Pascal was a trifle annoyed when I did not hand him his dressing gown. Instead I told him to remove his pajama top and put on a t-shirt that I pulled from the closet. Outside, his steps were timid. He relied on a cane. We had used a wheelchair until then. Perhaps he quickly learned that he was not going to be the boss. We didn’t walk long, only about fifty feet. Fortunately a park bench was there waiting for him. At that point the stream was flowing over a few rocks, creating the recurring splash of rolling whitecaps.
Supper was a trying event. I let Pascal win that time to ensure our friendship. He had had troubles talking and encountered even more difficulty feeding himself. Coordination was just not his specialty. Perhaps he was embarrassed in the cafeteria with others. Pascal, I believe, deplored the idea that he needed special treatment, and thus chose to never eat by himself in his room.
The few minutes after the meal in his room were an inconvenient silence. He was obviously tired and the effect of the Parkinson’s, dementia or Alzheimer’s was taking substantial control. He closed his eyes, this time with just one blanket covering him. The window was only slightly open enough to provide a hint of fresh air without substantially dropping the room’s temperature.
In the quiet with only the hallway light, I checked the array of items on his desk. Interest was not just with that piece of paper with the key phrase ‘Never enough’. So much can be learned by what is displayed and what maybe missing. What struck me immediately was the absence of any family photos. Similarly there was no wallet, no watch and no identity cards. There were small pages torn out of a pamphlet used to record telephone numbers. Most were just scribble. Pictures were drawn on two of the pages. They seemed to have been attempts at a native longhouse.
Before leaving, I bent over the old man already fast asleep. “Your mother loves you. Your father loves you. God bless and keep you.”
Rose, unknown to me, stood in the doorway watching. She just smiled when I noticed her. Outside his room we spoke for just more than a minute until the murmur started. Surprise was instant. Then it got louder, repeating itself. Within a minute there was some coherence to the melody. “He does this every night.”
Pascal was humming the remarkable and endearing tune by Gordon Lightfoot, “The Last Time I Saw Her Face.” I couldn’t believe it. Here was a man having considerable difficulty with his speech yet being able to hum a tune without any pause. Then my amazement became surprised shock as Pascal applied soft lyrics to the melody.
I looked in the room, ready to cry. That was not possible for a man diagnosed with Alzheimer’s. Or was it?
“Did he tell you about Al?” Rose’s question was quiet and to the point. “Ask him tomorrow,” she prompted.
I couldn’t say no.
The next morning, Rose greeted everyone wearing a bright green sleeveless dress. She was the spring of youthful enthusiasm. Instantly she advised that Pascal was awake waiting for me. That in turn raised my spirit of accomplishment.
Attendants had already helped him with his shower and changed his bedding. Pascal was seated in his chair looking out the window when I arrived. His smile was a polite acknowledgement, more than I had received the first day. After placing my bag on the table he asked if we could go outside. With the promise that we could do so later, I pulled out of my bag a bowl with four bottles of water, some shampoo, a face cloth and a towel. Although he complained as any old man would, Pascal’s hair was washed. A shave followed and he was most presentable, no longer the old destitute reject that greeted me that first day. Others in the garden noted the improvement, and suddenly there were more smiles, warm salutations, and expressions of kindness from others that had never spoken to him or even acknowledged his presence in his first two weeks there.
For whatever reason, I really couldn’t imagine why, I started humming a song from Crosby, Stills and Nash, “Teach Your Children”. He knew the words. It was obvious that when it came to music his ability with lyrics surpassed his regular speech. The Beatles’ “All You Need is Love” followed with Pascal being very deliberate on the refrain. From a distance, Rose and the others witnessed how music can revitalize a person.
We continued for more than an hour, seated on that bench beside the pear tree. At one point I asked him about playing cards or checkers. He shook his head and mumbled that he wasn’t interested. He then checked himself and advised with a touch of difficulty, “Maybe later.” Appropriately, I returned to the music with “I Like It” by Gerry and the Pacemakers. He was delighted. We continued to enjoy songs until lunch time.
In the afternoon, conversation again attempted to ascertain some information about his family. Silence was his answer. Rose had said he would never talk about them. Pascal proved her right. Before supper, I left him in his room. I had never asked about Al simply because I forgot. Plus I didn’t remember the name.
Three days passed before I arrived again. Rose greeted me with news that Pascal may have a sister but she had no other information regarding her. “Maybe Midland,” she conjectured.
My question about Al prompted her advice. Rose didn’t know exactly who Al was but sensed he was very important to him. It was worth a try.
Rather than talking about Al or anyone else, we went outside. He finally allowed himself to play checkers although he told me he definitely hated the game. We hummed some tunes from the 1960s as that era was common to both of us. I added many of the lyrics. Pascal attempted his best to maintain the melody. I let him win the game of checkers to discern his capacity to think and plan the next move. It was now the seventh day of September.
The trip to Midland was eventful. With signed authorizations I met with the family doctor while he was on duty at the hospital and with the police, and then visited the Little Huron Village within the city. The family doctor remembered the name ‘Christine’ who he believed lived in Sutton. The police knew of Pascal as several times a few years ago they had picked him off the street during inclement weather. The curator of the village remembered Pascal, not by name but by his appearance and the fact he kept on asking for work. When I enquired if there was any prospect of Pascal’s relationship to the Huron Tribe, his answer was direct: “He definitely claimed to have some distant relation. I don’t know who, but he was very definite.”
The next morning I telephoned the doctor’s office to verify any information on Pascal’s parents. His note indicated that at the time of his first visit the clinic was told they were deceased.
A trip to Sutton that same day generated nothing productive. There were many persons named Christine in the municipal records. However, for each there was no indication of age. The Vernon Directory similarly was inconclusive.
The next time I met Pascal, while we were outside wearing our jackets, I asked him about Christine. His scowl told me to keep quiet. I insisted, telling him this retirement home could not keep him indefinitely and that I had to meet with her to finance his stay. He looked to the ground ignoring me. I insisted. He then became angry and incoherent. We had to return to his room.
There I tried to apologize, saying I didn’t want to make him angry. He just looked away, staring out the window to some phantom presence. I stayed, remaining quiet. Pascal obviously didn’t want me there. After more than five minutes I stood up and approached his desk. Without asking his permission I started to sort papers. It was a vindictive stare but he said nothing.
Several papers and scribbled notes I checked closely. Further inspection was definitely required. These I eased to the side, planning to review them at home.
There was a set of keys in one drawer but no identity tag. “Your home on Main Street?” Hopefully the ambiguous question would prompt him to talk. His silence continued.
In the back of the lower drawer a photograph and several prayer cards were discovered. Two of the laminated cards presented the image of Blessed Kateri. The other one highlighted the Canadian Martyrs. On its reverse side there was the usua
l Novena Prayer. I placed these three on his bedside table. The photograph was creased with its corners cut. The picture of a green parrot was inconsequential.
After leaving the room, I went downstairs to meet with Rose. Explaining the situation, I advised that Pascal was obviously Catholic. She called the local parish and asked for a pastoral visit.
In his room, Pascal smiled upon receiving advice that a priest would attend. After supper we spent time together, just talking. As long as I didn’t ask about his family, the conversation flowed as if it were between close friends. He still had difficulty at times pronouncing certain words. Forgetfulness increased as it always did late in the day. Even when he had to say things three times, courtesy demanded a smile in response.
Before 8PM, he had closed his eyes and was drowsing off to sleep under the comfort of two blankets. As was the norm whenever I was there that late, I stayed for a moment outside his room to hear a tune he would instinctively hum. He answered my expectation as if a song each night carried him into his dream world where there was no pain, no sorrow, no tribulation.
The melody of the religious song “Be Not Afraid” grabbed my heart. As slowly as he carried the tune, equally deliberate were his words. He knew them by heart. My thoughts reacted with a sense of dread. This song was normally sung during a funeral procession leaving the church. What did it all mean?
You shall cross the barren desert, but you shall not die of thirst.
You shall wander far in safety though you do not know the way.
You shall speak your words in foreign lands, and all will understand.
You shall see the Face of God and live.
Rose, who had been standing in the hall, tried to calm my reaction. She confessed that she had heard those lyrics before, describing his ritual as his means of “Being at peace.” She then praised him, stating emphatically that “I’ve never met anyone like him.”
Emotionally I was exhausted by the time I arrived home. Based on that melody, would I ever see Pascal again?
The next morning came quickly. Rose was all smiles in those early hours. “Did you ask him about Al? Oh yes, the priest is coming today.”
As soon as the name was mentioned, Pascal informed me that Al was a ‘she’. Perhaps the full name was Alicia or Alice or Alexa. In any event, it seemed strange for a bird, not just any bird but Pascal’s conure.
Research was not required to determine how intelligent those birds were. Pascal told me everything I had to know or in his mind that I should know. “Like having a two-year-old child who never grows up” was his summation. Pascal’s conversation, like his musical lyrics, improved immensely once he started talking about Al. Unfortunately he always referred to her in the past. That was unavoidable, as I quickly learned she had passed away on the 14TH of August, less than a month ago.
His litany of her accomplishments and daily routine had me mesmerized. Birds were birds, weren’t they? How could any breed be so different?
“The first day I got her, I was lying on the floor against the couch watching TV. She got off the table and climbed on me. Then she walked to my face, stared into my eyes, pressed her beak against the side of my nose and fell asleep.”
At the time Al first entered his life, he lived in a three-room apartment. Pascal started releasing information about his own past, only when it related to his years with Al.
She had her cage but rarely stayed inside. Being well-trained, she had papers around the cage and dutifully made her deposits there. Al had her own stuffed animals and could look outside a window into the garden when Pascal was not home. In that garden she adored the opportunity to sit on her favourite branch in the pear tree. Other birds would perch in the same tree and sometimes even on the same branch. Pascal admitted he discovered the wonderful tendency among the birds to stay committed to mates for life, and in spite of what nature books told us, that there was a camaraderie among different breeds whenever a feathered creature was in need. Clearly they had attributes that humans had abandoned.
Al’s breakfast always included a small portion of a slice of cold meat, and a piece of apple, pear, peach or orange—whatever was in season. Similarly, raspberries and blueberries were considered a morning delicacy. There were of course her seeds, and always a crust of his toast. If ever his supper included a portion of meat, she went crazy for the bone. Chicken was her favourite. Who said birds are not carnivores?
That friendship with his best friend ended when he lost his job during the Great Recession. Pascal was near tears as he related how he had to give her up because he could no longer afford his own place. Then, in 2011, having found employment with a landscaping firm that also majored in snow plowing contracts in winter, he was able to rent an apartment and provide a home for his loved one.
Al was accustomed to walking from one room to the next. Flying indoors was no longer required. She’d have her baths in the sink. Each evening she’d be on his shoulder while he watched television or listened to music. Every night they would sleep in the same bed, with Al either on top or below her own pillow. A car ride for coffee or donuts was a daily treat. He’d take Al to the local playground to see the children. The bird enjoyed laughter. She would never fly away. Occasionally she’d taunt the dogs knowing Pascal would protect her. In the event she suddenly got scared she’d cuddle up to him or scurry under his sweater. This was a true love affair oft recorded in Hollywood epics. There had never been another small bird that made so many people smile.
For three days his stories captivated us—not just myself but others as we sat outside under the pear tree. I realized why Pascal came to life under the branches of that fruit tree. It reminded him so much of a little creature.
Then it all suddenly happened. Early in the morning of the 14TH, his lifelong friend passed away in his hands. Pascal buried her underneath a tree in the park where she had entertained so many children. That had been her home away from home.
That same day everything changed. Pascal once more added details concerning his ailment. He had functioned for some time being able to maintain his job due to the kindness and compassion of his employer. Heavy machinery was out of the question. However, still being able to rake, move plants, or just sweep—he remained a valuable employee.
Once Al died his life fell apart. Within three days an ambulance attended. Tests, particularly the MRI, revealed major issues. His family doctor and neurologist completed the forms. Pascal then found himself dispatched to this home on an emergency basis.
In his stories, several times he referred to his life with Al as being “Heaven on earth.” I understood that clearly from his devotion. “Is she in heaven?” It was a question I had never contemplated before, but I assured him Al was.
Pascal had been able to hide his tears quite well that day. Usually narratives about his friend caused an emotional outburst compelling me to take him back to his room. It had been a long day. He had made many more friends with his detailed narratives. Pascal had generated the smiles that he knew Al would if she was still present. But was she present?
In the drawer next to his bed someone had placed a sheet of beige coloured paper with this prayer.
My dearest family,
Some things I’d like to say, but first of all, to let you know that I arrived okay. I’m writing this from heaven.
Here I dwell with God above. Here there’s no tears, only love. I am still with you. Please do not be unhappy because I am out of sight. Remember that I am still with you every morning, noon and night.
That day I had to leave you when my life on earth was through, God picked me up, hugged me, and said, “I welcome you.”
God gave me a list of things to do, and first on that list was to watch and care for you. When you lie in bed at night, and the day’s chores are put to flight, God and I are closest to you in the middle of the night.
When you think of my life on earth and all those loving y
ears, because you are human they are bound to bring you tears. But do not be afraid to cry, it does relieve the pain. Remember there’ll be no flowers unless there was some rain.
I wish I could tell you all that God has planned. But if I were to tell you, you wouldn’t understand. But one thing is for certain, though my life on earth is over, I’m closer to you now than I ever was before.
Rose was adamant that she did not know it was there, repeatedly telling me that Pascal never displayed any inclination to value any keepsake. It was as if he had surrendered all hope the moment that Al died in his hands.
I called his family doctor the next morning. He was not available but the medical assistant was quite informative. She agreed that she was amazed yet disturbed as to how Pascal had “fallen off the edge once his friend had died.” In truth, his demise was extremely quick. There was no doubt that Al was keeping his condition at bay, providing him with the inspiration to excel, to be overly positive in spite of inevitable degeneration, and to laugh and smile when there was no hope. The medical assistant thanked me and pledged to refer this issue to others especially any medical student wishing to engage in further research for his Masters or PhD.
My time with Pascal that morning was spent discussing his only real concern “Is Al in heaven?” Having expected that to be a topic of conversation, I already ordered Friar Wintz’ novel ‘I Will See You in Heaven’. The more I agreed with him, the simpler Pascal’s life began.
When Pascal had sung the phrase, “cross the barren desert”, was he referring to Al walking from one room to another to join Pascal on the couch? When Pascal had whispered the words, “speak your words in foreign lands”, did he refer to the bird’s ability to understand words and converse with more than fifty different chirps? When Pascal had pledged that Al will “see the Face of God and Live”, he was at peace.
At home that night, my mind started to race. It wasn’t just about the conure, or about Pascal’s ailment.
13 Lives Page 18