The Formation of the Emotional Bond that Survived Alzheimer’s

Judy and I met again in January 1962 as I began my final semester at Loyola University in New Orleans. I had just completed my last overtime shift at the Public Health Service Hospital over Christmas break pulling medical records for the next day’s appointments. My friend, Bob, and part-time co-worker knew I had money in my pocket, a rarity in my college days.

“How about a double date Friday evening,” he asked as we crossed the street to our quarters behind the hospital on this military-styled installation.

“Sure,” I said.

Bob was dating Aimee Earhart, my friend from French class. Since I didn’t usually have money for dating, I didn’t have a girlfriend and would have to find a date.

#

That Friday afternoon, I left the library and crossed the quad to Marquette Hall, the main building on campus, for my 3 o’clock history class which mostly freshmen and sophomores signed up for. I didn’t know anyone in that class.

A voice behind me called out, “Meet me in the lobby at 6 PM.” Bob sidled up beside me as I entered Markette Hall.

“Okay,” I said. I felt befuddled; I forgot about our double date.

In the classroom, I chose the middle desks of three in the last row, a good vantage point to scan students entering the classroom. As I took my seat and opened my history textbook, loud female laughter from the hallway caught my attention as two girls entered together. Judy I recognized from my French 201 class two years earlier, the younger girl I didn’t know. Judy’s classic green dress matched the color of her eyes and accentuated a much thinner waist than I remember. Well-coiffed red hair framed a round face giving Judy an air of elegance. I held my breath as she headed in my direction, stopped in front of me, and sat at the desk to my right; her friend chose the one to my left. The light scent of Channel # 5 I recognized. The two girls continued to talk around me as if I didn’t exist. I sensed Judy’s green eyes casually pass over me as if taking my measure, then turned back to her friend.

This vision of Judy sitting next to me disrupted any notion I had of taking notes for that day’s lecture.

After class, I positioned myself between Judy and her friend as we walked downstairs and exited Marquette Hall to the quad.

“Would y’all join me in the cafeteria for a coke?” I asked.

“Yes, thank you,” Judy said with a demure smile.

Her friend followed us to the cafeteria, two WWII Army buildings joined together. I escorted Judy and her friend to a table near the door and went for cokes. Gauche to ask for a date in front of her friend, but I will if I have to I thought.

I returned with three cokes and placed one in front of Judy and another for her friend. The friend took a swig from her glass, whispered a few words to Judy, then stood up and faced  me.

“Daddy’s sending the jet for me and my brother,” she said. “Tim’s in Tulane medical school. Daddy wants us home for the weekend.” She turned and headed for the exit.

I faced Judy. “Would you join me for a dinner date this evening?” I asked. “A double.”

Judy’s brows raised.

She’s going to say no, I thought.

She smiled. “I’d love to.”

My eyes opened wide. The spark in her eyes ignited her smile.

“I was going home for the weekend,” she explained, “but decided to stay and study instead. You know, start the semester off on the right foot.”

“We’re doubling with friends—Bob Gorski and Aimee Everhart.”

“I know Aimee. A language major, right? French, I believe.”

“Pick you up at six-thirty. How do I find you?”

“I’m in the dorm.” She gave me the address.

#

For our date, Bob made reservations at Kolb’s, a famous restaurant in New Orleans on the wrong side of Canal Street from the French Quarter. The building exterior reflected 19th century old French design with black wrought-iron filigree across the 2nd and 3rd story balconies. Inside, dark wooden shelves with an impressive array of German multi-colored beer steins provided the Teutonic ambiance of a German tavern.

“This place is beautiful,” Judy said. “You come here often?”

“My first time.”

I didn’t learn much about Judy that evening in front of Bob and Aimee. As I escorted Judy to the front door of the house that served as a women’s dorm, the words escaped my lips, “Can I see you again tomorrow?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile. “I’ll be here all weekend.”

#

The next evening as I stepped onto the porch, I glanced through the curtained window for signs of life inside. Abruptly, the front door opened, and Judy appeared.

“Hi,” she said.

I stepped off her porch. “The Sanger is showing Sweet Bird of Youth with Paul Newman,” I said. “Let’s take the streetcar. Parking can be such a problem near Canal on Saturday evenings.”

“I like riding the streetcar. I get to see parts of the city I wouldn’t otherwise visit.”

We left the streetcar at Canal and walked to the Sanger. The warmth of Judy sitting next to me drew me to her; halfway through the movie, I took her hand and sensed her gentle squeeze. Was that my imagination? My world of non-dating and isolation now seemed so bleak.

“How about the Café du Monde for coffee and beignets?” I asked after the movie.

“Okay.”

At the corner of Bourbon and Canal, the entrance to the French Quarter, a small crowd stood around a pushcart shaped like a hot-dog bun with two wieners sticking out each end and mustard dripping down its side. The strong aroma of steaming wieners made my mouth water. I loved hot dogs.

“Hot dog for dinner instead of beignets?”

“Love hot dogs!” Judy’s eyes met mine. “You must be broke after last night at Kolb’s. I can pay for my own.”

“I can’t let you do that.”

“Not to worry! I have a job now.”

“Oh?”

“Interviewed at Sears on Barone Street last month. Big surprise! Personnel called last week with a job offer.”

The mention of Sears on Barone reminded me of the two tires with treads I chose from the huge stack of discards at that Sears; I booted the blowout holes, used my old inner tubes, and put those two tires on my car.

“What you want on dem dogs?” the vendor asked.

Judy turned an impish smile on me. “You haven onions?”

“If you do.”

We walked down to the end of Canal Street and sat on the steps to the pier munching our hot dogs watching the ferry dock. Cars from Algiers rolled off and others lined up for the return trip.

“Have you ever taken the Ferry to Algiers?” I asked.

“No.” Her eyes washed over me.

“Let’s do it,” I said.

Sitting on the wooden bench at the highest point allowed for passengers, I reached my arm around Judy’s waist as the ferry churned into the main river current, then cut diagonally across the brackish water toward the other side. I snuggled close to Judy as we watched the turbulent wake in the murky water. The ferry docked, offloaded, and onloaded for the trip back to the New Orleans side. We were forced off the ferry and got tickets for the return trip and hardly noticed the return crossing.

We caught the last streetcar from Canal which let us off in front of Marquette and we walked the short distance to Judy’s dorm. I wondered standing on the porch facing Judy what’s the protocol for a goodnight kiss on a second date. The Catholic seminary I had attended for five years hadn’t prepared me for moments like this.

Judy faced me with head tilted. Her mischievous eyes seemed to say Well, what are you going to do now?

I slipped my arm around her waist, pulled her close, and touched my lips to hers, half expecting her to pull back. Instead, her warm body leaned into me and her soft fingers drew my head closer while her soft lips lingered against mine.

Judy stepped back. “Would you like to come inside? Nobody’s here. Everyone’s gone for the weekend.”

She doesn’t want this evening to end any more than I do, I thought.

In the lounge, Judy sat on the sofa facing me as I positioned a chair opposite her.

“I’m from Toledo,’ she began. “We moved to Hammond after my freshman year. I went to Chatawa near Jackson, Mississippi as a boarder. In my senior year, home for the weekend, I announced at the dinner table, ‘I’ve been accepted to Loyola.’ I’ll never forget the look on Daddy’s face.”

Judy was offering me her life story in a gush of words.

“‘We can’t afford to send you to Loyola,’ Daddy said. I was crushed. When I let Loyola admissions know that my family couldn’t afford to send me there, a recruiter invited me in for an interview; I didn’t know why. The administrator offered me a full-ride scholarship.”

“You must have an excellent high-school record.”

“And lots of extra-curricular.”

“Did you drop out of Loyola? If you had been on campus for the past two years, I’d have seen you.”

Judy’s face flushed red.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry?”

Judy looked me in the eye. “I needed a 3.0 on the 4-point system to keep my scholarship; I got a 2.9. Imagine, losing a scholarship to Loyola by one tenth of a point! And over Theology, no less! I took a job editing a newspaper in Hammond to save money to come back. But enough about me. What about you? Tell me something about yourself that I couldn’t find out by asking around on campus.”

“I have an identical twin brother, Patrick, Pat. Born on St. Patrick’s Day. Looks just like me. We’ve had lots of fun being twins. He’s at Notre Dame Seminary here on Carrolton Avenue studying to be a priest.”

“I’ve got to meet this Pat.”

“Why?”

“Having a twin that’s going to be a priest says a lot about you. And about him.”

Judy and I spent every spare moment together for the rest of that semester and we married on June 9th, 1962, her twenty-first birthday. After graduation, I joined the Air Force to avoid the draft. Our strong bond helped us work through some rough times in those early years. We raised three children as I pursued multiple careers. This deep bond overshadowed any disquieting events that occurred during our Alzheimer’s journey.