Rain Turning to Snow
My sister disappears into the cavernous Grand Junction terminal while I watch from the car. One more day.
Then I can fly away too.
I thread my way out of the airport parking lot onto the highway that will take me back to my parents' house.
Discount stores and fast food places give way to barren desert flats. "Outrageously adult." That's what I wrote in my
notebook on the plane coming out here. I'm fifty years old, a feminist, for Christ's sake. I can handle one day alone
with my parents.
Tomorrow's our appointment with the neurologist. I've already made a list of Dad's symptoms, a rebellious
act in itself, to record his shortcomings behind his back. Tomorrow I plan to enlist the doctor as an ally. I want him
to force Dad to acknowledge he's sick, encourage Mom to take charge. Most traitorous of all, I want him to tell Dad
to stop driving.
It's almost dark by the time I pull into the long gravel driveway. Dad meets me at 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 a problem. 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 find the 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 daughters try 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 started talking 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 read everything he could get his hands
on, even subscribed to the Harvard Medical School Newsletter.
"This so-called doctor," says Dad, "all he did was ask some questions then send 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 him tomorrow."
"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 Dad appears at the doorway in a
tweed sport coat and crisp white shirt, his retired executive outfit.
"Harry, our appointment's not 'til two o'clock," says Mom. "We don't have to leave 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 I used to be the one who was
always early."
An hour before we're scheduled to leave, Dad is locking the doors and closing the curtains. Mom is ready
too, fresh lipstick, coat over her arm. It would take a major 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 Peggy would. Instead it comes out chirpy, like a condescending nurse.
Dad changes direction without a word, climbs into the passenger seat of my rental 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 and Mom 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-five outside 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 WAS THAT 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 to hear anything.
We drive for miles without seeing another car. Dad breaks the silence. "Can you 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't be 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. On my way back from the
bathroom, I catch sight of Dad from across the room, sitting upright in his chair, face grim, all three of his sport coat
buttons buttoned. He knows what this is all about. I wish I could hug him, soothe him. I wish Peggy were 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 a yellow rubber spinal cord. I twist the vertebrae apart and let
them snap together again. Mom studies the diplomas on the wall.
Dad says, "I'm going to say, 'This is my daughter, Dr. Marcy Lansman. She's a researcher at the University
of North Carolina.' Is that OK?"
"That's fine." Dad himself never went to college. I'm happy to share whatever status he thinks I have.
The sound of the door startles me. Hartman is about forty-five, tall, slim with neatly trimmed brown hair
and a short beard, nothing like the hairy monster Dad 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 identical Wallabee 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." Her frown draws two lines down
the center of her forehead. Her hands are folded in her 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 right here 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 her know Dad has to answer by
himself.
Before Dad was sick he could have listed all eight candidates for the Presidential nomination, explained
their positions on every issue. He's a fanatic about politics.
"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 who are 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 much longer.
"Not that interested," Dad says.
"Harry, can you tell me what you had for lunch?" I want to tell Hartman to stop right now. This isn't just
any Alzheimer's patient. This is my father. You don'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 remember them."
Dad looks confused. I'd like to jump in and explain.
Hartman lists the words: "Shirt, green, history." After several tries, Dad repeats them.
"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 throw stones'?"
I imagine Mom, Dad, and me sitting on folding chairs in the middle of an empty greenhouse. If we throw
stones, we'll break the windows...no, that's not it...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 see some test results. I'm going to
take her to my office for a few minutes. You can wait here."
"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 back down 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 should be upsetting. How stupid of
me to think this doctor was going to be my ally. God forbid 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 has Alzheimer's Disease. No, what I can
say is he's seriously demented, and we've ruled out anything that's reversible." Oh yes, doctor, very important to be
totally accurate.
"Shall we look at your list?" Hartman asks.
I pull a yellow-lined pad out of my purse, glad for the opportunity to show how organized I am.
The doctor points to the first item and we read it together.
• Has trouble finding words.
"That's the only symptom he talks about. Words have always been important to 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 those inhibitions."
• 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's why 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 main thing 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. He reclaims his seat in front of
Dad. The room seems small, airless.
"Harry, you've got a form of dementia that affects your memory and your judgment. I'm afraid it's going to
get worse." I feel like I'm watching from a great distance, 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 driving counts for nothing?"
"I'm sure you were an excellent driver when you were younger, but that doesn't help now. I have to tell you,
just like I had to tell my own father, that it's time to stop."
"I worked in insurance. I'm familiar with the records, and I don't see any reason... "
"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 a supply room when I bring them
back and show them the way out. I rejoin the doctor.
"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 should be given.
Maybe if he were a different kind of person. Maybe if he'd come up through a different kind of system. I
imagine an old country doctor who could put his arm around Dad and reassure him.
We shake hands, and I leave the office.
Outside a cold rain has started. Mom and Dad are wandering around the parking 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't give a damn about the
driving. It's that he didn't give him any hope. The first thing he said when he came back in the room: 'You're going
to get worse and worse.' He didn't have to put it that way. Dad's been trying so hard. Getting exercise. 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’m his
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. The room is dark except for a
small lamp on his bureau. I sit down in the chair next to him. "Can we talk?"
"We don't have anything to talk about." That hate-filled voice — as though he'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 what to 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 for everything.
The phone interrupts us, a friend from Chapel Hill. I take it in the den. By the time I finish, Dad is in the
kitchen helping Mom. Miraculously, his mood has lightened.
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 I was going back to college.
After dinner Dad and I sit beside each other at the piano. I play his favorite folk songs. 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 could come back this summer for a
whole month, help Mom hire someone to take care of him.
The next morning when I finish packing, I join Mom and Dad at the breakfast table. 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 the dentist will tell me not to
drive." He looks up at me." I suppose you agree with him. "
"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."
"And then he feels miserable when you're gone."
"Really?"
"Alwavs."
Dad walks by outside the window in his tan parka.
I load my bags into the car and kiss Mom good-bye. "I'll find him before I leave."
"He loves you, honey, and so do I."
On my way out of the driveway, I loo k up the hill and see Dad striding toward the car, the flaps of his tan
hat turned down against the snow, his face bright red. I turn up the road and pull over next to him. "Dad! I wanted to
say good -bye." He tramps by, ignoring me.
I run after him and grab his arm. "Don't you want to say good-bye?"
He pushes me away. "Yeah! I'd punch your goddamn head, that's what I'd do!"
It's the closest he's ever come to hitting me.
A little way up the road, I pull over again. I take out a scrap of paper and write down Dad's words, fold
them up and put them in my purse.
© Marcy Lansman