People we loved and never lost

Deanna Sabo, dear friend

6th June, 2020

Deanna Sabo died 6 years ago today.

Deanna, in park, near Chez Lise, Montreal, 2012 - Photo: James Galwey

Deanna was a ward of court and institutionalised most of her life, in Montreal, Quebec. The government of Quebec being her legal caretakers. She was child-woman, mentally challenged and incapable of looking after herself. James Galwey, hometown Tunbridge-Wells buddy, and I met her through Benedicte, another friend, who was doing an internship at the time at the Douglas Hospital for mental health. We became enchanted, and, with her permission, began filming her life and struggles in 2011.

Anguish and long nights with James editing. Long days with Deanna in the Douglas. Midnight drinks, and wandering down dark Montreal alleys, our film in my head…

It was a long road to the end, then Chez Lise film rose from the screen, and the end was beautiful where we were rewarded with many screenings and winning first prize at a festival in France. 

Trailer

Deanna loved it. She took ownership of it, and from then on it became, ‘her film.

Deanna died one year later, out of the blue.

It was if she willed and wanted it. And so, this is the rest of her story.

In memory of a special lady

CHEZ LISE ends with Deanna’s lover Gordon making an epic walk in the snow as he nears her room at the Douglas Hospital. As filmmakers, this is where the story finishes. No better way metaphorically to end this intense love.

Gordon just asked Deanna to marry him. Photo: James Galwey

In reality, not long after those final scenes Deanna was transferred to an old people’s home. The transition was horrific after Chez Lise, where she had her own little room and a lover. She was 49, forced to become old, with forced bed times. Grace Dart, only offered stability, no more. 

Gordon and Deanna could no longer see each other as it was the other end of town, literally miles away. Both suffered.

By early-winter, 2013, Gordon stopped phoning. Deanna nearly died with grief. She never heard from him again.

In happier times - Gordons’ birthday - Photo: James Galwey

James and I did not search; we knew Gordon would be transiting different hostels, half-ways homes or hospitals.

The only thing that kept Deanna momentarily happy was knowing “her” film was to screen in Montreal, in competition at the FNC festival, 2013, and she was the star. 

Before the screening, my daughter Alyosha and I took her home where we dressed her in a flashy golden top, did her hair, nails and make-up. 

She was majestic. It was her night.

She kept asking me if it really was her up there on the screen. She laughed at herself. She was excited and overcome. We had a great ‘after party’. Deanna was on top of the world. I took her home very late. She still clung to her popcorn and cinema program.

At the screening of Chez Lise - Montreal, 2013, FNC film festival - Photo: Alvaro Pacheco

Then winter came deeply and Deanna was given an ominous diagnostic, a dangerous clot in her brain, which the doctors said they could do nothing about, only observe. She was pitifully alone, her soul was dying.

It was on my birthday, 28th April 2014,

that Deanna met Marc. She had organized a small party in Grace Dart’s guest room saving her money to buy balloons and biscuits. I invited Marc, a kindred soul, who took one look at her, and was smitten - which is what I hoped would happen, but hey, no one can never plan love.

At one point they snuck off to the smoking room, where she told me they had a wonderful kiss.

That next week they were a couple .

28th April 2014 till 6th June 2014.

6 weeks

6 weeks

6 weeks

The love affair changed Deanna’s life. Marc lived in the real world. He had a job as a caretaker. He saw past what others did not, and loved Deanna. She was his woman. Everything Deanna had ever wanted she had with Marc. But, the legal owners of Deanna, the Quebec government, decided that she was not capable of living a ‘normal’ life, meaning not knowing how to love, meaning she could not have time alone with Marc. Meaning she had no rights, meaning she was to be controlled.

James and I had to do something. 

We arranged permission to take her out one afternoon. Marc was waiting not far away in a cab. We went to his apartment; ten steps down, with Deanna’s stroller. (By then her diabetes was so bad she could hardly walk.) 

Getting Deanna down ten stairs was one of the hardest things we ever did with her. She was scared, excited, elated, nervous, her legs sagging, trembling, giving in under her heavy weight. In the end, the only way was by shouting, “if you don’t go now, you know it will never happen. NEVER”  

So legs slipping, body heaving, she took one hour to get down.

Marc, fluffed up like a peacock in love, played Seventies disco music, his disco-light system whirled colours across the ceiling, orange juice cocktails were served with crisps.

Then we left them alone for the rest of the afternoon.

From that point onward, they would escape, in a cab, to that fragile haven,

to bed,

to love,

in love,

entwined,

twisting and happy in each others arms.  

Midnight flowers -photo: Jeanne Pope

They found a friend in Grace Dart’s doorman, he turned a blind eye when they shuffled past telling him they were going for a walk in the grounds.

They talked of moving in together, Deanna knew it was an impossible dream, but it kept them going. They were besotted.

On May 30, Friday 2014

Deanna was told she should not see Marc as much. Visits had to be cut down. The government case worker who had meet her twice felt the affair was unsettling her. A curfew was placed. She was considered not capable of making up her own mind. The fact she was in love had nothing to do with it.

Marc, her lover, had no authority over the decision, nor me, nor James or Benedicte. She was an orphan, controlled by government workers who knew nothing about her. Even her Dr Bloom, father-figure, was helpless to intervene.

But, Deanna couldn’t wait. Time was not on her side

She knew it. Her brain was ticking …

On Saturday, May 31st, 2014, Deanna eloped with Marc

She took a small bag with enough insulin for two days.

Her friend the Haitian doorman looked. He later told me his heart understood everything. “I just let them be.”

To the ten steps. The last time would she stumble down them

Deanna and Marc made love all weekend. She told me in a phone call it was wild and wonderful. She also made me laugh, telling me she had eaten too many hotdogs.

Later Marc would tell me Deanna said she was a part of him. She gave him her three rings, she no longer needed them. Cheap metal rings brought at the Dollarama. For Deanna they were her jewels.

Marc took her back on Monday, 26th to face the fireworks. Deanna was told she had lost all permission to go out.

I spoke to Deanna for the last time on Monday night. I was walking up the Boulevard St. Laurent. She was agitated, worrying Marc was younger than her and he would find another love. I reassured her things would work out, that I loved her. We all loved her. We would fight for her.

She then phoned Marc and told him she loved him more than anything and nothing could keep them apart.

Marc and Deann, photo: Marc

The phone call came on Tuesday morning.

I was far away on the West Island at work. Marc rang in tears. Deanna had had a brain aneurysm, she was at the Rosemont Hospital in intensive care.

I ran.

James ran.

The doctors told us she was clinically dead. They would disconnect the plugs soon, and her organs would be donated.

She was beautiful. Lying on the bed, in slumber. She had become younger, there was a rosy hue crossing her checks. She had a gentle smile tilted on her lips, as if she was going to tell us more stories. She looked so happy.

We spent the next three days lying by her side. We sung, laughed, made merry.

On Friday, 6th June, I cut a lock of hair, touched her baby-soft-white skin, took a print of her hand, so did Larry, a friend. Marc gave me one of her rings, saying she had told him that weekend she wanted me to have it.

We left her for the last time…

Marc was the last person with Deanna before they took her life away…

Deanna learning to check her diabetes - photo: James Galwey

I was heart broken. It all seemed so unfair…

…or was it ?

Deanna had tasted real decent love for the first time. For two days she had washed dishes, cleaned a room, had a bath, lived a normal life. How could she go back to Grace Dart? Go back to rules, regulations, pills, more pills, different beds with cold sheets, meals on wheels…indifference?

Another number

Another victim

She wanted to be free

Now she was free

She was nobody’s victim

She was a woman

A lover

She died with love on her body

Marc’s touch on her soul

Her death saved four people’s lives

Deanna is honoured with a plaque as an organ donator in Trois Riviveres, Quebec.

Her heart was donated to a man, he later wrote us a letter of thanks and gratitude. 

Her kidneys and liver went to three other people. 

And so, this is where Deanna’s story should end. Happily ever after.

NO!

Deanna had no family 

No one came for her in the morgue. We managed to find a far-off family member, they refused to acknowledge her as their kin. So, the Public Curators, her legal caretakers, told us that she would have a pauper’s burial.

NO WAY!

We resisted the public curator. It took three months, and too long for the maddening details. It is the outcome which is important;

they gave me custody of Deanna’s body.

6th September, 2014, Deanna had a small service and was cremated

She had a funeral memorial and then a special afternoon in her memory among friends.  

Marc was dashing in a new suit. An artist, Annie Sène was commissioned to paint a portrait of her, this was given to Marc.

He hung it above his bed. It still hangs there.

Deanna’s portrait by artist, Annie Sène. Photo: Alvaro Pacheco

Later, much later,

after everyone had gone home, I walked up the Boulevard St Laurent alone, with Deanna’s urn in my arms. I found a bar. I put her on the tabletop and drank pastis. We drew quite a crowd. 

I kept her with me at home on my daughter’s bedroom shelf till we finally buried Deanna at Marc’s parents home, in the Quebec country, under the bows of a willow tree, in a thicket at the edge of their woods, in a rosewood box.

Marc still rings me every month, without fail.

Deanna would often say to me, “Jeanne, I am a miracle child, I know that I came here to do something special.” She would lean into me; I never mocked her, I always believed her.

She was right.

So, if you have the chance, view CHEZ LISE.

Not for us, but for the memory of a very special lady…

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