Smiling at Twilight (National Post November 7, 2008)

Barbara Kay, National Post 

Published: Friday, November 07, 2008

When word of the illness or death of a contemporary reaches us -- an upward trend that obviously won't plateau or reverse itself at this stage of the game -- my husband Ronny gloomily mutters an expression picked up from a military friend: "They're shooting at our regiment." Lately the shelling seems to have been particularly fierce.

A few weeks ago, we were shocked to learn that a couple we know -- not intimately, but well enough -- had committed suicide in their garage. The H_____s seemed to have it all: He was a successful radiologist, she elegant, cultured, active in the community. Children, grandchildren, a gracious Westmount home. Why?

The wife -- yes, I could see it. An Auschwitz survivor, she smiled often, but her eyes were pools of sorrow, and her brittle humour was mirthless. But he -- calm, competent, respected-- he too? Still waters.

On the previous day, Rosh Hashana, we had seen many of our contemporaries at synagogue. To each: "Shana Tova. A good year. How are you?"

From one: "Not great. [My husband] M___ is in the hospital with seven broken ribs. He's diabetic with occasional double vision, and shouldn't drive, but he's in denial. He blacked out at the wheel and crashed into a wall. Thank God no one else was hurt."

A fellow book lover blurted out: "I just found out this morning I have breast cancer." Her hand flew to her mouth. "Don't tell anyone!"

It went on in this vein for days. A good friend fighting a recurrent cancer went walking on Mount Royal. One of his meds caused a seizure. The ambulance couldn't find him. He was in a coma for five hours.

Brain fluid began leaking from the nose of another friend, still recuperating from a mysterious attack of meningitis last winter. He had two dime-sized holes in his brain. Only one surgeon in Quebec could perform the necessary delicate surgery. It went well. Twice spared.

We attended a wedding. I sat near J___, still vivacious, slim and well-dressed -- she was always a bit vain

'They're shooting at our regiment,' Ronny says when friends die.

Last month, the shelling got fierce and with reason--but now deep into Alzheimer's, at the stage where she is still socially "appropriate," but has no idea why. "We must have lunch," she urged, gazing earnestly into my eyes and, grasping my hand, "We're so alike." Disconcerting. She was never that warm to me when she was compos mentis.

Later, correctly reading my reflective mood as speculation raised by this encounter about my own odds around senility, Ronny tried to reassure me. He noted that J___'s affliction had been genetically passed along from her mother. I reminded him that my mother too had had Alzheimer's. Which he had apparently forgotten. A meditative silence ensued.

That Saturday night we had dinner at the home of our Laurentian neighbours, dear old friends, and others from the area. At drinks we were all preoccupied with these various calamities -- and a few others Ronny and I hadn't known of.

Eventually conversation flagged. We stretched our hands to the fire.

Then one of our number, an avid photographer, called us outside to watch a peloton of Canada geese striking joyously southward in the moonlight. Thrilled, restored to our social purpose, we trooped back inside and the party took wing.

We sat to eat. We exclaimed over the full-bodied, sumptuous wine. Never, I assured my delighted hosts, shamelessly accepting a third helping, had I ever tasted such a toothsome roast of beef.

Conversation soared. Politics. The economy. Children! Their work, their cities, their chosen ones. All doing wonderfully interesting things (interesting to them at any rate). And grandchildren -- every one of them smart and beautiful (at our age there are no ugly, no boring children).

Oh, and travel! Everyone was going somewhere or had been somewhere. Two of the men would be skiing with a group of 50 other old classmates and friends in Colorado, their thirty-second annual such adventure. The average age 70. Some bring their grandsons. Imagine!

The jokes flowed. Most we'd heard before, but never mind. We laughed and laughed. The flickering candlelight softened the lines on our faces. It was almost as if we were young. Nobody wanted to leave. As long as we sat there, the guns would stay silent. We raised our glasses: L'Chaim. To life.

bkay@videotron.ca