The Aching Void

Yesterday, after spending a long, a very long time walking on the beach, I came home and turned my Mac on... straight to Facebook. Trying to make up for loneliness, I guess.

A girl I am very fond of had posted an article from the NY Times I had tearfully read a few hours before... All about an odd form of dementia. Actually more a love story about an aching void.
 
Last Friday night, our friends Bernard and Yvette drove Popeye home from the station. It was very late because of train trouble on his way from Paris.

Since I no longer can drive when it gets dark, Popeye who was feeling quite desperate aboard a train stopped in the middle of nowhere called Bernard.

Why Bernard? Because whenever we have a problem in Brittany, who do we call? We call Bernard, of course.

Bernard and Yvette are very close friends ever since we moved to Les Tertres. Actually, before Bernard retired, he used to farm our fields... We used to laugh a lot about it! And... fight about it too!
 
Even though we differed on many environmental issues, we still got along well enough to be part of their extended family. Throughout the years, a game has been going on... I'd start talking about ecology and there he'd go ranting and raving (at me, of course). Then I’d laugh in his face. Got you!

Well, sometimes I was not joking at all. There were very serious issues at stake. Bernard is very bright and knows that they are serious... Then the fight would get a little bit more serious. At least it used to get serious.

Nowadays, there is no fight because you see, my friend Bernard is living with ‘an aching void’, his wife. And he loves his wife a lot, so much, so much.

‘Aching void’ may sound mean but those of you who have been sharing a lot of time with someone suffering from Alzheimer's disease will understand.
 
Yvette is my friend. She’ll be my friend until the end that is getting closer and closer. But spending time with her is more like facing ‘an aching void’ than a real person, the real person she used to be and will never be again.


She was diagnosed very late because her family doctor thought she was going through depression. (She was only 56 at the time.) And it took me a long time to realize what was happening because I was going through cancer #2 at the time. I did not spend a lot of time at Les Tertres for almost one year with going through surgery and chemo, etc.

We kept in touch by phone but it was like being a galaxy apart, really.

Yvette had been crying on the phone while she was telling me she was having troubles reading because her vision was deteriorating. She was complaining about being unable to take care of the farm accounts. The main point though seemed to be that she couldn’t see very well anymore.

Bernard was getting desperate because she obviously had no sight troubles but she was crying a lot and getting worse.

When chemo ended, I came home to Les Tertres.

I remember Yvette was smiling and quite happy again. She still had 'sight' problems but she had decided that she was probably suffering from MD, just like me. And since I had been able to recover partially, she was hoping she’d be just as strong and recover too.

By then, her family was getting terribly worried. She’d leave the farm and get lost while going shopping. Daily life was becoming definitely weird. Her doctor sent her to a specialist in Rennes. I can’t even say that it was too late because AD leaves you without hope. There is nothing to be done. Especially in places like Brittany, in a rural area.

When the family members learnt the dreadful news, some decided it couldn’t be true. Some did believe the neurologist and decided to try to find a way to help her. There was a lot of crying and despair.

She was not told about the results of the tests because this was the unbelievers’ wish. At the time, I wondered whether it would have changed something. I still do.

I knew a lot about AD because in Brussels, I had worked with a young movie-maker who was filming a documentary about AD patients. I remember being aghast most of the time... But I did not really knew those people so I did not feel emotionally involved even though I was very disturbed at the time.

I begged my neurologist to take Yvette into a medical protocol. He said that he had to subject her to some tests before making his decision.


She came over to Paris with her husband and one of her daughters-in-law (they already did believe she was suffering from AD). They stayed with us (Popeye was in Mexico at the time). We went to the Opera which she loved very much. Such a great memory.

And then we went to the hospital. She wanted me to attend her tests. “She’s my friend,” she told the neurologist.

Sometimes I wish I hadn’t been there and sometimes I am glad I witnessed the whole process even though it was one of the most painful experience I ever went through. (Even today, on a scale from 1 to 10, I do think that witnessing her struggle through very, very simple tests was worth a 9 while learning I had cancer was barely up to 6, at least for cancer #1.)

Of course, it was way too late. The neurologist was very kind but it was too late.

For a while, life could still be a lot of fun even if we had to watch over her like a child. AD was spreading so fast that a good day was to be cherished and enjoyed without ever thinking about what would happen next.

Yes, she was like a child. Weird especially the day she turned 60 and 61 and 62 and 63... Why should I concentrate on days and times while everything was going down the hill so fast and so irrationally?

Her husband is wonderful with her. Really wonderful. He never complains. There are days when ‘she is doing fine’ and there are days when ‘she is feeling rotten.’

‘Fine’ is so pitiful and ‘rotten’ is so awful. But he is there.

They had planned a lot of fun things and traveling they wanted to do when he’d retire. Well, he is retired and fun things are not even talked about anymore. She no longer even wants to get in the car to go visit her sisters she was so fond of.

Nowadays she’s physically aging a lot and very fast. One week does make a difference.

I know she no longer knows who I am. She’s still nice, most of the time, with me, that is. The other day, she even said: “I like you a lot, you know.” And I went through this phase: “Who is ‘you’?” but I smiled back at her: “I like you a lot too.”

I have to accept to be ‘you’. At least I’m still a little bit present in her life.

Cancer is so much easier to deal with. You don’t believe me? I am terribly serious.

Cancer is cells gone crazy. AD is brain destruction. You can try to fight against cells gone crazy. How can you fight AD with something which is no longer a brain?

You get very sick with cancer. But you still get a chance to survive.

You can’t survive AD. And you are terribly sick all the time. Sick is not the right word. You go through hell every day. And your family goes through hell every day. And you never get a chance to survive.

Tomorrow, I will go to the farm. She’ll be sitting on the sofa, so still and silent. I don’t mind her being silent because she tends to be quite incoherent nowadays. She will sigh a lot and look at her lifeless hands resting on her thighs. Then she’ll say: “Do ‘you’ want to take a walk?” I’ll agree. She’ll stand up with my help. But since her ‘brain’ has lately quit to tell her how to walk, at least most of the time, she’ll grab my arm. We’ll take a few steps. She’ll start complaining about pain in her feet and then we’ll turn back. We’ll sit down on the sofa.

A few minutes later, she’ll say to me: “Do ‘you’ want to take a walk?’ I’ll agree and...

Maybe tomorrow there will be a respite and she’ll be able to walk around the room and even go outside in the farmyard. And I’ll be so happy she can move around for a while.

But if there is no respite, I’ll be so frightened again.

It is up to 10 these days on the pain scale.





*Good Luck, and Good Night*

One bitter 'victory' - A story about pollution (Part 2)

Yesterday night, we had crêpes with B. and Y. at the Bellevue, a friendly crêperie.

B. is Bernard, our farmer friend I talked about in my previous blog.

There were a lot of customers and so we had plenty of time to talk. And talk we did.

We talked about our children. They have two sons and one daughter. They also have 7 grandchildren ranging from 3 to 13 years old. Of course, since we’ve be around for quite a long time now, we know every one of them quite well.

One of their grandchildren is an amazing classical piano player. He’s a wonderful boy, so filled with a deep inner happiness one seldom sees in a child his age.

So we talked about our children and politics of course. A true french meal can’t avoid small talk about our politicians. France is going through weird times. Since we agree about almost every issue, it was a relaxing time.

Bernard was the one to open the ‘debate’ about pollution. It took a long time. But he did start the discussion about the liquid sludge waste issue.

He asked me whether or not I had an inkling where the spreading would be done. I answered that I imagined they had rescinded their contract with the city hall.

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

He said that all the waste that was to be spread in our fields would end up in theirs, including the large one behind their beautiful home, very close to their well.

He sounded almost relieved to have made this decision. But we were not happy with it.

It would still be polluting, wouldn’t it?

‘Well’, he said ‘they have to get rid of the waste so someone has to do it. Why not farmers? It pays well after all.’

It always amazes me when someone who is supposed to be very close to nature can’t see the harm done to the very world he’s getting his living from.

His world before being mine.

The farmer is the closest person to the land, the soil, whatever name we want to give it. And yet he does not understand the dangers (which I don’t believe is true because Bernard is very bright).

He doesn’t want to see the dangers because he needs to make a living. Even if to make a living, he’s destroying the potential future of the earth and his own world, this world that already belongs to his grandchildren.

Of course he’s not completely guilty. There are home and world market pressures. We are greedy consumers. But the producer (the farmer) does not get as much as he should from his hard work, at least not in France. So to make ends meet, it’s obvious that an offer as juicy as the one from the city hall is to be accepted.

I’m very stubborn. I was quite relieved that the fields close to the sea wouldn’t get polluted but I had to make another point.

The government has recently conducted a study about farmers’ health, especially in Brittany (where pollution is really high both from manure and waste spreading). They have noticed that cancer rate is getting much higher in Brittany, especially among countryfolk. Life expectancy is also much lower in rural areas than in the rest of France.

They also found out that several cancers are widespread in those areas (prostate, lungs, breast and colon), all of this probably due to heavy and unchecked pollution (fertilizers and pesticides) for years and years.

Another terrible illness is also unusually common to those areas: Alzheimer’s disease.

You see, Bernard’s wife, a very wonderful and sweet woman, is suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. The onset was very brutal. (She wasn’t even 60.)

This was four years ago. I’m very close to her even though nowadays, from time to time, I’m not even sure she really knows who I am. At least she’s still very sweet to me which I’m really grateful for. Because she’s no longer very kind to most people.

Her health and mind are deteriorating quite fast. This is really heartbreaking.

So last night, I took my courage in both hands and I said: ‘Bernard, what about cancer and...’

He looked at me, very pained: ‘It hasn’t been proved yet.’

What can you answer to this?

End of discussion. We turned to other subjects, safer issues which did not obliterate the pollution problem.

Maybe next year, he’ll find reasons to refuse the city hall offer. But if he does say no to them, they will find other farmers to do the dirty job. We’ll never see the end of this.

Unless our town council becomes more efficient in its waste control.

After all, we have one of the most beautiful golf courses in France and maybe Europe. Now we have a brand new thalassotherapy complete with first class hotel rooms... but it was not allowed to open its treatment space since the sea water they were pumping out is too polluted.

This could be a funny story but it is not. This is truly symbolic of Northern Brittany.

Natural beauty so marred by (almost) imperceptible and creeping pollution.




*Good Luck, and Good Night*