what I go through every day. They all feel sorry for Saul. What about me?
I feel like I’m almost invisible. People hardly ever ask how I’m doing, and when they do, it’s seems like they are asking because they feel they have to, but they really couldn’t care less. No one gives me any support. I’m not going to go to one of those caretaker support groups. First of all, I can’t see how a bunch of people stuck in the same boat are going to be able to help one another. And I’m not going to have some social worker lecture me. Besides, as I’ve told you before, I can’t leave Saul alone.
Florence does come by, and Joey breezes in and out, usually for ten minutes. And Saul has a couple of friends like Arthur Winslow who visit on a regular basis. But I am the one stuck alone here every day, wandering the house with him at night, being the object of his physical abuse, carrying wet naps in my purse to wipe his drool. My God, what’s next?
Do you know that I’m on Valium to control my anxiety? That my stomach is on fire all day, and that I’m practically addicted to Tagamet? That I now carry nitroglycerin in my purse for my heart condition?
I wish I could just tell someone all that—someone who cares and would understand. I’ve tried with Florence, but although she listens and offers some comfort, I know it’s her father she’s concerned about. And forget Joey, that would be a waste of time. Dr. Tremblay said I should feel free to call him if I were experiencing any difficulty, but when I called him, he just said he would send over a refill for my Valium prescription. Saul may be the one with Alzheimer’s, but I’m the one suffering a long and miserable life.
Saul
I’m Not Gone Yet
I know it’s sunset for me, but that’s not the worst part. The worst part is what’s her name, yeah, Monique. She seems to think I’m all but a goner with a miserable life. Actually, when she’s not around to bully me, I’m fairly content. Well, content may not be the right word, but it’s close enough. I mean, I kind of enjoy watching television, even if I miss a lot of what’s going on. It’s a miracle if I can concentrate until the end of a program. Although, for the most part, I can in the morning, but it gets almost impossible as the day goes on, especially with those damn commercials. Sometimes I feel like they stick them in there just to see if I can remember what was going on in the show—sort of a test to see how far gone I am. But I’m still here, although maybe not driving in the fast lane.
I still sort of enjoy my food, but one look at my belly would tell you that. I would really like it if we ate at some of my favorite restaurants, but Monique rarely takes me out anymore. My best guess is that she hates cutting my food in front of people. I would really like it if I could do it myself, but it would take hours, and probably most of the meal would end up on the floor. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about that.
She’s always asking me if I’m depressed. I didn’t think I was, but when she keeps insinuating—wow, another big word—that I am, I figure she must be right.
It’s like when my father used to tell me what a nothing I was. I didn’t want to make a liar of him, so that’s what I became—a nothing—at least till I moved out of his house. But when I move out of this house, I really will be a nothing!
So, am I depressed? Yes, I’m depressed. Who wouldn’t be? But I’ll be frank with you. The reason I’m depressed is not because of the disease, but because of her. I know what the disease is, what it means, and how it will end. But I am not there yet, and she just doesn’t get that.
Monique
Now What?
W hen I came into the kitchen this afternoon, the kettle was in the refrigerator and a bunch of rags sat in the bottom of the dishwasher. I looked out the open window. Saul was in the garden, walking around the flower bed. I could hear him mumbling to himself, “I have to
I feel like I’m almost invisible. People hardly ever ask how I’m doing, and when they do, it’s seems like they are asking because they feel they have to, but they really couldn’t care less. No one gives me any support. I’m not going to go to one of those caretaker support groups. First of all, I can’t see how a bunch of people stuck in the same boat are going to be able to help one another. And I’m not going to have some social worker lecture me. Besides, as I’ve told you before, I can’t leave Saul alone.
Florence does come by, and Joey breezes in and out, usually for ten minutes. And Saul has a couple of friends like Arthur Winslow who visit on a regular basis. But I am the one stuck alone here every day, wandering the house with him at night, being the object of his physical abuse, carrying wet naps in my purse to wipe his drool. My God, what’s next?
Do you know that I’m on Valium to control my anxiety? That my stomach is on fire all day, and that I’m practically addicted to Tagamet? That I now carry nitroglycerin in my purse for my heart condition?
I wish I could just tell someone all that—someone who cares and would understand. I’ve tried with Florence, but although she listens and offers some comfort, I know it’s her father she’s concerned about. And forget Joey, that would be a waste of time. Dr. Tremblay said I should feel free to call him if I were experiencing any difficulty, but when I called him, he just said he would send over a refill for my Valium prescription. Saul may be the one with Alzheimer’s, but I’m the one suffering a long and miserable life.
Saul
I’m Not Gone Yet
I know it’s sunset for me, but that’s not the worst part. The worst part is what’s her name, yeah, Monique. She seems to think I’m all but a goner with a miserable life. Actually, when she’s not around to bully me, I’m fairly content. Well, content may not be the right word, but it’s close enough. I mean, I kind of enjoy watching television, even if I miss a lot of what’s going on. It’s a miracle if I can concentrate until the end of a program. Although, for the most part, I can in the morning, but it gets almost impossible as the day goes on, especially with those damn commercials. Sometimes I feel like they stick them in there just to see if I can remember what was going on in the show—sort of a test to see how far gone I am. But I’m still here, although maybe not driving in the fast lane.
I still sort of enjoy my food, but one look at my belly would tell you that. I would really like it if we ate at some of my favorite restaurants, but Monique rarely takes me out anymore. My best guess is that she hates cutting my food in front of people. I would really like it if I could do it myself, but it would take hours, and probably most of the meal would end up on the floor. Unfortunately, there’s nothing I can do about that.
She’s always asking me if I’m depressed. I didn’t think I was, but when she keeps insinuating—wow, another big word—that I am, I figure she must be right.
It’s like when my father used to tell me what a nothing I was. I didn’t want to make a liar of him, so that’s what I became—a nothing—at least till I moved out of his house. But when I move out of this house, I really will be a nothing!
So, am I depressed? Yes, I’m depressed. Who wouldn’t be? But I’ll be frank with you. The reason I’m depressed is not because of the disease, but because of her. I know what the disease is, what it means, and how it will end. But I am not there yet, and she just doesn’t get that.
Monique
Now What?
W hen I came into the kitchen this afternoon, the kettle was in the refrigerator and a bunch of rags sat in the bottom of the dishwasher. I looked out the open window. Saul was in the garden, walking around the flower bed. I could hear him mumbling to himself, “I have to
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