05/29/98

Alzheimer's

In our old neighborhood any excuse prompted a party. Sunny skies? Roll out the grills for a barbeque. Rain? Deal the cards. Vacation slides? Bring a dish-to-pass before the show. St. Paddy's Day? Serve up the green beer and corned beef sandwiches. The number one party instigator on our hill was Joe, vice president of a national corporation by day and host in orange sneakers by night. He and his wife Kay loved to throw parties. You name the occasion; they celebrated it.

Every New Year's eve they invented midnight games and relay races, like pass the grapefruit under your chin or the balloon between your knees. One year they set up a two-story miniature golf course throughout their rambling house. Kay cooked and served while Joe worked the crowd, telling hilarious stories one minute, listening attentively to each guest the next. He had a way of making people see life's possibilities -- ever the optimist, never petty or mean-spirited.

All the kids in the neighborhood loved him, probably because he was a bit-o-the-kid himself. One summer weekend Joe conspired with our son and his neighborhood pals to organize a picnic and kickball game in the empty lot next door. In the middle of the game, Joe backed down the driveway onto the pitcher's mound and popped the trunk. Inside were dozens of straw hats with striped hatbands for everyone, to add a touch of class to the festivities.

The week a German company bought out the corporation Joe worked for and downsized Joe out of a job, his employees stood around him crying. Who wanted to come to work without Joe around?

He landed on his feet, thankfully, by starting a family food brokerage business, which his son later owned and managed. Clients stood in line to buy merchandise from Joe because he always gave them more than they asked for, and he never let them down. He even managed to get boxcar loads of generic diapers into Mexico, despite mountains of red tape. We know the diapers made it, but we're not sure what happened to the boxcars. Last we heard they were stranded somewhere in Northern Mexico. Oh, Joseph!

Kay kept the books and paid the bills for the business because Joe, ever the grand storyteller, tended toward exaggeration with numbers, too. "He never lies exactly," Kay winked. "He's just a bit reckless with the truth." She always gave him a blank check or two for emergencies, and he would tell her at week's end what he bought and how much he spent.

One month when Kay was reviewing the bank statement, she noticed that the figures Joe had given her didn't match the actual amounts -- not even close. When she asked him about it, he apologized for his forgetfulness and promised to be more careful. But as the weeks went by, it was clear that his memory was playing tricks on him. In less than a year alzheimer's and parkinson's diseases began to take hold of our impish, garrulous friend.

The years passed and Joe gradually disappeared behind vacant eyes. Kay took total care of him. Their retirement plans hadn't included Alzheimer's, of course. Nor had their plans included Joe's panicky calls to the police because he couldn't find his wife, who happened to be napping upstairs. Nor did they include the day Joe forgot Kay's name. And nothing prepared Kay for the surges of rage she felt from exhaustion, frustration and the injustice of an illness which left her husband's body intact but stole his mind and spirit.

The time finally came when home care was impossible. Joe recognized no one and fell frequently, too weak and stiff to get up. After a few months of convalescent home care, he died, with Kay and his oldest daughter by his side. The family threw a party in his honor, just as Joe would have wanted. The occasion was too solemn for a rousing game of shoe golf with Joe's orange sneakers, so we reminisced about his humor instead.

We could almost hear Joe quip, "May you be in heaven a half hour before the devil knows you're dead. And when you get there, look for me. I'm the one handing out the party hats."

Please send questions or comments to bbruno@snet.net.