When Ricardo Died

Just before we hung up, my mother added, “Oh, I didn’t’ tell you did I?” 
“Tell me what?”
“That Ricardo died.”
“Oh no,” I said.  “Uncle Ricardo?”
“Yes, he had that Parkinson’s for a long time.  Sylvia said he passed away on Thursday.”
“Last Thursday?”
“She said he went peacefully.”
I thought about what this meant.  Of all the Mexican relatives I’d met, my Uncle Ricardo struck me as the most placid, nodding smiling, “Ah, aqui.  Bueno, bueno.”  I felt a momentary pang of something like guilt, that I had remained so distant to him.  To all of them.
“Dad always loved Uncle Ricardo.”
“Well of course he did.  They were brothers.”
“No, I mean he really loved him.  Remember how he said he used to go hungry so Uncle Ricardo would have more to eat?” 
“Wouldn’t you give your food to your brother?”
“Which one?”
“Very funny.”
“I think I would,” I answered slowly, “But you never know.  I mean, I’ve never been that hungry before.”
“Hmm,” she sniffed.  She didn’t understand
“So, I guess the family was all around him when he died?”   
“Sylvia said they all got a chance to say goodbye.  And one more thing…”
“What?”
“Well, she said Dad was there.   She said he talked to Ricardo at great length, before he died.”
“He did?”
“Um hum.”  A pause.  “Sylvia said the last two weeks, before he died he had many long conversations with him, as if he was right there, in the room.”
A picture of my uncle, swathed in the white sheets that my Aunt Allodia hung in the sun to dry, lying comfortably in his bed, smiling at the air, nodding and gesturing in agreement, drifted into my mind.  “That sounds right.”
“It does.”  I heard my mother nod and smile.  Shortly after she hung up.
My father died fifteen years ago.  Ricardo was his little brother.  When they were children, on the migrant circuit, he often gave his beans to Ricardo, who was always complained of being hungry.  My father looked out for those in need.  Especially children.  Especially family.  Of course he would have taken his little brother to heaven.  He was still looking out for him.

The Power Of Prayer

Prayer had always been our ally and, like anyone who is destined to become a bosom friend, after being introduced, it was warmly welcomed and then finally honored, first by my parents and then by each member of our family.  Prayer comforted us, gave us hope and reassured us that eventually we would all find the peace for which we secretly longed. Most dramatically to me, prayer saved my father’s life.  Besides allowing him to survive the horrors of World War II, I was aware of at least three times that it prevented his death, and one time when it did even more.

 The first time prayer granted him mercy  Jesus Almendarez was a little child.  He and all his siblings contracted mastitis. There was no doctor, nor was there a cure. Even if such things had existed, neither would have been available on their rambling hacienda; so remote was the house, so impenetrable their suspicions. 
Mama Trina lit candles.  She fought for her children’s lives on her knees.  For endless weeks she cried, prayed, pressed damp cloths against hot foreheads, held water to parched lips.  At the end, death took only one.  My father never stopped grieving for his little sister, constantly reminded of her by the wide brown eyes and long braids of my own sister, Bell.

When I was fourteen, my father was diagnosed with cancer of the lymph nodes. He hid this from all but Mum. It was deemed too upsetting for us children to understand so we were protected from the truth with silence and a smile. He was told to have his affairs in order by Christmas of that year.  It was already September.
Years later it was a fable we retold with a sense of awe:

“I remember he saw a doctor about a pain under his arm.” I sat on a yellow tin drum in the kitchen, where we stored sacks of flour and sugar so the mice couldn’t get at them.  I was watching Mum make tortillas.  “And then Grandpa died.  I thought the big thing about that fall was Grandpa’s funeral and the fact that it was scheduled on the same day Dad was supposed to have his wisdom teeth out, so he couldn’t take any Novocain or painkillers or anything. Because he had to drive you to the funeral. Was that hard for you, when Grandpa died?”
Mum brushed the flour off her hands.  “Well, of course it’s always sad when someone dies, but remember, Grandpa had been in a coma for three days already, so it was really more of a blessing.” 
I nodded. 
“And you know Dad.  He never did like pain killers.”
“Not even for wisdom teeth?”
Mum gave me a look.  “Not for anything.  And then, his oncologist was all in favor of natural remedies.  When I asked him what we could possibly do to prolong Dad’s life, that young doctor hesitated to tell us.”  Here Mum scratched her face, leaving traces of flour on her chin.  “He said, ‘I don’t have any documented evidence to support this, but I’ve noticed that people who exercise on a regular basis tend to do better than those who don’t.  Nothing too strenuous. Try walking a couple of miles a day.’”  Mum rolled the soft dough into little balls.  “So we both started walking a couple of miles a day.”
“And then you made your novena,” I prompted her. 
“Oh yes,” Mum nodded happily.  “I thought, what can I do to help?  Of course there was only one thing, well, two if you count the sacrifice.”
My mother was still making that novena, still sacrificing. 

A novena is a nine-day prayer routine combined with a personal sacrifice, to petition the Lord and demonstrate one’s sincerity—like nine days of Lent, with a prayer. I had made novenas before, giving up dessert, television.  But Mum was serious.  She gave up eating sweets—any and all—not just dessert, but even donuts and milkshakes and gum, for the nine days of the novena and then, in a dramatic gesture meant to prove the depth of her earnestness; she added the rest of her life.
The cancer disappeared.    
Now, one might say it went into remission, but back then, for us, it was nothing less than a miracle. 
Afterwards, any time Dad made Mum angry, she’d put her hands on her hips and retort, “You better watch it, Buster!  I just might be in the mood for something sweet!”  Dad always laughed and hugged her. He gave her the credit for saving his life, but he kept up the daily walks, just the same.

My father’s final brush with death was the realization of his worst nightmare:  a heart attack.
All my life I heard my father ask, “How’s my ticker?”  Mum would put her ear to his chest, brow furrowed in an effort to listen more closely to his heartbeat. 
“Sound’s fine,” she’d always reply.  He’d exhale, nod, and go on with whatever he was doing.
It happened at the high school, when he was teaching.  He said something didn’t feel right. When the chest pain started, he went to see the school nurse, who sent him to the hospital, just to be on the safe side.  I could imagine my father’s chagrin at all the commotion, the attention.  The episode was diagnosed as a heart attack.  He was in the hospital for only two weeks, but it took him two years to fully recover from the depression that gripped him as a result.
We children were all grown by then, some married, all working. Only Miguel still lived at home. He was fifteen--geeky, quiet, afraid. Mum said he felt abandoned by everyone, but what could we do?  They had to live our own lives, didn’t we?
So I started going home for an overnight, once a week.  I thought I could crowd out the fear with laughter, memories of how it used to be.  Mum always made one of my favorites--pinto beans or big chunks of roast beef in gravy, and tortillas, always stacks and stacks of hot fluffy tortillas. Miguel and I would tease each other and crack jokes until we were all laughing like crazy and the little house would be light and gay once more.  But every time I left, I felt the tiniest bit of desperation creep back in.
“I’ll be back next Thursday, promise.  And Mum, want some bagels from Squirrel Hill?  Which kind did you like?  Rye? How about you, Miguel?”
“I don’t care,” he’d mumble, but he brightened at the prospect.
“Why don’t you see if Joaquin is coming out this way next week?” Dad suggested.  “He’d be glad to give you a ride. I hate you taking a bus all this way!”
“That’s okay, Dad. It gives me time to read.”  I kissed him and turned around.  I’d pretend not to notice him blessing me as I walked up the hill to his spotless station wagon.  I never let on that I came home to cheer him, to try to get between my father and his depression. I think he would have been surprised that I knew.

So it shouldn't have come as a complete shock when my father was handed another death sentence ten years later, but who is ever prepared for the word “cancer”?
He was getting a routine heart checkup, when his doctors accidentally noticed a growth on his lung. It was the size of a baseball--probably had been growing for years. Dad checked into the hospital.
That night we all gathered in his semi-private room.  Everyone had that rumpled, slightly sweaty look that came of being in the same clothes all day, having arrived straight from work or school. It was nearing the end of visiting hours; a rule like any other, to which our family would rigidly adhere, when a doctor we hadn’t met marched into the room. 
Dad’s regular doctor was young and kind, seemingly baffled at how healthy he always appeared. This doctor was older and so tall, he walked with his head hunched down, like a turtle. He glanced at Dad’s chart and without so much as a sympathetic look or even an introduction, he barked, “We can do chemo, but there really isn’t any point now. I’ll recommend we start with radiation.  See if we can’t shrink your tumor.  Looks inoperable, the way it is.”
We were stunned. It was the first time anyone suggested we were up against a malignancy.
“Doctor, when you say ‘tumor’,” Joaquin began.
The doctor grew impatient. “It’s cancer.”  He stared hard from one face to the next, annoyed that no one grasped the seriousness of the situation. Not one of us would meet his gaze until he got to Dad, whose deep soulful eyes were regarding him with something like pity. “Look,” the doctor snapped, “Your tumor is too big and too dangerously positioned to make removal feasible. We’ll try shrinking it with radiation.  Chemotherapy will only cause you more discomfort and most likely, not prolong your life significantly.”
Dad just bowed his head and nodded. Mum took his hand.
My ears were ringing and I couldn’t see. What a jerk, I thought.  The doctor strode out of the room. “What the hell is his problem?”
“Now, honey,” Dad said.  “He’s just doing his job.”
Mum blinked at the swinging door.  “We took that trip to Mexico, the pilgrimage, remember?”  She had found a shrine in Mexico that was guaranteed to bestow upon believers anything that they requested, as long as two or more people prayed for the same thing.  Dad had been through so much—she’d taken him there to restore his health once and for all.  “I thought certainly—“
Dad smiled and patted Mum’s hand.  “I’m sorry, honey.”
“You mean, you didn’t ask for a cure?”
He shook his head. “I asked for something I thought I needed more.” 
He took Mum aside, never letting go of her hand.  They talked quietly for a few minutes, until the voice over the intercom commanded all visitors to leave. I watched helplessly as my family lined up, hugged Dad and exited his room. I followed.  When I looked back, Dad was standing in the doorway with his arm raised, two fingers extended in a blessing.

“Mum,” I ventured, as we trailed down the shiny hallway. “What did Dad ask for, when you guys went to the shrine?”
“Oh,” She sounded tired. “The spirit of forgiveness.  He says he’s finally able to forgive all those gringos who were so mean to him and his brothers and sisters when they were growing up.”
“And what did you pray for?”

           

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