Preface
To a large degree we are what we remember. As for the memories, many are in front of us, easily accessible, while others are buried deep within our subconscious. What happens if we begin to lose those memories? And how does that impact those around us?
Stanley Samuelson suffers from dementia. His family does its best to meet the challenges this creates. What remains most strongly in his memory are the many Bach cantatas and oratorios he and his wife have shared from the time they met.
These works of music are enjoyable by themselves and are not necessary prerequisites to understanding this novel. But you might want to listen to Cantatas #4, 140, and 146 and Bach’s Christmas and Easter Oratorios.
We record our favorite things in our memories from our childhood on. Rodgers and Hammerstein put it out there so sweetly in The Sound of Music. John Coltrane brought it to new and different levels in his 1961 record, My Favorite Things, and in a later version, Live at the Village Vanguard Again! Readers can judge for themselves which sound fits Stanley the best.
~ 1 ~
What’s Wrong?
Stanley Samuelson first realized something was wrong at the start of the tax season in 2008. He could no longer remember totals from one section of a statement to the next. He was an accountant, a good accountant, with a long list of clients. He was able to recall dollar amounts from anywhere even in long reports, something he took great pride in for the first 45years of his career. Now he had to write down partial totals on scraps of paper and shred them later. He didn’t plan on telling Mary; she had been doing poorly lately. The doctors weren’t much help.
Stanley and his wife retreated to their Bach cantatas and oratorios. It was how they had met 50 years ago. It was a little comfort. He had not forgotten the verse from the Christmas Oratorio:
Lasset der Zagen, verbannet die Klagen. Set aside fear, banish complaints.
But there was no place he could go to shout the verses from the mountaintops:
“Shout onto Zion, for my time has come.” Or was it, “Scream unto Zion!”
He felt that his time had indeed come. He told Mary, “I must be getting old. We don’t need much. The house is paid for and the kids are doing well on their own. Why don’t I cut back? I have a young man working for me; he can carry most of the work. I’ll work up an arrangement, maybe retire when I’m 70.”
“I think that’s a good idea, Stan. I know the kids would be happy. We could spend more time with the grandchildren or go to a recital – a Bach cantata or Handel oratorio – in Cleveland or even in New York. We’ve talked about it but you’ve always been too busy.”
Stanley agreed. “It sounds like a good idea.” He listened to his stomach churn, thought back to the old days when Mary had taught English. She quoted Shakespeare when he got upset about something and told him: “Why, Stan, that’s just sound and fury, signifying nothing.” And explained how Faulkner had used that in a novel where Dilsey was the one who survived all the tumult, endured to the end. “Don’t be so worried. Everything will work out fine.”
Well, now I’m screaming to Zion, seems my time has come. Losing it: the numbers, the words, can’t tell what else. Don’t want to worry Mary. I’ll have to get through this somehow!
“Comfort ye!” What about, “Comfort me?” I’ve never cheated anyone, been honest, kind. So what we weren’t church-goers. Taught our kids good Christian values. And now this with my memory.
In truth he had no one he could confide in. It was always the two of them, and the kids – Kevin and Sarah. Happy Acres. No. 2 Happy Acres Drive. What a crock that’s become. And there never were any fish in Pee Wee Pond!
Stanley tried singing their duet, “Mein Freund ist mein und ich bin sein,” unsure if he had the words right or was even in tune. If I can’t remember my numbers who knows what I’m doing to this? Mary will help. Yes, she’ll help. She’s my friend and I’m hers. That’s what we always sang.
~ 2 ~
Kevin’s Angry
Kevin and his sister couldn’t agree on the health of their parents. He yelled at her over the phone, “When was the last time you stopped by to talk with Mom and Dad? You know it’s 2009? Mom’s fading and Dad’s losing it. Forgetting stuff all over the place. It’s not working. I don’t care if Dad’s home most of the time. Thank heaven Selma comes in for a couple of hours twice a week. Sis, I’m warning you – I’m strung out running over there all the time!”
“Kevin, relax. The folks will get on. Jeez, I’m well aware Dad’s stressed out. The specialist will see Mom in a week, get her back on her feet. Dad will get better too. You’ll see: they’ll find a Bach festival somewhere and be off in Love-Love Land like when we were kids.”
“Sarah, I don’t think so. I really don’t. We’ve got to talk about this. If you can’t make time over the weekend, you’ll have to find time before or after work. I can’t go on like this. I’ve got a family too. Beth’s supportive, which is probably more than you can say about your husband, Carl, who’s off playing golf every time you turn your back.”
He regretted saying that about her husband, but it was out of his mouth and no taking it back. He felt sorry for his sister. She got her trophy husband: top in his law school class, well-connected. Never was much of a helpmate though. He realized how much it had stung when she agreed to meet him Monday across from the county courthouse.
“Be there by 8:30. I don’t have to appear until 10. That should be enough time to talk.”
Monday morning Kevin is sitting in a booth towards the back of the coffee house. He sees her come in the door, stands, and waves her over. “The waitress will bring us a carafe and a couple of plain croissants. Heads up: Sunday was tough. Mom stayed in her housecoat all day. She took me aside, told me how important it would be to Dad to be able to celebrate their fiftieth anniversary there in No. 2. There were tears in her eyes. I think she’s afraid she won’t be here then.”
The coffee comes; Sarah pours, moves the croissants to their plates. “Weekends were always tough for Dad,” she says, “he always preferred working. I think we should see if Selma can come more often or suggest another caregiver. I’m sure she has friends or neighbors in Campanella Court who wouldn’t mind working a few days a week. Why don’t you ask her? And I’ll pay for it, seeing as how I can’t get over there that often.”
Kevin picks at his roll, heaps the crumbs in the center of his plate. “OK. As long as Mom’s around this may work. I can’t see Dad being there alone at night. We’ll have to take a day at a time. Let’s see what they say about Mom – that’ll make a difference. In any case I think we should start looking into elder care facilities before things fall apart. I watched that happen to my office manager. Her mother ended up in a home and my manager needed two weeks off to deal with it. She was a mess herself the next six months until her mother finally died.”
“Don’t be so glum, Kevin. It will work out fine, you’ll see. Look, I’ve got to run. Next time, my treat. Here’s three for the tip. Call me when you hear from Selma about additional help. And thanks.”
Kevin makes a half-hearted salute as she pushes back from the booth. “Yeah, stay in touch.”
~ 3 ~
Christmas Pictures
Mary finds new strength as Christmas approaches. She has Stanley bring out a box of old pictures from the top shelf in the den closet.
“Stanley, let’s go through these. I’m sure we’ll find a couple we like and we can make copies to give to the kids.”
Selma puts an old tablecloth on the dining room table and says she’d be delighted to help.
“I didn’t come to work for you until Kevin was already starting kindergarten. I think it was 1970. My, how time flies! Yes, and Sarah was ‘a big girl’ and didn’t need diapers. I must have been lucky.”
She watches as Mary and Mr. Samuelson sort through the folders. I’ll always think of Stanley as Mr. Samuelson. He was always working and in a nice suit. Mary stayed home until Sarah went to preschool. She insisted on being called Mary. And see how well-organized everything is. I guess it comes from being an accountant.
Mary spreads out the contents of the folder marked “1967, 1968.”
“Here, Stan, let’s look through this one. Remember when we first came to Happy Acres. I was carrying Sarah. I didn’t think it showed but Mr. Garabaldi knew somehow. He was too polite to say anything.”
She finds a picture of Happy Acres that he had given them. He had joked, “A keepsake for the newlyweds.” And Stanley had proudly told him that they already had a two-year old boy, Kevin, who was with his grandmother while they were out looking for a house.
Mary sighs. “It was so long ago, even if it seems like yesterday. Stanley, I wonder if you would be a dear and have this one of me and this one of Happy Acres enlarged and framed. I’d like to see them hung on the wall above my dresser. It would make me smile, seeing them there when I wake up in the morning.”
She moves the folder marked 1973 to the top. “There’s a wonderful photo of all of us from that Christmas in there somewhere. Your mother celebrated with us and took pictures. She was surprised how nice they turned out. Here it is. Why don’t you make 6 copies, 5 x 8, one for the kids and each of the grandchildren. You know, make that seven. I’ll put one under the glass on my dresser top.”
Selma moves the pictures to one side. She notices that Mary is wilting and remarks, “That’s a wonderful bunch of pictures, Mary. What a lot of work to remember where they were. You must be tired now; you too, Mr. Samuelson. Why don’t I help you both upstairs and you can lie down? I’ll make notes for the photos you selected. When Kevin comes by later this afternoon, I’ll explain. Of course, it won’t be a Christmas surprise for him, but I’m sure he’ll be happy to have copies made.”
It was three when Selma comes back down to the kitchen. She has cleaned the bathroom. Kevin does so much, that’s the least I can do to help. She makes a cup of tea, sits at the kitchen table thinking there wouldn’t be much joy for the Samuelsons this Christmas. Well, they do have each other and that’s more than lots of families can say.
Stanley comes down after four, a little dazed. “Mary’s sleeping. I hope that’s all right.”
“Oh, yes, certainly. Would you like a cup of tea, Mr. Samuelson?”
Stanley nods. Selma prepares supper while he sips his tea.
~ 4 ~
Mary’s Notebooks
Mary’s health is failing. She complained of abdominal pains. In December her internist sent her for an MRI and additional tests. Cancer was detected; a team of specialists put in place an aggressive protocol of chemotherapy and radiation to be followed by surgery. The first few months were tough. Mary was frequently nauseous and lethargic for days at a time. With the new year and the completion of the preliminary treatment her health and spirits appeared to be better.
She was told, “Let’s get your strength back first. We’ll see if surgery is called for after another screening in February.”
The Samuelsons brought in 2010 quietly; Bach’s Christmas Oratorio was only played once on Christmas Eve. Stanley was distraught, confused. He thought he heard the words of the first recitative, “Maria, meinem vertrauten Weibe [Mary, my betrothed wife],” conclude – “should be able to help me.”
February came; additional tests were done. Mary was despondent, confided in Kevin that she wasn’t sure she had the strength to fight the cancer. “I’ve got to hold out for Stanley, but it’s not easy. I don’t know. We never planned for this to happen; I guess no one does...”
On Sunday when Kevin comes by Mary is resting in her bed upstairs. He goes up and they talk. Five minutes later she drifts off, humming, “Ich horte der Wachter singen, er kommt fur mir...” changing the verse from the chorus in her pain. [I hear the watchmen singing, he comes for me.] Her medication takes effect and she falls asleep.
Kevin goes down and finds his father staring at the TV in the den. “Dad, I’m going, got errands to run. Mom’s upstairs sleeping.”
When she wakes two hours later Stanley is napping in the la-Z-boy. She smiles weakly. Kevin was right to bring this up from the den. She laughs recalling him say: “Really, Mom, Dad’s better off with the couch when he watches TV. He can get a real nap and it’s easier for Selma or me to swing his legs around and cover him. This way he can be comfortable watching over you.”
Mary reaches for the bell on her nightstand, saving her strength so she and Stanley can talk.
Stanley stretches, grins. “Oh, hi, Sweetheart. I must have fallen asleep. Look how dark it’s gotten.” His eyes drift over to the window. He wobbles to the light switch by the door, grunts, “There.”
“Stanley, why don’t you come sit at the foot of the bed? We need to talk about things. I’ve been too weak to be much of a help. I’m glad Selma’s coming three days a week now. I’m not sure that’s enough. I’ll talk to Kevin.”
She turns her head to the pitcher on the nightstand. Stanley pours, passes her the half-full glass. She takes a few sips, puts it down on the comforter. Stanley puts it back on her nightstand.
She sighs, looks down at her hands, and wills them to move a strand of hair from her forehead. “Stan, you should keep a notebook and write down a few thoughts every day about what you’re feeling. I read that’s a good thing to do in one of the magazines Sarah brought for me in the hospital. It’s supposed to help your memory. When I’m up to it I’ll write a notebook for you, about how we met, and came here to Happy Acres. That will give you an idea of what you can write.