purse on the couch. He so rarely admits he has aproblem. We sit down in the twin recliners in front of the blank TV.

"It's my speech," Dad says. "I get to the middle of a sentence, and I can't findthe word. What would cause that?"

"It's a symptom of Alzheimer's, Dad."

"Alz..." He can't say it.

"Alzheimer's Disease. That's what Dr. Hartman says you have." Some daughterstry to soften the blow. My strategy is just the opposite: Force him to face up.How else are they ever going to make plans?

"I'm not sure that doctor...What's his name? ...Hart..."

"Hartman."

"I'm not sure Hartman is the man. He asked me a few questions then startedtalking about his organization. This...what is it? ...a religious organization?This Alz ..."

"The Alzheimer's Association. It helps people who have the disease."

Before he got sick, Dad knew more than I did about Alzheimer's. He readeverything he could get his hands on, even subscribed to the Harvard MedicalSchool Newsletter.

"This so-called doctor," says Dad, "all he did was ask some questions thensend me a bill for a hundred dollars."

"He seemed nice over the phone."

"Physically repulsive," says Dad. "Whiskers all over his face."

I imagine a greasy-haired man with pock-marked skin. "I get to meet himtomorrow."

"You're going with us? That's swell. I just hope you won't be disappointed."

The next morning while Mom and I are finishing our morning coffee Dadappears at the doorway in a tweed sport coat and crisp white shirt, his retiredexecutive outfit.

"Harry, our appointment's not 'til two o'clock," says Mom. "We don't have toleave for three hours."

Dad drops his head and turns back into the kitchen.

"It's like this every single time we go anywhere," Mom whispers. "And here Iused to be the one who was always early."

An hour before we're scheduled to leave, Dad is locking the doors and closingthe curtains. Mom is ready too, fresh lipstick, coat over her arm. It would take amajor scene to hold them back.

Dad heads for his car, keys in hand. I run to catch up. He's strong for eighty-one, over six feet tall. "How about I drive, Dad?" I try to make it light, like Peggywould. Instead it comes out chirpy, like a condescending nurse.

Dad changes direction without a word, climbs into the passenger seat of myrental car. Last night he was furious when I insisted on driving to the restaurant.He cursed under his breath the whole way there, wouldn't talk to us over dinner.Finally Peggy distracted him with questions about the old days, when he andMom returned bottles to pay for groceries. By the time we left, he was all smiles.

Dad eyes the speedometer. I monitor my speed: thirty through Cedaredge, fifty-fiveoutside of town, back down to thirty-five through Eckert.

He points out an old stone church. "Have you ever been inside?"

"I don't think so."

"Pardon?" he asks.

"I WENT TO CHURCH WITH YOU ONCE, BUT I'M NOT SURE IT WASTHAT ONE."

"Still didn't get you."

"DO YOU HAVE YOUR HEARING AID IN, DAD?"

"No."

"Shouldn't we go back for it?"

"No."

"Mom, don't you think we should go back for Dad's hearing aid?"

"He says the battery's dead."

For months we've been planning this appointment and now he's not going tohear anything.

We drive for miles without seeing another car. Dad breaks the silence. "Canyou help teachers, do you think, with what we learn from Hart..."

"Hartman."

"If he's any good, he'll give us some exercises. I'm wondering if they wouldn'tbe useful to teachers."

"This isn't a research project, Dad. This is about you."

On the second floor of the medical building is a spacious reception area. Onmy way back from the bathroom, I catch sight of Dad from across the room, sittingupright in his chair, face grim, all three of his sport coat buttons buttoned. Heknows what this is all about. I wish I could hug him, soothe him. I wish Peggywere here.

At two o'clock sharp a nurse leads us to a small room with upholstered chairs,more magazines. On the table is a plastic model of four vertebrae connected by ayellow rubber spinal cord. I twist the vertebrae apart and let them snap togetheragain. Mom studies the diplomas on the wall.

Dad says, "I'm going to say, 'This is my daughter, Dr. Marcy Lansman. She's aresearcher at the University of North Carolina.' Is that OK?"

"That's fine." Dad himself never went to college. I'm happy to share whateverstatus he thinks I have.

The sound of the door startles me. Hartman is about forty-five, tall, slim withneatly trimmed brown hair and a short beard, nothing like the hairy monsterDad described. He has on a blue work shirt with a red knit tie. I think I'm goingto like him.

He sits down in a chair facing Dad. "How've you been doing, Harry?"

"You'll have to speak much louder," says Mom.

Hartman rolls his chair up close to Dad. "HOW'VE YOU BEEN DOING,HARRY?"

"Fine." Dad's face is stiff, unyielding. A few years ago he would have chatted Hartman up, charmed him.

"Any problems since I last saw you?"

"My problem is I can't think of the right word." He sounds irritated, as though he's been through this before.

I study the tweed carpet at Mom and Dad's feet. They're wearing identicalWallabee shoes.

"Any other problems?"

Dad shakes his head.

"Oh…I have a list," I say, reaching for my purse.

"Later," Hartman says quietly.

"Have you been losing things, Harry?"

"No."

Hartman turns to Mom.

"He loses everything, his keys, that's the main thing, his wallet, papers." Herfrown draws two lines down the center of her forehead. Her hands are folded inher lap.

Hartman turns back to Dad. "Have you been getting lost?"

"No."

Mom turns to Dad. "Harry, you got lost before that accident on the Mesa."

"I was touring the Mesa."

"Harry, can you tell me who's running for President?"

The question gives me a jolt. The doctor is going to test Dad's memory righthere in front of us. Surely he could take him in another room.

"Bush," says Dad. "And Tsongas."

Mom interrupts, "Harry, you know..." Hartman holds up a finger to let herknow Dad has to answer by himself.

Before Dad was sick he could have listed all eight candidates for the Presidentialnomination, explained their positions on every issue. He's a fanatic aboutpolitics.

"Anyone else?" Hartman asks.

"An Irishman. Can...can..." Dad looks at me. "Help me."

"Buchanan," I say. I'll be damned if I'll let him sit there and squirm.

"Last time we talked about basketball," says the doctor. "Can you tell me whoare the best teams in the NBA this year?"

A long pause. I study Dad's face. He's not going to put up with this muchlonger.

"Not that interested," Dad says.

"Harry, can you tell me what you had for lunch?" I want to tell Hartman tostop right now. This isn't just any Alzheimer's patient. This is my father. Youdon't humiliate my father right in front of his family and expect him to take it.He'll walk out of here in a rage.

Dad says something about a sandwich, he can't remember what kind.''I'm going to give you three words," says Hartman. "I want you to rememberthem."

Dad looks confused. I'd like to jump in and explain.

Hartman lists the words: "Shirt, green, history." After several tries, Dad repeatsthem.

"Harry, what would you do if you found a wallet on the street?"

"It would probably be mine." Dad finally breaks a smile. Mom and I laugh.

The doctor continues, straight-faced. "But what if it wasn't yours?"

"You can be sure I would return it to its owner."

"How would you know who the owner was?"

''I'd look inside the wallet."

I relax into my chair, rest my head against the wall.

"What do we mean when we say, 'People in glass houses shouldn't throwstones'?"

I imagine Mom, Dad, and me sitting on folding chairs in the middle of anempty greenhouse. If we throw stones, we'll break the windows...no, that's notit...if we throw stones...

"That if you live in a glass house, then you shouldn't throw because outside,people outside would throw back at you, and it's a glass house."

He did it! I give him full credit. Then I realize he's missed the broader point.

"Now, Harry, can you tell me the three words I gave you earlier?"

"On my last visit?"

"A few minutes ago."

"No."

"One of them was a piece of clothing. Was it 'jacket,' 'shirt,' or 'shoes'?"

I close my eyes. Shirt, shirt, shirt, shirt.

"Shoes," says Dad.

The doctor stands up and announces loudly, "Your daughter wanted to seesome test results. I'm going to take her to my office for a few minutes. You can waithere."

"Oh, I'd like to introduce my daughter," Dad says, rising out of his seat.

"She's at ..."

"That's OK," the doctor cuts him off. "We've already met." Dad slumps backdown into his seat.

Hartman leads me into the hall.

"That's so hard to watch," I gasp.

He looks at me blankly, as though he can't imagine why this situation shouldbe upsetting. How stupid of me to think this doctor was going to be my ally. Godforbid I should break down, disrupt his schedule. From now on I'm a professional.

Hartman stops at a counter near the reception desk. "He definitely hasAlzheimer's Disease. No, what I can say is he's seriously demented, and we'veruled out anything that's reversible." Oh yes, doctor, very important to be totallyaccurate.

"Shall we look at your list?" Hartman asks.

I pull a yellow-lined pad out of my purse, glad for the opportunity to showhow organized I am.

The doctor points to the first item and we read it together.

• Has troublefinding words.

"That's the only symptom he talks about. Words have always been importantto him." Tears threaten, but I fight them back.

The doctor moves on.

• Quick to anger.

"Has he hit your mother yet?"

"He has a terrible temper, but he's never been physically violent."

"That was in his pre-morbid state. As the disease takes over, he may lose thoseinhibitions."

• Believes there are people outside at night partying.

"He wakes up in the middle of the night, and he's sure he hears voices. That'swhy he has the gun. Right now the gun's in a lock box. My mother has the key."

"She has to lose the key," says Hartman.

• May be related to alcohot.

• Worse in the evening.

• Sometimes doesn't know who I am.

• Confused about time.

Hartman is not impressed. My list must be just like everyone else's.

"Does you father think your mother is having an affair?"

"Oh my God, I forgot to put that on the list."

"It's very common."

He picks up Dad's chart. "There's really not much I can do for him. The mainthing is to convince him to stop driving. I'll write a letter to the DMV."

I follow him down the hall to the room where Mom and Dad are waiting. Hereclaims his seat in front of Dad. The room seems small, airless.

"Harry, you've got a form of dementia that affects your memory and yourjudgment. I'm afraid it's going to get worse." I feel like I'm watching from a greatdistance, as if I no longer have any stake in this.

"Is there anything...to improve? Any exercises?" Dad seems older, weaker.

"I'm afraid when brain cells die, we don't know how to make new ones.What's important, Harry, is that we keep you safe. I think you should stop driving."

Finally, the pronouncement I've been waiting for. I'm numb.

Dad leans forward. "Do you mean to say a lifetime record of good drivingcounts for nothing?"

"I'm sure you were an excellent driver when you were younger, but that doesn'thelp now. I have to tell you, just like I had to tell my own father, that it's time tostop."

"I worked in insurance. I'm familiar with the records, and I don't see anyreason..."

"You wouldn't want to kill a child would you?"

Silence.

"I'm afraid I have to move on," says Hartman.

"Yes, that's enough," Mom says. "Let's get out of here."

I've been so focused on Dad, I haven't noticed how upset she is.

Mom and Dad march down the hall past the exit sign. They're headed into asupply room when I bring them back and show them the way out. I rejoin thedoctor.

"Maybe I didn't handle that as well as I could've," he says.

"They're mad as hell."

"I'm sorry."

He makes out a prescription for an anti-depressant and explains how it shouldbe given.

Maybe if he were a different kind of person. Maybe if he'd come up through adifferent kind of system. I imagine an old country doctor who could put his armaround Dad and reassure him.

We shake hands, and I leave the office.

Outside a cold rain has started. Mom and Dad are wandering around theparking lot looking for the car.

"Son of a bitch," Dad growls as he climbs into the back seat.

"Horrible man. Horrible doctor," says Mom.

I turn around to face Dad from the driver's seat.

"I know that's bad news..."

"Don't talk to me!" he snarls.

I start the car, drive out of the lot.

Back home the rain has turned to snow. Dad goes straight into the bedroom.

Mom and I sit down on the recliners. "It's not the driving," she fumes. "I don'tgive a damn about the driving. It's that he didn't give him any hope. The firstthing he said when he came back in the room: 'You're going to get worse andworse.' He didn't have to put it that way. Dad's been trying so hard. Gettingexercise. And now this doctor crashes him to the ground, tells him he might as well give up and die."

I feel a fleeting impulse to defend the doctor, but I let it pass.

"And why did he take you aside?" Mom goes on. "That was wrong. I’mhis

wife." It never occurred to me that Mom would feel insulted.

"You're right, Mom. He should have talked to you, too."

After a while I venture into the bedroom. Dad is watching the news on TV.Theroom is dark except for a small lamp on his bureau. I sit down in the chair next tohim. "Can we talk?"

"We don't have anything to talk about." That hate-filled voice — as thoughhe'd like to stomp on me. All my life I've avoided that voice.

"Can we turn off the TV, Dad?" Outrageously adult, I tell myself. I can do this.I can talk to him.

He holds out his arm and clicks the remote with an angry jerk.

"Why are you mad at me?"

"For two years you've been trying to make me stop driving. You told him whatto say."

"No, Dad, he came to that conclusion on his own."

"Do you think he's right?"

"Yes, I think he's right."

"What evidence do you have?"

I talk about the accident, the traffic tickets, the lapses. Dad has an answer foreverything.

The phone interrupts us, a friend from Chapel Hill. I take it in the den. By thetime I finish, Dad is in the kitchen helping Mom. Miraculously, his mood haslightened.

At dinner, I ask if I can borrow a bag to take on the plane. Dad lists the possibilities—his old briefcase, the SwissAir carry-on —just like the old days, when Iwas going back to college.

After dinner Dad and I sit beside each other at the piano. I play his favorite folksongs. He sings along in his strong tenor voice.

"Such talent!" he says. "Marvelous! It's so marvelous to have you here, honey.You have to come back very soon."

At night I lie in bed, still warmed by his praise, wondering whether I couldcome back this summer for a whole month, help Mom hire someone to take careof him.

The next morning when I finish packing, I join Mom and Dad at the breakfasttable. Snowflakes float by the window. The mountains are hidden by clouds.

"Dad's already scraped off your car," Mom says.

Dad grumbles into his lap, "What right has he got... Next thing you know thedentist will tell me not to drive." He looks up at me." I suppose you agree withhim. "

"Oh, please, let's not talk about driving," says Mom.

Dad throws his napkin down and leaves the table.

"He does this every time I leave," I say to Mom. "Picks a fight."