In recent times, I had become the treasurer of the family, I was the one who received the rent money of the hotel to distribute it to the family.
Enough of the details, here is the story I am going to tell you:
The owners of the hotel were getting old, and old age is accompanied by illness; He used to say alike President De Gaule of France : « Old age is a shipwreck. » As a result, the husband died first, followed almost immediately by his wife, whose room was located just opposite that of my adoptive father. Given his advanced age and sensitivity, there were some shocks that should have been spared him; Yet, because he projected the image of a strong man, it was not thought necessary to protect him from anything that might offend his sensitivities , even though his room overlooked that of the landlady, where the doctors swarmed at all hours, subjecting him to all kinds of indignities.
It is precisely these hardships that I seek to spare others, by offering them gentler and more natural alternatives.
One morning, as he was leaving his room, unceremoniously, he was informed of the death of the landlady.
In shock, he broke a large Chinese vase – a museum piece used as decoration – and then a magnificent decorative mirror.
Later, in complete disarray, he was caught naked, running into the courtyard towards the swimming pool of the hotel where all the guests would have seen him, what a disgrace it would have been. Fortunately, some male employees were present and robust enough to subdue him and escort him back to his room.
Now it was his turn, a crowd of doctors – colleagues in solidarity with his nephew, also a doctor – came to his bedside to try to treat him. Alas, the situation only worsened.
He had reached a stage where he no longer had any control over his own body; He reacted like a young child who had lost all sphincter control. He could no longer stand without assistance. We had to have him wear adult diapers — just like a baby — in order to manage his bodily functions, which he no longer had any control over.
This gives you an idea of how difficult the situation is.
Friends and family members who used to come to visit him in the early days — and who left devastated by the sight of the total decay overnight of someone who lived life to the fullest — eventually stopped visiting altogether.
They even stopped asking for news of him, for it was now nothing but sinister.
In order to preserve the honour of the family and to safeguard its privacy, I had to assume the entire burden alone. I enlisted the help of a young woman I had trained to act as a nurse — to administer his medication and to ensure that he did not develop pressure ulcers, which would only aggravate an already critical situation. Thank God it never happened.
Thus, from January to March 2009, I found myself taking on the role of a multi-purpose caregiver, while continuing to take on my own day-to-day work obligations.
In mid-January, one the owner of the hotel, who lived abroad (daughter of the owner that had all passed away , who used to come and spend the holidays there with her whole family, had to postpone her departure that year, leaving the premises a little later than the rest of her family. She did so in order to attend a special memorial mass for relatives who had not been able to attend the initial funeral, but also to secure the household belongings, as the house was now empty of any presence — since the very soul of the home had gone.
On the eve of her departure, and by mutual agreement with my patient’s closest nephew, she set about relieving me of a heavy burden, so that I could fulfill my obligations within the hotel of which I was the general manager. She did so, moreover, after having seen with what selflessness I devoted myself to the care of my patient — who was no longer, in my eyes, a simple friend, but a father, he who had just lost his only son.
That evening, she invited me to her home. My patient was really in a deplorable state: his eyes seemed to be sent from fire, by listening to the conversation, his feet were swollen, and he presented various other symptoms.
probably the sides effects of so many medications he had to take everyday, as every doctor would prescribed, very hard to manage already.
There, she introduced me to a well-known psychiatrist who ran a specialized psychiatric institution, as well as to my patient’s nephew — whom I needed no introduction, since he turned out to be my own attending physician. The purpose of this meeting was to inform me with great consideration — that the psychiatrist in question would henceforth take charge of his care, thereby relieving me of this heavy responsibility. She recognized the deep bond between me and my patient, but explained that I would have to separate from him, as the psychiatrist was there to take him that evening.
He had arrived wearing a straitjacket, with the intention of hindering him and preventing him from committing any act that might endanger him or others.
I vehemently opposed it. Instead, I asked him to prescribe a sedative, a drug that only psychiatrists are authorized to administer, promising to get my patient out of this state before Easter.
He assured me that, given the aggravating factor of senility, he could offer no guarantee that I would succeed in getting him out of his situation.
He nevertheless agreed to send me the tablets, that a friend doctor recommended me to get , the names of which I will not mention in order to avoid any misunderstanding.
However, I gave him my agreement and to keep his place reserved, in case I failed.
This commentary serves as a sequel to the story—a series of events that had, until then, eluded me.
On this Easter Sunday,
after savoring a hearty dinner—a meal he had enlivened with his customary zest—my patient and I settled in together. It was a choice feast, though the guest list was most exclusive: it consisted solely of him, my wife, and myself. We had deliberately chosen not to invite anyone else, wishing to put him further at ease so that we might continue his therapy.
To ensure his comfort even more fully—particularly at dessert time, a moment he cherished and for which we had prepared a special treat—I suggested we retire to the living room.
This seemed a timely move, for our conversation was beginning to take a political turn—a subject on which he was absolutely adamant about remaining perfectly informed.
As if guided by an invisible force, I felt inspired to hand him a book detailing the major achievements of the Magloire presidency. To our utter astonishment, he proved unable to read; when I pressed him to try—going so far as to help him decipher a single sentence—his head suddenly slumped to the side, and he began to snore.
My wife, accompanied by Chantale—my nurse, who had just finished her own meal in the pantry—then joined me in a small adjoining room that served as our family living area.
Together, we strove to make sense of the revelation we had just witnessed.
For while our patient had, until that moment, shown himself incapable of walking—requiring the combined aid of a cane and an attendant to support his weight—
another great surprise now awaited us. We watched him approach us—completely unassisted and without the slightest hesitation—simply asking where he might find a restroom.
I rushed to his side to offer my assistance, for he had already traversed a considerable distance, from the living room to the spot where we stood.
Once he reached the restroom, he managed to undress completely without any help; I then discreetly withdrew to afford him his privacy.
I waited for him in my bedroom, which happened to be the room adjacent to the restroom he was using. I then heard him call out to me jovially: “Rim”—the nickname he typically used when addressing me. He said, “Hand me some underwear so I can take off this baby getup.” I complied, for I could see that he had regained control of the situation.
When he reappeared, he came to sit with us and asked me to give him a full report—from start to finish—regarding his condition, step by step. I provided him with a comprehensive summary and recounted how he had lost the ability to read—adding, however, that we would make another attempt once we were back at his home later that day.
Fortunately, after a few attempts, his memory returned; he then read an entire page of a book without the slightest sign of fatigue.
I left that day at eleven o’clock that night.
Some time later, Professor Wesner Désir—representing the National Radio and Television network—approached him. Wishing to produce a program dedicated to the writer Jacques Roumain (author of *Gouverneurs de la Rosée*) in order to commemorate a special anniversary, he asked him to grant a televised interview, pointing out that he had known Jacques personally and had remained close to his family.
And there it was: a resounding success.