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.


April 2004 - The dreaded day has come. This morning, papa failed his practical driving test. He’s lost his license and with it one of the last such shreds of autonomy he had left…in fact, that he and mama had left. If there was any doubt, it’s now gone.

I couldn’t be with them this morning, so I stop in after work to gauge the mood and see how they’re taking it. Mama is clearly relieved and says so. She’s no longer feeling safe with papa at the wheel. Papa has already forgotten the test, but when we mention it, he responds in a tone that’s both philosophical and resigned—overall, quite as one might expect. I think to myself, “Good, they’re holding the fort; it’s all for the best.” Then, just minutes later, mama does something extraordinary and completely without thinking. My parents have a long-standing daily ritual of sharing La Presse, and Mama, by sheer force of habit, passes papa…wait for it…the automobile section! Great. Papa’s priceless reply as he pushes aside the section? “Don’t need it; I have no plans to buy a new car this year!”

I doubt that he was making a connection to the test results, but I can’t be sure. Maybe he was just making reference, deliberately and with his usual wry humour, to their overall situation. Regardless, it was quite the moment.

Silence – not always golden

We’re at the cottage, where papa and mama spend close to six months of the year and where they are at their happiest and most relaxed. Or should I say were at their happiest, because this has been the summer from hell (but I’ll save that story for another time). Today, at least, things are fine, and neither papa nor mama is the worse for wear.

As usual, papa and I are working on a crossword puzzle together. Everything is more enjoyable at the cottage, and doing a crossword in front of a crackling fire is no exception. My wife is also snuggled close to the fire, reading and content. Mama is puttering in the kitchen and joining us from time to time to contribute her two cents to the puzzle clues. Life is good, or close enough.

The further we get into the puzzle, the more papa impresses me. He’s finding answers faster than he has in ages. They’re all coming easily to him today. I’ve rarely seen him so aware, so sharp. Mama, who, as always, is having to search for the answers, also notices that papa is in fine form. Then, suddenly, the penny drops. Papa’s already done this crossword—just this morning, in fact, when their own copy of La Presse arrived. The copy we’re working on I brought with me this afternoon.

Papa has absolutely no memory of actually having done the puzzle, but he has somehow retained the answers clearly in his head. Mama’s just the opposite; she remembers him doing the puzzle, but because she only glanced at it over his shoulder from time to time, the answers don’t spring to mind. As the saying goes, the Lord moves in mysterious ways.

A little later in the afternoon, a mini-drama plays out. We’re all seated around the table in front of the fire, but this time we’re enjoying afternoon tea, just like the English. Mama is feeling a little low, as she’s recounting a sad story, although it’s nothing catastrophic. It couldn’t have been, as I’m only half listening…and I’m not the only one who has tuned out. At the end, she adds, as she often does these days, “In any case, with all that’s happened in the past year…” Papa looks at her, his interest suddenly piqued. Very calmly and with genuine curiosity he asks, “What do you mean? What’s happened in the past year?” My wife and I exchange a discreet glance but say nothing. Mama says nothing either, a rarity. An awkward silence ensues.

Read more