One Hundred Names for Love: A Memoir (33 page)

“Tell me,” Paul said eagerly, and settled back comfortably. He loved to hear about other aphasics who were worse off than he was.

Then, wistfully, he added the single word “
flâneur
,” pronounced with a good French accent and a hint of tenderness. He had taught me the word when we visited the picturesque medieval city of Tours, for a conference on Paul’s work at the Université François Rabelais, on the lush banks of the wide, myrtle-green Loire.
Flâneur
is French for someone who strolls or lounges, a word Baudelaire had commandeered to mean “someone who walks or loafs around a city in order to experience it,” because modern life, with its social riptides and cultural bonds, had become too complicated for traditional art. Baudelaire felt that one needed to live as a cynical voyeur on the one hand, and yet a passionate denizen of the meanest streets on the other. Paul’s working-class background and rarefied Oxford education had resulted in a similar outlook.

I dived in. “Baudelaire’s case is very sad. He was only forty-five when he had a left-hemisphere stroke with Broca’s aphasia.” I spoke under easy sail, habitual by now, pausing between parts of sentences, to give Paul time to process what I was saying. “As you know, he caught syphilis in his teens, and it kept flaring up and plaguing him with the usual miseries: pain in all his joints, hair loss, ulcers, god-awful fatigue, fevers, sore throats, rashes everywhere, depression, and bouts of psychosis.”

Paul grimaced silently.

“Yep. The whole bag of tricks.”

“And he was . . .” Paul lifted his thumb and first finger to his mouth, separated and tilted them in a gesture of drinking.

“No, it didn’t help that he was drunk as a fish and took opium. There was this episode in Brussels where a friend found him in his room at the Hôtel du Miroir . . .”

Paul grinned.

“I know. How funny is it for a French poet to live in a hotel of mirrors? Anyway, one morning his friend found him in his room, lying in bed, fully dressed, but unable to move or speak. He recovered slightly, well enough to read proofs and dictate a few letters. But he had another stroke, this one paralyzing the right half of his body and leaving him completely aphasic.”

Looking concerned, Paul asked, “Could they do anything?”

“Not much. One of his friends said that ‘the softening of his brain’ was obvious, and she was afraid that he would ‘outlive his intelligence.’“

Paul’s eyebrows leapt in horror.

“Isn’t it a wretched thought? He really couldn’t communicate at all, so finally he was taken to the Institut Saint-Jean et Sainte-Elisabeth, a clinic run by Augustinian nuns, where, apparently, they found him quite a handful. Not least because all he said was a curse,
Cré nom
.”

“
Cré nom!
”

“Which translates roughly as
goddamn
, right?”

“
Goddamn
. But a . . . nunnery?” Paul looked positively gleeful.

“Of all places for a perpetually cursing, decadent artist! Listen to this passage about Baudelaire from this book I bought called
Neurological Disorders in Famous Artists
.”

Paul nodded in assent, so with a deep breath, I read:

With these two words, he who had loved and practiced the art of conversation was obliged to express the whole gamut of his feelings and thoughts—joy, sorrow, anger, and impatience—and he sometimes flew into a rage at his inability to make his meaning clear, and to answer those who spoke to him. . . . [T]hought still lived in him as could be divined from the expression in his eyes, but it was imprisoned in the dungeon of his flesh, and without means of communication with the outside world.

Although I read the passage twice and slowly, I wasn’t sure Paul could follow all of it. But he gestured he wanted me to go on.

“So, the Sister Superior,” I continued, warming to my report, “wrote to Baudelaire’s mother that the religious hospital really wasn’t the right place for her son, complaining that she didn’t like having such a blasphemous man in the house! Apparently Baudelaire’s mother began to get concerned that the nuns might torment him.”

“How?” Paul asked.

“Who knows. Maybe just engulf him in prayers and demand that he repeat them. It really must have been an awful place for someone who couldn’t speak except for yelling
goddamn!
I’m sure the constant cursing got on the nuns’ nerves.”

Paul was chuckling to himself, and I could tell he was picturing the scene, with Baudelaire screaming
Cré nom!
and the kind sisters in wimples and flowing robes circling him with crucifixes and prayers.

“And the sisters said they found him frightening—so maybe he seemed satanic to them? Remember, Baudelaire once said, ‘Men and women know from birth that all pleasure lies in evil!’ I’m sure they must have thought he was totally wicked. Maybe,” I drawled with exaggerated seriousness, “they
exorcised
him! Apparently he shouted his head off at them. But it was the only clinic in Brussels for patients as bad off as he was. I’ll read you what one of his caregivers said about him.”

As usual, I read the passage to Paul slowly and twice through:

He acts like a quasi-mute, who would articulate one single word and try to make himself understood by varying intonations. I understand him quite often, as far as I’m concerned; but it’s hard.

“Still following?”

He nodded, but that didn’t necessarily mean yes. I wondered if he was just being courteous or obliging or didn’t have the energy to protest, but I continued nevertheless, skipping down the page to a quotation from one of Baudelaire’s friends:

I became convinced that Baudelaire had never been more lucid or subtle. Seeing him lending his ear while having a wash, to the hushed conversations near him and not missing a word of it, which I could observe through the signs of approbation or impatience he manifested, exchanging sustained attention and the clearest intelligence. I had no doubt that the part that illness had spared in him was completely sane and active and that his mind was as free and nimble as I saw in the previous year.

“So, with friends, he acted as if he understood. Just couldn’t speak. It sounds like Broca’s. He might not have known he was cursing. He didn’t improve. Mind you, no one expected him to. Therapy didn’t exist. Imagine. His entire poetic gift reduced to that one curse:
goddamn!
How awful.”

But Paul had beaten me to the imagining. “I know how he feels,” he said, then self-mockingly, as if he had a toad in his mouth, added: “
Mem, mem, mem!
”

“I’m sure you do.” “Why only poultry?” Scrabbling around my mind for the connection, I finally recalled

a friend telling us of a man she knew whose stroke, bizarrely, left him only able to say one word. Not a curse, but the word “chicken,” aberrant and alone.

“Well, from what I’ve learned, neurologists don’t really seem to know. Many aphasics can only say one word, or maybe a phrase—and it’s often a curse. Like Baudelaire. Maybe because it was something really familiar, like song lyrics? Something automatic. Or was it the
last
word they thought or spoke before their stroke? And then the brain got snagged on those sounds?”

Paul nodded assent. He was with me.

“Or the
first
word the person thought or spoke
after
the stroke, with the same stuck result? Or maybe just one
syllable
of that word or phrase? Like the way you kept saying
mem, mem, mem.
”

I could see Paul grinding the gears in his head—what words began with
mem
?

“Member, memoir, memo, memento . . .” I offered.

“Memba,” he added.

“
Memba
? . . . A rap-music-singing member of Mensa?”

He giggled. But did he laugh automatically because he assumed I was being cute, or did he laugh because he understood and was picturing a brainiac from Mensa, the high-IQ society, doing hip-hop hand-jive?

“Did you understand what I just said?” I suspected not. Aphasics often respond correctly, and convincingly—without understanding a word of what you’re saying—because so many elements of conversation are automatic. They know you’ve probably conveyed some ideas, without being able to identify them.

“No. Don’t need to.”

For once, his not understanding didn’t frustrate either of us.

“You just like the sound of it?”

“Yes. That’s enough. Back to . . .
mem, mem, mem
.” Paul waved one hand, indicating,
Continue
.

“Why are people left repeating one word or phrase? Well, both sides of the brain do language,” I ventured. “But some scientists think they play different roles, with the left”—I cupped the left side of my head to help illustrate—“in charge of voluntary speech, and the right”—now cupping the right side of my head—“in charge of all the words and expressions you’ve heard so often that they’re indelible, automatic, like reflexes. Clichés, slang, song lyrics, curses, polite stuff, that sort of thing. You know them by heart. You don’t need to think about them.”

Under thought’s radar they glide,
I thought,
along with an armada of bad habits and a handful of well-oiled skills.
Just as Paul had lost his speaking voice, at times it felt like I’d lost my poet’s voice, which I had to simplify, censor, and make more linear in order to communicate with him. It felt strange, even after two years, because linear isn’t my natural gait.

“Couch man?”

“Couch man . . . Couch man . . . couch man . . .” Again I racked my brain. “Do you possibly mean Freud?”

“Yes! Freud!”

I smiled. Paul
knew
I would have researched Freud’s take on all this.

“Freud was absolutely interested in aphasics. He marveled at all the people left only with curse words—which he, of course, blamed on repression! He theorized that in a healthy brain, our well-behaved speech represses all the nasty words, which would otherwise ooze from the jaggy, snarly, greedy curse-besotted id. Anyway, sweetheart, I sure am relieved you weren’t left like Baudelaire.”

“Jaggy? . . . Jaggy? . . . Jaggy?” he rolled the adjective around in his mouth, savoring it.

“Nice word, huh? Got it from Dr. Ann. It sounds so . . . so . . .”

“Jaggy.”

“Exactly! You know, I forgot to tell you that Baudelaire’s response to music didn’t change a bit after his stroke. He still loved listening to Wagner. All that
Sturm und Drang
. His stroke must have spared the part of the right hemisphere that colors the sounds we hear with strong emotions.”

“Not for me,” Paul frankly admitted with surprisingly little regret for his paled response to music.

“No, but you’re not limited to just one curse!”

“Sky’s the limit!” He beamed, his inner perpetual schoolboy no doubt thinking about all the blasphemies still open to him. “Not just MEM!”

“Oh, right, what’s ‘memba’?” I was still wondering if it was a real word.

Sticking out his chest in a parody of exaggerated pride, he grinned, then drew a ragged outline of something in the air, shaped like a kite or a diamond. Not his usual
templum
. Maybe an object or a country? I looked the word up in the dictionary. Sure enough, the Memba were a tribal people living in India.

CHAPTER 29

T
WO YEARS AFTER HIS STROKE, PAUL WAS ABLE TO
write longhand, slowly, which he did with gusto every single day. Our mission was to keep the momentum of his recovery going, and for Paul that meant continuing to write, regardless of obstacles. In part because writing daily influenced his self-confidence and mood. But also because it was his lifelong form of deep play. Not ha-ha play, but an altered state humans seem to crave, one of clarity, wild enthusiasm, and saturation in the moment. This requires one’s full attention, because when acting and thinking become the same event, there’s no room left for other thoughts. Life’s usual choices and relationships recede. Into an imperfect world and into the confusion of life, deep play brings a temporary, limited perfection. So even if what he wrote read like a dog’s breakfast, I cheered him on relentlessly, sometimes having to draw deep to find the energy, while at other times feeling invigorated because it was something tangible I could do to help him.

Some of his sentences were so aphasic as to be incomprehensible, and then Liz or I, as tactfully as possible, would go over the work with him, highlighting nonsensical phrases or misused words, and helping him tease what he meant out of the mental cobwebs. We all regarded his writing as vital speech therapy. Passing by his study, the door cracked open a little, I’d see him sitting at his desk, in a cork-walled corner of the room, curving over a page as he always used to, redolent with thought. But more than his mind seemed to be straining these days—his back yawed, his shoulders flexed and wilted. I sometimes stood and watched the tension of a whole body thinking. With great effort, he’d painstakingly revise every page, sometimes only to have new infelicities emerge. Though Liz and I were free with our opinions and criticism, out of necessity we simply overlooked many mistakes in the name of progress. Paul always knew how he’d like something to read; it was
his
creation,
his
deep play, not
just
speech therapy, and above all it should please him. Writing both fiction and essays, he scrawled 300 pages during the first two years, and the dogged daily work of writing and revising exhausted but satisfied him, while improving his skills.

It also allowed Paul and me to bridge our old and new life, as once again we found ourselves having discussions over word choice, consulting each other for adjectives, and comparing the sound of one phrase to another. Again our voices breached the space between our offices, which felt as welcome as a bluff of trees on the prairie. Like the call and response of two strange, literary birds, Paul would yell across the hallway to me:

“Hey, poet, what’s the name of that red star . . . Orion . . . belt?”

And I’d yell back: “Betelgeuse.”

Then I’d call: “Honey, how do you spell
zyzzva
[a palm weevil]?”

And he’d answer: “Three
z
’s!” His spelling was surprisingly reliable when it came to arcane words.

And we were all beyond thrilled when he began to place some essays and fiction he’d written
since
the stroke in
Harper’s
,
The American Scholar, Conjunctions, The Yale Review,
and a few other literary magazines.

Every so often, if Liz and I were chatting too much in the kitchen, Paul came to scold us, holding his small navy blue talisman of a pillow, on which white embroidery implored:
Quiet Please! Novel in progress.
Silently, he’d lift it to his chest and hold it out to us like one of the “ring girls” at a boxing match announcing the number of the round.

Over these years, Liz had become an ace literary assistant and good friend. I’d grown used to her hair color changing, from fire-engine red to carrot-orange to calico. More and more of her flip-flops took up residence in her office, a converted guest room with three walls of windows looking into the garden, floral tiles along the skirting boards, a floral sofa and matching drapes, floral rug, large blond table for a desk, and chairs whose wooden backs were silhouettes of Montgolfia hot-air balloons. In the fall, I planted spring and summer bulbs outside her windows—daffodils, fritillarias, giant alliums, bluebells, dwarf irises, daylilies, and canna lilies—without telling her exactly what or where so that they would be a surprise.

In time, the household wombat fetish evolved from my addressing Paul as “wombat,” to his calling me “wombat,” to Liz referring to us as “the wombats,” to Liz merging into the general wombattery. When she was in Oregon, she signed her emails as “Wombatat-large,” in San Francisco she became “West Coast Wombat,” in Washington, D.C., “Capitol Wombat.” I might sign my emails “Wombat-in-Residence” or “Two-legged North American Long-haired Wombat.” And Paul swiftly became the likes of “P-Wombat, House Wombat, or Swimming Wombat.” The screensavers on her laptop and mine showed adorable baby wombats. A growing collection of wombataphilia entered the house: key chains, stuffed animals, mugs, baseball caps. Before her annual canoeing adventure with college friends, she created a notebook whose cover read:
Field Guide to the Wombats of
. . . Inside, methodical notes and instructions explained everything from Paul’s medicines to how to restart my hybrid Prius. At Christmas one year, Liz received a mug appropriately emblazoned with
Wombat Wrangler
.

So it was only fitting that I produced a quirky new work contract, a “Wombat Incentive Package,” which included, among other things, a raise, as many weeks off as she wanted pretty much whenever she wanted them, a monthly pedicure, and last but not least, her body weight in chocolate.

Ultimately, the “body weight in chocolate,” much as envisioning a public weighing-in ceremony delighted us all, was not as alluring to her as a book allowance, so together we drew up an elaborate sybaritic chocolate-to-books conversion chart. The far from button-down contract suited her, and she signed on for another tour of duty in the wombat warren of the household and the always-a-surprise-around-the-next-corner jungles of aphasia.

Self-described as “borderline OCD in a useful way,” Liz was a born fact-checker and proofreader, an awesome organizer of people and closets. I was grateful that she set out and triple-checked Paul’s pills, and was fanatically methodical about everything from keeping Paul’s prescriptions up-to-date to bandaging a cut or scrape on his foot. Liz folded towels symmetrically, like perfect strips of colorful pastry, and only occasionally confessed to refolding the ones I’d folded into thirds, which didn’t match those she’d folded into quarters. She performed elaborate
interventions
on neglected filing cabinets and the hinterlands of our dusty, junkyard-style garage, where old manuscripts lurked.

“I’m just
fully integrated
,” she would say when praised, suggesting that, after a while, she knew instinctively what we preferred. But a parallel truth is that we had adapted to her ways, too.

When it came to sway in the household, I sometimes teased that she missed her calling as a dominatrix. Like most people, I have habitual ways of running the house, but I’m not wedded to them. About sharing space, I have a strong sense of “live and let live.” So I gave her free
reign
. To my amusement, it astounded her that I didn’t mind at all if she reorganized the kitchen drawers, turned the mudroom into an overflowing pantry, rearranged the in-their-place-for-a-decade armchairs in the living room (creating a fine basking spot at the picture windows), or devised a color-coded monthly calendar on the refrigerator with red dots for days Liz was away, yellow for days Diane had trips, blue for Paul’s appointments. She established a hierarchy of Post-it notes on the kitchen counter—ranked by size, color, shape, and level of importance—now and then so abundant that they looked like prayer flags strung across a Nepalese col, and other times overlapping like genteel folds of skin.

We were a shockingly good fit. Paul and I would generate an endless stream of projects, and Liz would get to compulsively organize them, cheerfully stating she had always been “a fan of enthalpy,” by which she meant the fine art of bringing order to chaos. Hundreds of small changes appeared in our daily life, and although I wasn’t as systematic, I appreciated the growing sense of method in the house at precisely the time my world felt disheveled beyond repair. Myself, I’ve always organized in waves. For months on end, slowly descending into disorder, I drift with the status quo. Then I wake up one morning with a sudden compulsion to color-code my socks and stack them vertically. Or I have a longtime writerly habit, more of an instinct really, of obsessively tidying my office before I begin a new book, as if I were an expectant mom preparing for birth. I think it soothed the bubbling inner commotion a little to find my surroundings less chaotic, providing a bit of sensory relief.

One thing we all had in common was a great respect for, even a reveling in, eccentricity. With pride, Liz told us stories of her dad, a small-town Presbyterian minister in Missouri and consummate tinkerer who fervently believed in reusing and recycling. How he’d salvaged materials from a local junkyard and cannibalized discarded lawnmowers to build fully functional, multihued, Frankensteinian mowers. How he’d unconventionally, yet oh-so-practically, painted her childhood home two-tone: dark brown halfway up all the walls, then white above the height where kids could leave dirty fingerprints. How he and his second wife, a former Ukrainian nuclear biochemist who now runs a successful luxury knitting business, were building their lakeside retirement home complete with a small “worm factory,” to provide bait for their almost daily fishing.

So while Paul and I had such playful habits as soccer-kicking boxes of Kleenex and rolls of toilet paper down the hallway rather than carrying them to the other end of the house, and quacking the theme song to
Masterpiece Theatre
, Liz was hard to faze. Married to her burly, six-foot-tall, double-earringed husband (a graphic designer working at Cornell’s Laboratory of Ornithology), she enjoyed the turmoil of highly creative minds. She would sometimes mock-vent, while pretending to tear her hair out at the roots: “
Artists!
What’s wrong with me?! I surround myself with you people at work—as if I don’t get enough chaos at home!”

At times Liz reminded me a lot of my undergraduate college roommate Kathe, a woman with a Scottish complexion, cropped blond hair, and quick wit. Kathe was yards smarter than I was, upbeat, insightful, and fun. To earn money, she’d been a part-time go-go dancer at the My-Oh-My Lounge down the street from our apartment. We romped verbally all the time, and got up to endless mischief. What Liz and Kathe had in common was a certain stripe of brain. Not artistically creative, but brilliant, high-spirited, and curious, they had similar restless minds that craved stimulation. And so when Liz said of herself, “I don’t
do
reflection,” or regaled us with stories of the many jobs she’d had, I understood. For both Paul and me, although our passions changed as we invented new books, our career was writing. Our method was focused and dreamy spells mixed with practical minutiae. In contrast, Liz needed the variety of changing
occupations
, keeping her family and longtime friends constant, while replenishing her pool of coworkers and her landscape. A different sort of mental nomad, one who wanders without versus one who wanders within. My mother was similar. I had a hunch Liz wouldn’t work with us forever, no matter how much she might enjoy the work or grow to love us. Her brain needed novelty to feel most alive, something it didn’t generate but sought, then explored and transformed with gusto.

To her delight, in our household, unpredictability was
de rigueur
, so she never knew what to expect when she arrived each morning. One of us might be immersed in Mongolia and the other in the primeval forests of Poland, each needing her research skills at the last minute. She didn’t hesitate, but I think was amused, when I suggested we hang a few lovely photographs of bats up by the rafters where they
belong
. She regularly found on her to-do list such items as: “organize universe” (the filing system in my study), “blow up cheetah” (the inflatable one in the living room), “don’t frighten lady garter!” (striped snake that likes to sun on the patio), “Desdemona—safe to plant with Othello?” (two ligularias I’d planted), “down to two endangered species; order a dozen” (referring to a brand of dark chocolate). Or “Slim Bear shortage” (indicating we were down to the last of Paul’s frozen treats).