The Memory Artists Part 5

Noel's features froze, his breathing stopped.

"She nursed them back to health, and they all fell in love with her."

Noel stared at his mother, incredulously. And then launched himself into her arms, laughing, rocking back and forth on the bed. "Yes, Mom, that's right. I knew knew you'd remember! This is good news, you'd remember! This is good news, very very good news." Vorta's drugs are kicking in, he said to himself. I good news." Vorta's drugs are kicking in, he said to himself. I knew knew this would be the right batch! this would be the right batch!

His mother began to stroke his hair, as she used to. And then out of the blue she said, "Your father ... had a pa.s.sion for family trees. But what you didn't know, what I never told you, was that he was easily taken in. Despite his ... brilliance."

Noel tried to stop his heart from pounding, shocked at this new lucidity. "You mean ... Byron's really not my ancestor?"

His mother merely smiled. "Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world, your father used to say."

Why did she remember that line? Noel wondered. Because of the amaranth?11 His brain began to generate rows of coloured letters but with effort he shut the generator down. "I ... I never heard him say that, Mom." His brain began to generate rows of coloured letters but with effort he shut the generator down. "I ... I never heard him say that, Mom."

"Your father was unhappy with the acknowledged legislators."

Noel desperately wanted to hear more-she had never talked of his father's unhappiness in this way-but his mother's mind leapt abruptly to another subject. "I've got some stuff for emile," she said. "Can you take it to him, dear? You can read it if you like."

Before he could reply, in the blink of an eye she fell asleep. For a moment he thought of waking her, of extending these precious moments, but he didn't have the heart. She'd suffered from insomnia for weeks. So he ever so gently lifted her fingers from his hair, and kissed her on the forehead. On tiptoes he then crept towards her blue Olivetti Lettera (a gift from her husband that a computer would never replace) and picked up a sheaf of papers beside a well-thumbed thesaurus. There was a half-finished page still in the typewriter, barely readable. Must change the ribbon, he thought. Taking one last peek at his mother, Noel switched off the light, closed the door. In the hall, after selecting a key from a ring, he locked the door from the outside-his mother's jailer!-as emotions rose to fill his throat and flood his eyes.

A sound from below distracted him. Someone was ringing the doorbell, piercingly and long, while pounding maniacally on the door. A picture quivered on the foyer wall. The cacophony of clangs and bangs continued for several minutes before a dead silence redescended on the house. At the top of the stairs he sat down and began to read his mother's pages.

Chapter 6.

Stella's Diary (I) Like one, that on a lonesome roadDoth walk in fear and dread,And having once turned round walks onAnd turns no more his head;Because he knows a frightful fiendDoth close behind him tread.- Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner" Coleridge, "The Rime of the Ancient Mariner"

Friday, 9 February 2001. A huge day, in the hugely negative sense. According to the doctor I have 'mild cognitive impairment'. That doesn't sound too bad at first, but let me put it another way: I'm in the first stage of ... Alzheimer's Disease. The very names of certain diseases bring dread and AD is one of them. It's a death sentence. A long and slow one.

emile asked me to keep this journal while I still have 'self-insight' -i.e. the ability to recognise what's happening to me. Later on, because of the deterioration in the cells in my temporal lobe, where insights are formed apparently, I won't be able to do this. 'Don't forget to keep it every day,' he told me.

Fine, I still have insight, but that's more a curse than a blessing. Because I know the future and the future is this: [image]

I can't remember the term for it, which is why I drew it (I used to draw better).

Or if it's not like being under the sword, it's like the Ancient Mariner, but I can't remember why. And I don't want to bother poor Noel again. I used to draw better than this I used to draw better than this.

The sword of Damocles! (I just asked Noel.) Thank G.o.d for Noel. And yet even with Noel here, life can be so terribly lonely. I don't see my old colleagues any more. Or my friends. Because keeping up my end of the conversation can be a real battle sometimes. Too often I can't remember the last thing said. I can remember rocking Noel in his crib thirty-two years ago, I can remember my husband proposing to me thirty-five years ago, but often I can't remember what was said thirty-five seconds ago.

I seem forever on the verge of remembrance, like trying to recall a dream, when you get the faintest of glimpses before the whole thing evaporates.

And it's so frustrating when I explain what's wrong with me. No one really understands. My lapses, I mean. My friends say things like 'We all forget things, Stella. We all lose our train of thought. It's normal in this age of PIN numbers and pa.s.swords. There's really nothing wrong with you.' And I just nod, instead of saying 'No no, that's not it, that's not it at all. It's more than that, you see.'

emile says I have 'mild cognitive impairment'. In conversations, just when you think of something relevant or clever or amusing to say, you forget some pertinent detail. And you lose your confidence. Or you're afraid you've asked the same question and they're tired of repeating themselves. And often you repeat something not because you've forgotten it, but because you can't remember whether you said it or merely thought it. In conversations, just when you think of something relevant or clever or amusing to say, you forget some pertinent detail. And you lose your confidence. Or you're afraid you've asked the same question and they're tired of repeating themselves. And often you repeat something not because you've forgotten it, but because you can't remember whether you said it or merely thought it.

Sometimes you just want to find a place to hide, a place to cry. What does an elephant do when its time has come? It walks alone into the jungle. Sometimes that's what I feel like doing, a.s.suming I could ever find a jungle.

Mild cognitive impairment, which is what I have, is the first sign of Alzheimer's. I'm in a no-woman's land, in a strange place where I'm no longer the self-a.s.sured and knowledgeable person I once was. A history teacher, for G.o.d's sake! I'm in a no-woman's land, in a strange place where I'm no longer the self-a.s.sured and knowledgeable person I once was. A history teacher, for G.o.d's sake!

But I'm not mad yet either -- I can still think, I can still reason. What annoys me is the way emile is starting to bypa.s.s me, giving all the details about my case, and all the eye contact, to my son. It's infuriating. I'm going to say something to him next time. If I remember. I'd better write it on my hand.

13 February 2001. Fugaces labuntur anni.12 How in heaven did I remember that, from my distant schooldays? I want to go back so badly, back to Aberdeen. I remember things that happened to me there better than things that happened here two weeks ago! Will Noel go with me, I wonder? How in heaven did I remember that, from my distant schooldays? I want to go back so badly, back to Aberdeen. I remember things that happened to me there better than things that happened here two weeks ago! Will Noel go with me, I wonder?

G.o.d, how I miss the things I used to have, the little things we take for granted. To be able to make small talk, to joke, to remember people's names, to read a book or watch a movie without getting lost. To walk or drive without getting lost!

I can't find my car keys, which has happened lots of times before, of course, but this time it feels different. This time I don't think it's a case of misplacing them, of not remembering where I left them. This time I have a feeling they've been stolen.

If Noel took them away, I must have really got lost, really gone far astray ... The mother who used to wonder where her son was now has a son who wonders where his mother is.

15 February. I wake up and my brain doesn't seem to be wired right. I feel like looking in the Yellow Pages for a good electrician, one who knows what he's doing, who won't throw up his hands at the mess. 'I can rewire it if you like, Mrs. Burun,' he'd probably say, 'or you can just wait for the fire.' And then I start to panic, and get more muddled, and then pull the covers back over me and go back to sleep.

18 February. Noel and I were going through a box of mementos today and he showed me a card he made me years ago for Mother's Day. It used the letters of MOTHER to make a poem or rhyme. I can't find it now and I can't remember what it said, but it was lovely. I've spent the past few hours, with pencil and eraser, writing an updated version. Here it is: M is for the miseries of Menopause, O is for the road to Oblivion, T is for the Tailspin of ageing, H is for the feeling of Helplessness, E is for the feeling of Emptiness, R is for my Rage over losing my Role of M O T H E R.

20 February. 'The future is not something I'm dying to get to,' I remember Noel saying when he was six or seven (and I laughed, seeing the dark humour). Now, I feel the opposite: the future is not something I'm in any hurry to get to. The future is not what it used to be.

The buy-out I signed allowed me to teach part time, which I've wanted for years, but I now know I'll never be able to do that. I feel like I've spent my life climbing the rungs of a slide.

22 February. Alzheimerland is a foreign country. Time doesn't move the same way here, calendars are fuzzy, the days and months shuffled like cards in a deck. And s.p.a.ce is different too -- the land seems to wobble, the signposts shift. You stumble through mud or sand, through mines and traps. And it's hard to talk to people here, to speak their language. It's so hard to get used to -- it's not like where I grew up.

Did you ever walk into a room and forget why you went in? Entering the FORGETTERY, I used to call it. Or was it my husband who called it that? Anyway, we used to laugh but now I don't find it so funny -- because that's how we Alzheimerians spend our waking hours.

26 February. Is Alois Alzheimer spinning in his grave, I wonder, remembered only for a disease of forgetting? Do many Germans have this last name? Or has it died out, like Hitler's?

2 March. Someone came over today. I don't know who it was, although the face looked so familiar. I tried to pretend, but I don't think I fooled anybody.

It leaves me angry and frustrated. And I'm afraid I take out my frustration and anger on poor Noel. What would I do without him? I'd be in a padded cell, that's where I'd be.

My plan was to go back to teaching, part time, I can see myself ending up in a nursing home, and the idea kills me (Freudian slip, I meant to say 'fills me') with pain and sadness. I don't want to go. I pray my brain will hold out a little longer, until I'm dead ...

9 March. Everything inside so hollow, so grey and dry. My brain leaking memory and hope. So grey! I'm underwater, it feels like, in dark and blurry waters. Perhaps like those my husband saw, before he died.

13 March. Three days have gone by. I know this only because I saw the date on the newspaper (the only line I read these days). Three more days, cancelled days, gone without a trace. A trio of blank squares cut out of the calendar.

15 March. I'm watching too much television. That's all I seem to do these days. I like shows like Who Wants to be a Millionaire Who Wants to be a Millionaire Jeopardy, even though Noel can't stand it. He thinks the questions are too easy. I used to agree with him, but now I'm starting to find that I can't even answer the early questions. The answers just don't come! There's another quiz show I like but I can't remember its name. Jeopardy, even though Noel can't stand it. He thinks the questions are too easy. I used to agree with him, but now I'm starting to find that I can't even answer the early questions. The answers just don't come! There's another quiz show I like but I can't remember its name.

18 March. I came to sit here because I wanted to write something important but I can't remember what it was. I've been sitting here for an hour or two with a mind that feels like cake batter, looking down at the white letters on the keys, or up at ringed calendar days and not knowing why they're ringed ...

Just remembered -- after watching some stupid quiz show on TV. It's about this newspaper article I cut out. (I'm trying to read as much as I can, because Noel said it's good for the brain, but I find TV easier and it's probably too late now anyway.) In any case, I have it beside me now. It's from The Gazette.

Mercy killer commits suicide A man who pleaded guilty to suffocating his mother in what he claimed was a mercy killing has killed himself while out on day parole.

Noel Burun, 32, pleaded guilty to manslaughter in the death of his mother, Stella Burun, who suffered from Alzheimer's disease. He admitted placing a plastic bag over her head while the two were staying at the Chateau Frontenac in Quebec City on September 6, 2000.

Burun, sentenced to five years, was known to have attempted suicide twice after killing his mother.

On March 16, the National Parole Board granted Burun day parole, to be spent in a halfway house. He was also serving part of his sentence at the Philippe Pinel Inst.i.tute, a Quebec government psychiatric hospital. A report issued by the board indicated Burun had difficulty in dealing with his mother's death, experiencing 'severe depression and recurrent nightmares'.

I don't know why I typed this out. And why did I subst.i.tute Noel's name, and my own? What does that mean? Am I seeing the future? Should I phone ... what's his name, the doctor? emile? Should I tell Noel what I've done? Now I'm getting worried. I'm starting to panic. Am I losing my mind? I'd better go to bed.

23 March. I looked all day for my car keys. Then Noel said he'd prefer that I not drive any more. So I became furious and stormed outside in my housecoat to see if the keys were in the ... whatever it's called. So I went outside and the doors were all locked and then I couldn't remember what I was looking for. And then I saw my licence plate and laughed. 'Je me souviens,' it says.13 The ignition. (Thank you, Noel.) May? This is so hard to write. The typing part is OK, I still have most of my dexterity and finger-memory, but I have to keep looking in the dictionary for certain words and for the spelling and then I forget which word I'm looking for!

Alzheimer's is like when they switched to metric. When everything you'd known for years suddenly got mixed up. The numbers weren't the same, they didn't mean the same thing. You didn't really know how much things cost, or what the temperature was, or how far it was to the next town.

Or it's like when we came to America, when we switched from driving on the left side. Oh, you get used to it, eventually, but I'm in that place before you get used to it.

June? I've made a decision. If I can't make sense while talking, I just won't talk.

July? I think I lost my car keys I think I lost my car keys Awful really the way I've let this place slide. But the hedges are clipped. Maybe I do better when I'm not quite all there. I wake up from a nap, look out my window ... and the hedges are clipped. Somebody must have done it. It had to be me, I guess. Who else? Awful really the way I've let this place slide. But the hedges are clipped. Maybe I do better when I'm not quite all there. I wake up from a nap, look out my window ... and the hedges are clipped. Somebody must have done it. It had to be me, I guess. Who else?

I must get my eyes checked. Or change this ribbon. Things are starting to fade.

I must get my eyes checked. Or change this ribbon. Things are starting to fade Thurs. (or Sunday ?) Haven't the foggiest notion where I am or why. I woke up this morning and I was here in this place. They tell me it's my home, but I find that hard to believe. I know I wasn't here yesterday. A young lad came to the door. Or a la.s.s, it's hard to tell these days. Maybe not young. With a brush. They're always coming and going. I don't like all the hurly-burly, it's so ... I don't know the word. And she doesn't know how to make tea. I told her so. I will not tolerate bags, nasty things. And she doesn't hot the pot! I think I'll go out for tea. I can't find the keys to my car. Why are these drawers open? Who opened them? A robber? Are my keys in here? I have lots of socks in here. Must put some in the suitcase. What time does the train leave again? I would like to take this photograph too. He looks familiar. I don't remember putting this poppy in here. Why would someone have done that? This is not my toothbrush anyway. I think it belongs to those people who were here. I'll take it downstairs and give it to them. That woman who came to the door. I thanked her for coming and told her I was not well but she doesn't leave. She doesn't have any right to be here after I've asked her politely to leave. This is still my home. She says I have to talk to my son. Fine, give me the phone and I'll call him now. When the bank answers I'll ask them how much money I have in my account. I will need money for the trip. But first I will eat this food on a tray. Is it for me? No. I'll just go down and make some of those ... well, those round things. Why is my sleeve all wet? I wonder what time the train leaves. My head is all upset. It's all padded and woolly. Noises make me that way. Or give me pains and the colour grey. I used to be smooth and white inside, but now I'm all grey. My son (sometimes I'm not even sure he is my son) keeps telling me I'm getting better but I wonder. He keeps telling me he's getting closer. Closer to what? I can't remember anyone's name. Or face. I know my son. But who is everyone else? Why is she here, with the soap? What's that screechy noise? Did I light something? What's the number to call?

x.x.xX. I asked Noel the days of the week and he was a complete idiot. Not those days! The other days! Yes, what your father called them. Well, whoever! Type them for me.

But now where did I put that blasted paper? Everything seems to Ok here Moanday. I.. dshhe Tearsday. Did not Wailsday. Cant seem to Thumpsday Frightday Shatterday. Will never unerstan The quick brown fox the quck b the qu umps ove) Tththequickbrow thththtfojeovthethethethethetlleghe jdlpeop Yje wuivk noten ogc mumpd obrt yhr slxy foh.peppe;dlgkeopop0e2848u9hvndk,gjfkfkfkfkfkfkfkfkfe oeoeoeoeodla;;p;kkpojk.Lfldjgfjlgjlerjte ioogfdghoioihnhnorgfnogdfonfdgongldsj88888888888888888 888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888 8888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888888

Chapter 7.

Noel's Diary (I) A lily lasts a week or two,A month or two for roses A rose gets smashed in bad weather. A rose gets smashed in bad weather.But like a mother's love,The amaranth lasts forever.

- Noel Burun, age 8 December 8, 2000. After a day at the library, went over to Mom's for a late dinner, a "European" dinner as she calls it. I set the table, lit two candles, poured a Riesling with a Gothic castle on its label while Mom brought out two plates of swordfish amandine, mashed potatoes and glazed carrots. This looks exquisite, I said. But after my first bite I realised the swordfish was cold, not far from frozen. I'll just warm everything up in the micro, Mom said. Won't be a tick. While glancing at a New York Times she had placed beside me (one more act of thoughtfulness in a constellation of such acts), I waited. And waited. I could hear clicking sounds in the kitchen. Everything OK, Mom? I shouted. Well, not really, she answered. I entered the kitchen. Mom, fl.u.s.tered, was fiddling with the dials on the dishwasher. I can never remember how these blasted things work, she said. I walked over to see what the problem was. I pulled down the dishwasher door and saw a strange sight: on the top tray were two plates of swordfish amandine, mashed potatoes and glazed carrots. Dripping wet. I opened my mouth in surprise, but quickly closed it. I stood there, frozen, not knowing what to do or say. What would be appropriate here? I took a deep breath. "These machines are are a pain in the a.s.s, aren't they, Mom. I can never get the b.l.o.o.d.y things to work either. Why don't you ... sit back down, relax, read the paper, let me look after it?" Mom smiled lifelessly before walking back to the dining room. After draining the dishes, and then nuking them, I returned with two steaming-hot plates. I made jokes to distract her, childhood puns that had always cracked her up before, but not this time. This time she stared at me in silence, knife and fork squeezed in her hands. After toying with her food, and taking a sip or two of wine, she said she wasn't hungry. a pain in the a.s.s, aren't they, Mom. I can never get the b.l.o.o.d.y things to work either. Why don't you ... sit back down, relax, read the paper, let me look after it?" Mom smiled lifelessly before walking back to the dining room. After draining the dishes, and then nuking them, I returned with two steaming-hot plates. I made jokes to distract her, childhood puns that had always cracked her up before, but not this time. This time she stared at me in silence, knife and fork squeezed in her hands. After toying with her food, and taking a sip or two of wine, she said she wasn't hungry.

December 27. Mom and I were finishing off a turkey and the dregs of decade-old Drambuie when she started talking about a buyout on her teacher's contract, an early retirement package, and why she was determined to take it. I hardly needed an explanation-after 25 years she'd been gutted by teacher's burnout, and by mother's burnout after 30 years of worrying about me. I asked her if she was still going to do her volunteer work and she said yes, she felt an affinity with the elderly, even more so now because she was one of them. You're still young, I said, with the beauty and brains of a woman twenty years younger. She waved the compliment away with her hand. And how about your night cla.s.ses? I went on. Are you going to continue with them? Is there room on your walls for more diplomas? This time there was no waving hand, no acknowledgement of any kind. Which diplomas? she finally asked. What do you mean, which diplomas? Your Art History diplomas! More silence as my mother gently rubbed, between her thumb and forefinger, the embossed handle of a knife. In your office, I said. I haven't the foggiest idea what you're talking about, she said. Come on, Mom, quit fooling around. Do you want me to show you one? Do you want me to get one? Mom shook her head, fear beginning to seep into her eyes. She laid down her knife. No, that's all right, she said.

February 2, 2001. The first doctor told her she was fine. But the memory lapses and confusion continued, so I took her to see an expert, Dr. Vorta. He did some urine samples, blood samples, X-rays, CAT scans. A student-technician put her head inside a PET scan machine that traced radioactive sugar as it moved through her brain, showing how vigorously the various parts were used. I watched the monitors while Dr. Vorta pointed out what the colours of the images signified: pirate-blue for the skull casing, blood-red for the cerebral lobes, plum-purple for the tracer. Next he put her in a modified PET scanner of his own invention, which lights up the mess that Alzheimer makes with radioactive dyes: the errant gummy proteins (beta amyloid) that gum up the works. His technician then did a series of word-recall tests, asking her to repeat strings of three or four unrelated words-blue, Chevrolet, turnip, Syrian. Then she was asked to multiply 6 by 12, name the first Canadian prime minister, the current prime minister ... She was doing really well and I was beginning to think she didn't have any problems. At the end of the test, however, which took about ten minutes, she was asked to recall some of the unrelated words. She couldn't remember any of them. Not even after getting clues (e.g. that one was a vegetable, another a car, etc.). Not one single one.

February 11, 2001. Today we got the news. A discernible shrinking of the hippocampus, where short-term memories are stored. And evidence of amyloid plaque. Based on that and the word tests, Mom has "mild cognitive impairment," or "premature senile dementia." Early-onset AD, in other words. What's the prognosis? I asked Dr. Vorta, well out of Mom's earshot. She has a chronic invalidating condition, he replied after a pause. Unless a cure is discovered soon, Noel, your mother will be dead in five years.

February 21. There's nothing more I can do. I can't be expected to look after her. I've got my own life, my own apartment, it's near the library, it's cheap and took ages to find. I can't just get up and leave. I have a lease. And besides, I'm not qualified to look after her. She'll be better off with people who know what they're doing. I'll stay with her this week. And then I'm afraid I'll have to put her name on a waiting list somewhere.

March 1. Sublet my apartment. Moved in this afternoon with Mom. She's happier, and so am I.

March 4. Tonight we went to the Dragon Rouge in Chinatown, which Mom really enjoyed, smiling at the waiter and saying "please" and "thank you" in Cantonese, and laughing as she twirled her chopsticks like a baton (we'd had a litre of rice wine). But when I laid down my credit card at the end of the meal she got angry, accusing me of spending all her money. She then made a solemn vow: she was getting her own place because "It's just not working out."

March 6. Nothing good to report. Mom has spent much of the past week confused, bursting into tears, forgetting the way to friends' houses, forgetting whether we drove on the left or right side "in this country," obsessively mourning her husband and deceased childhood pets.

What dark road are we travelling down? She's only 56, for G.o.d sake. Will she end up like Claude Jutras?14 March 7. Went to a matinee film today and when I got home Mom was furious with me for leaving her alone "for days." I met this strangely magnetic man there, someone I'd seen twice before, on the 9th floor of the Psych Building. His name's Norval (I don't know his last name) and he reminds me of ... myself. A much improved version. Unless it was my imagination-and it probably was, given my anti-talent for making friends- we seemed to hit it off. I'll probably never see him again.

March 11. All day long Mom's been playing songs from the sixties-over and over like a child. (She was 14 when the sixties began.) Over the past few years, for each of her birthdays, I've given her CDs to replace her scratched vinyl. I have also given her headphones, to no avail. I am now listening to a song I have heard approximately nine hundred times. Based on the number of repet.i.tions, here is Mom's Top Ten 60s. .h.i.t Parade (not including the Beatles, which is another list): 1.Love Is All Around-The Troggs2.A World Without Love-Peter & Gordon3.I Only Want to Be with You-Dusty Springfield4.Don't Throw Your Love Away-The Searchers5.Silhouettes-Herman's Hermits6.Catch the Wind-Donovan7.Paint It Black-Rolling Stones8.Bad To Me-Billy J. Kramer & the Dakotas9.Wishin' and Hopin'-Dusty Springfield10.As Tears Go By-Marianne Faithful March 13. Even though Mom pleaded with me, hysterically, not to go, I went for another Tuesday matinee today. She eventually calmed down and gave her permission. Norval was there, smoking outside, when I arrived. I was really happy to see him, and he seemed happy to see me. We sat together, at his insistence, and I didn't feel awkward at all, even though he's miles above me in so many ways. He's an incredible character-I still can't believe what he did after the movie was over. As we were walking down Avenue du Parc and discussing the opening scene of Spellbound, he did something ... how would I describe it? As unexpected as you can get. A few yards ahead of us, on the sidewalk, this woman's dog ... answers the call of nature. Right in the middle of the sidewalk. And the woman doesn't pick up. She and dog just calmly move on. When we arrive at the scene a few seconds later, Norval stops, takes out a white handkerchief, stoops ... and carefully wraps up a rather large t.u.r.d. I thought he was going to run after the woman but no. He just continues on, calmly, not saying a word. I'm dumbstruck. So we're now approaching the Banque Nationale where there's this surly adolescent beggar, a permanent fixture who opens the door for people using the cash machine. As we pa.s.s by, he sticks out his cap and says to Norval in French, "Hey, I recognise you, I held the door for you a couple hours ago. Come on you cheap f.u.c.king d.i.l.d.o, I'm hungry!"

"Really?" says Norval. "Well, it's your lucky day. Here you go, enjoy. Steaming fresh."

"Ah! Merci, monsieur, merci beaucoup!"

"Any time. And there's more where that came from."

March 14. Just reread that last entry. I was wondering if it was one of those you-had-to-be-there anecdotes so I told it to Mom this morning. She didn't crack a smile. So I told it again, with a slightly different angle and emphasis, and she laughed, hard and long. But not as hard and long as I did when it had happened: a sustained belly laugh that left me hurting and gasping, the kind you get, if you're lucky, when you're young, and almost never when you're old.

March 20. Mom's been up and down-good days and bad, good seconds and bad. Her mind is like a malfunctioning TV-sometimes the colours are off, the picture blizzardous, the horizontal or vertical slipping. Sometimes, after a good shake, things come in loud and clear-or dead-silent and blank.

March 21. Spring equinox. Dr. Vorta wasn't at the lab this morning-he had a press conference about some award-so I asked Dr. Ravenscroft about a hormone therapy regimen, an estrogen plus progestin combination, which seems to be all the rage for post-menopausal women. He said that brain scans hint it improves blood flow to parts of the brain important for learning and memory. And that longitudinal studies suggest women who use hormone replacement have about half the usual risk of Alzheimer's. Later in the day, when I repeated all this to Dr. Vorta, he replied, "Noel, Charles Ravenscroft is a simpleton. We will never never use hormone therapy for any type of memory disorder. Every single claim for its benefits has come down like a house of cards. My own studies suggest it doubles the risk of dementia. The results will be published next month." use hormone therapy for any type of memory disorder. Every single claim for its benefits has come down like a house of cards. My own studies suggest it doubles the risk of dementia. The results will be published next month."

March 23. Learned today that Mom has been accepting offers from telemarketers and phone salesmen. One of them, "Ray," sold her something called an X-TERPA, a "miracle machine that measures electromagnetic energy flows and blockages via electrodes in your skin, then alters those flows to cure all ailments, including cancer and brain disorders." With taxes and handling charges, she paid just under fifteen hundred dollars for it.

March 25. Mom received yet another delivery today, the third this week, and I was beginning to wonder if she was having an affair with the Fed-Ex man. This box she hid, unopened, until just before going to bed. After I read her a Somerset Maugham story ("Mr. Know-All"), she whispered in my ear that there was a parcel behind the curtains, or in the closet, and that I could open it if I liked. It was not behind the curtains. Or in the closet. I finally found it under her bed, beside an "Australian Hunter's Lamp." I opened the new package, clumsily, and under styrofoam pellets and polystyrene bubble wrap I discovered a black pistol, like a science-fiction ray-gun. According to the enclosed pamphlet it was a "Gamma Gun that activates the quarks and superstrings that kill the parasites that cause cancer and other diseases, including Parkingson [sic] and Alzheimer." According to the enclosed invoice, she got it at a special discount price of 5 easy payments of $99.

March 26. This morning, after gently knocking on and then opening Mom's door, I noticed she was looking at images on the Internet. I was pleased-I'd set it up weeks before and it was the first time I'd seen her using it. But after shamelessly creeping up behind her and looking over her shoulder, I discovered that she's been corresponding with a gentleman named Alex H. from Hartford, Connecticut. Today Alex sent her a full frontal of himself, complete with oiled b.r.e.a.s.t.s like a wrestler, nipple rings and shorn pubic hair. Not a happy combination. In return he asked for a j-peg of her in a similar pose, and a Fed-Ex box with her "pantie-hoze" inside. After dinner, while Mom was taking a bath, I changed her e-mail address.

March 27. Mom has taken to circling dates on her calendar and writing things on her skin. Her left hand is covered with blue reminders: across the palm and up and down all five fingers. And these sad words across her wrist: "I am Stella Burun."

March 28. At bedtime Mom and I paged through an alb.u.m of photographs- including a priceless one of her in hysterics-of a trip we took to Italy in '89. One of the great things about travelling in Europe with Mom, among many great things, was that she knew almost everything about each country's history. All the rulers, battles, scandals, intrigues, etc. I could listen to her for hours. And so could others. At the Palazzo Diamanti in Ferrara, a group of New Zealanders followed us around from room to room, hanging on her every word as she talked about the Borgias for close to an hour.

Now she walks from room to room carrying a bucket or broom, whose purpose she's already forgotten.

March 29. This afternoon, as I was finishing up some work for Dr. Vorta, Mom decided she wanted to go to Mount Royal Cemetery to place gladioli on Dad's grave. "Won't be a tick," she said. When it finally registered what she was doing, I went running outside in my slippers. But the car was already half way down the street. Oh well, I said to myself, it's only a five-minute drive. She was gone for four and a half hours. The whole time I told myself there was a perfectly rational explanation for her being away so long (a friend of hers lives near the cemetery, for example-maybe the two had just stepped out when I called) but I was tortured with worry-and about to call the police-when I saw her pull up the drive. She couldn't remember where the cemetery was, she explained, so she turned around and-eventually, after driving onto a ferry which took her to an Indian reservation-found her way home.

March 30. Today Mom took a computer driving a.s.sessment test with Danielle, one of Dr. Vorta's a.s.sistants. She had to respond to various driving tasks and situations by touching the screen or pushing a b.u.t.ton. Those who score in the top third, Danielle explained, are considered competent to drive; those in the middle have to take the test again; those in the bottom third should "get the h.e.l.l off the road."

"Madame Burun," said Danielle when the test was over, "I want to emphasise that this evaluation does not reflect upon your intelligence, only on your ability to continue driving. Do you understand?"

Mom nodded. She placed in the bottom third.

March 31. Took Mom's keys away. Painfully hard, on both of us. But I wouldn't back down, even when tears as thick as glycerine beaded and fell from her eyes. Because I'm afraid she'll forget the difference between red and green.

April 3. Tonight we watched one of Mom's favourite shows, Jeopardy, which I suspect she always wanted to go on. She was certainly as good as any champion I'd ever seen. But ten years ago, when I encouraged her to audition, she said it was a silly show made ludicrous by having to put your answers in the form of a question. It made no sense, I remember her saying, to ask the question "Who is Abraham Lincoln?" to match the answer "He was a.s.sa.s.sinated on Good Friday." Tonight, in any event, halfway through the show, more tears came, a regular occurrence these days. I knew why she was crying but asked her why anyway. "Because," she answered convulsively, "I don't ... I can't ... not a single ..."

And yet after dinner she was quite cheerful. We played cards, children's games like Crazy Eights, until well after midnight. We got on a laughing jag at one point and couldn't stop-we were shaking with laughter, crying with laughter. About nothing really.

April 4. Mom seems very fond of her new Australian Hunter's Lamp, which she shines while roaming through the house in the middle of the night. She's also starting to look in on me, while I'm sleeping, shining the 200-watt beam in my eyes like an interrogation lamp.

April 5. Bath time still looms up as a major project for me, almost like scaling Everest. If I don't start the bath and practically rip her clothes off, Mom simply won't take one. So I phoned Health Care and arranged for a Bath Lady to come in twice a week, on Tuesday and Friday. Maybe she'll also sort out Mom's closet and make sure she changes her clothes. And scrub the ink off her hand.

April 6. Dad's birthday. Would he be alive today if he had taken one of the tricyclic or SSRI antidepressants like Prozac, which came out after his death? The question's been haunting me for years. I know from sorting out his free samples that he must have taken phenelzine sulphate and tranylcypromine, which are real horror shows.

April 8. At bedtime Mom said, "Tell me a story, Noel dear. Tell me about my life." So I told her about the time she and I went camping in Algonquin Park in '85, when I was sixteen, and a cinnamon-coloured black bear came to our tent. As I shone a quivering flashlight at the bear, it calmly sifted through two garbage bags, sniffed at our tent as we held our breath, then nonchalantly left. We didn't sleep for the rest of the night. When the sun came up, Mom discovered that the bear had taken something hanging from a tree branch: her bathing suit. She'd laughed and laughed at the time, perhaps picturing the bear in a bikini ... But tonight she merely smiled at the story, which clearly didn't register, then informed me it wasn't proper for us to be living together. I told her it was fine, that we were mother and son. "No, my son's name is Noel." I told her that I was Noel; she asked for proof. I showed her my birth certificate. She said that proved nothing.

April 13. My mother's French seems to have disappeared. She used to be fluent and now she speaks English when people speak French to her (including Dr. Vorta). And she used to watch Ultimatum, the French version of Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, but now she just gets angry. Tonight she told me to "Turn off that gibberish. What country are we living in? Gibberia?"