Luc Gagnon is a psychoeducator at the Douglas Institute. In 2003, he learned that his father had Alzheimer's disease. He decided to keep a journal to record the few precious lucid moments that his father would still be able to share. Two years later, Luc gathered his writings under the title "Papa, mama, the maid and I," a collection filled with humour and tenderness. The series is being published during the Alzheimer Awareness Month and over the next few weeks.

October 2003 - We’re back at the doctor’s office. It’s our third visit since…well, let’s just say since we started having serious concerns. The doctor is a woman. She asks papa how the driving is going. “Going fine,” he responds. Mama says nothing. Behind them, I slowly and discreetly raise my hand. The doctor looks at me and gives a subtle nod. My voice falters as I mildly interject. “He drives well, but every now and then when he gets to a street corner, he’s not too sure which way to turn.” Papa, his eyes still fixed on the doctor, quickly adds, “But, when I drive straight ahead, I have no problems at all.” The doctor, who is Lebanese, flashes a spontaneous smile; it is dazzling white against her olive skin. I want to reach out and hug my father. I’ve always loved his sense of humour. I’ve inherited at least some of it, and I consider it one of his greatest gifts to me. Behind his witty comeback is also his tacit agreement with what I’ve just told the doctor.

A short time later, the doctor asks my parents whether they eat a lot of meat. “A little,” mama acknowledges, after a moment’s hesitation. Papa says nothing. This time my hand shoots straight into the air; I can’t help myself. Since reaching the age of discretion (as I did  40 years ago), I can name maybe 10 times when meals at my parents’ table did not include meat. And that includes breakfasts. The odd grilled cheese sandwich or plate of pancakes, but that’s about it. Of course, I’m not so strident in my explanation; I simply offer a small correction: “As far as I know, he eats meat…at most meals.” Mama adds her mild confirmation: “That’s true. Come to think of it, there is meat in my spaghetti sauce, isn’t there?” Mama always adds a two pound mix of ground veal, pork and beef to her spaghetti sauce.

As we leave the clinic, mama is all smiles. She is effusive in her praise of the doctor. “Where did she say she was from? Oh yes, Lebanon!” Suddenly the entire Arab world has received a five-star rating.

A spring in my step

December 2003 - Today, it’s mama who surprises me. I’ve just been to visit my parents. We speak in veiled terms about papa’s illness. As I stand at the door preparing to leave, mama turns to papa with a smile and out of nowhere says, “Well, at any rate, I certainly hope you don’t turn violent!” Papa doesn’t miss a beat: “At 80, it’s a bit late for me to start with that.” Mama laughs and snuggles up against him, something I’ve rarely seen her do. I leave with a spring in my step.

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