December 3, 2014--Car, Cat, Tree

Aunt Madeline liked attention. Including occasionally checking herself into hospitals to make sure her nieces and nephews would visit. Otherwise, they made their way to Brooklyn maybe once or twice a year.

One time, she was having real issues. From the panicky phone call to us, seemingly psychiatric ones. She called to see if we could meet her at Beth Israel's admitting office. Out of consideration for us, she picked the hospital nearest where we lived so we wouldn't again have to schlep to a Brooklyn hospital.

It took 15 minutes for us to get there and we waited nervously nearly an hour until the ambulette arrived. Madeline was frazzled and disheveled. Not her usual state and so we were concerned.

From her appearance alone it was clear we needed to get her to psychiatric admitting.

When we did, Madeline asked the nurse who took her history if we could sit with her. "Of course," she said with compassionate understanding.

Among other things, the nurse administered a brief cognitive test--"Can you repeat," she asked Madeline, "car, cat, tree?"

"Car-cat-tree," Madeline shot back full voiced.

"Very good. Can you also repeat car, cat, tree in reverse?" Madeline looked puzzled. "Backwards."

"Oh, that, yes, tree-cat-car," Madeline, proud of herself, smiled as if to say, "I'm not that crazy."

"If I may," I asked the nurse, "what are you trying to determine?"

"If your aunt has dementia, Alzheimer's."

"And?"

"From how she did, I think not."

"You see, I told you," all smiles Madeline said, "I'm not crazy. I'm just having a nerve attack." And from that I felt her hospitalization would be brief. Which indeed it turned out to be.

We visited every day, which gave our wonderful aunt great pleasure; and from then on, for more than 20 years, whenever either Rona or I have been confused about something, not able to recall a name or date, I say car, cat, tree and Rona responds with the more challenging tree, cat, car. This assures us we're still all right. No need yet to get checked into Beth Israel.

Though at 4:00 a.m. yesterday, fitfully sleeping and lying wide awake staring at the ceiling, I could have used a little help and assurance that I hadn't overnight caught a case of Alzheimer's.

For some inexplicable reason--but that's the middle of the night for you: inexplicableness--I couldn't for almost an hour remember who wrote "It's De-Lovely."

I know, crazy. But not being able to remember Cole Porter made me really crazy.

Sweating and tossing, I went down the list of songwriters from that era I could remember--Rodgers and Hart, Rogers and Hammerstein, George and Ira Gershwin, Johnny Mercer, Irving Berlin. None of them I knew wrote "It's De-Lovely."

At least that was something. My memory of songs and composers was still partially intact. Those PET-scan images of brains of old folks with Alzheimer's that show shadowy hollows and vacancies must have just begun to eat away at that part of mine where the names of songs and songwriters are retained. So maybe, I thought, tomorrow night at 4:00 a.m. I no longer will remember who wrote "Thou Swell." At my age, who cares about songwriters.

But try me--Rodgers and Hart.

And of course cat, car, tree.