Alzheimer’s handled with acuity, sensitivity and humour.
“It’s the image of the freezer that I always think of. I’d have liked something more elegant but nothing else comes to mind. You’re defrosting it. Emptying it. It’s full of ice. The shelves, drawers and elements are sort of clothed in it. You put tea towels on the floor, prop the door open and leave things to happen.There’s the drip, drip, drip. Slowly. You take a peak, the ice looks polished, moist, with rounded corners. Soft. You look at it, busy yourself. Then leave.You hear a brusque cleaver-like thud: a slab of ice has broken off and fallen. Slabs of brain seem to break off in the same way. Boom, the Greek gods. Boom, boom, boom: Rousseau, Balzac and Proust. Boom, aunts and uncles. Boom. Memories. Boom. Eating. Boom. Your own name. Boom, who you are. Boom, your life. It’s over.
You end up with this alien and yet very familiar lump in your hands, unsure what to do with it. Should you leave it to melt? Drown it, warm it up or welcome it, like an exile, a refugee, into your own, already very busy brain?What do you do about everything that’s vanished?”
We’re all afraid of the subject. Spoiler alert: confronted with Alzeihmer, it can only go from bad to worse. In this book where humour further heightens the emotion, Mara Goyet describes the parallel universe of life in a nursing home, the loneliness and the humanity, the disturbing unfamiliarity, and her love for her father, in spite of everything. An un-put-downable book that everyone should read.
« Mon père l’a affirmé haut et fort. Il voulait, après sa mort, se réincarner en train. Ainsi les vaches le regarderaient-elles passer. C’était peut-être son idée de la félicité. Ou, comme souvent avec lui, la douceur de l’image, sa simplicité.
Mon père est vivant. Il est malade depuis des années maintenant. Terriblement. Il file déjà, à pas lents, à travers le paysage. Qu’il soit pourtant, et à l’avance, exaucé : même si je ne suis pas une vache aux longs cils et au regard humide,
même si je ne fais pas le poids, je veux le regarder passer, observer sa vie et ce qu’est devenue la mienne. Je ne vais cependant pas me contenter de ruminer ; il y a tant de belles choses à raconter. »