Another Visit

A few days ago I visited my friend in Caldwell. The one I knew so well. We had our children together, you might say. We sang together and went places together. She was my daughter's piano teacher. But all that was years ago.

That day, Tuesday, we spent three hours together and talked. Mostly about her and her condition/situation. I don't know what to call it. She has no hesitation in talking about it, seems to want to talk about it.

She has dementia or maybe early Alzheimer's. They go together.

Actually, she seems pretty good. Still has a sense of humor, still looks good. And when I asked her to play the piano for me, she did it. That is good. She does not play the way she used to, but I don't know how much she has practiced. Not enough, she said.

I don't sing the way I used to. But I never practice.

Some Chopin, some Rachmaninof. That's what she has been practicing.

She played Chopin. I was very happy to hear it, even with the occasional--"oh I'm just going to skip that part"--a gap or two and one time just lost. That moment when she was lost followed immediately upon a section she was playing beautifully and it was clear that she was really lost in the music, which was wonderful to see and hear. Then she became aware and simply couldn't find her place on the page.

She made a couple of apologies. But I thought it was great, great that she can still play.

We walked around the block--she and her husband walk four miles every day--and around the yard and ate the peaches she had cut up for us. Home grown peaches.

Fruit trees and raspberries and strawberries and a wonderful garden. Her husband takes care of all that, she says. He takes good care of her, too, she says.

Yes, she repeats herself. So do I. So do a lot of people. She does it more, I suppose you'd say.

She can't always come up with someone's name. Neither can I. But the names she struggled with were names of family members, so it is worse, I guess is the word.

She has lost her self-confidence--she used to have a lot. But it is natural she is unsure because she knows what is happening to her. She says there are gaps in her memory. She'd like to fill them. And I see some anger, too. I believe I would be angry.

It has been three days since I was there, and I have thought I should write something about it, but that has been very hard to do.

Well, here it is. At least it's recorded, so to speak.

I have remembered something she wrote to me years ago. "You and I are friends, and friends are rare." We are still friends.