A homely maid-nurse named Virgie had been attending to my uncle’s needs, from feeding him, to washing him, to encouraging him, to masquerading as his longed-for restorative angel. In a nutshell, Virgie’s assistance was indispensable in easing my uncle’s torment.
His health had deteriorated to the point where he could not roll his body off its side by himself; Virgie would have to assist him in moving over or in sitting up. He also required a bedpan as he could not stand up to reach the bathroom before his bladder kicked into high gear. The ability to eat on his own had been ripped away from him as well for he couldn’t control his hands, the hands of incessant action that had shaken so many other hands, that had patted so many backs, that had held and lighted so many cigarettes, that had held so many drinks, that had shuffled so many mahjongg blocks, that had made so many passionate gestures for a variety of equally passionate purposes. These were the hands that had caressed his darling children and so many, many, many women. These hands, which had facilitated pleasure at every turn for him, were now useless accessories attached to his incapacitated body.
I watched his lunch, consisting of arrozcaldo, a steaming rice-soup mixture, being spoon-fed to him by Virgie. As he was being fed, his soup dribbled down the bib that she tied around his neck. The soup-dribbling was just another instance of my uncle’s pride being infringed upon, causing his shame to rise. But there was nothing he could do about it now for the law of nature was being imposed on him, the law stating that the heady, careless days of youth must give way to the winter of life.
What was killing him was the sense that he was losing ground no matter how hard he tried not to. It was the overpowering sense that he was finished, that there was no meaning left in his life but the guarantee of continued suffering. Uncle had reverted to being a delicate child, only being able to peer at people and things and conditions without understanding them. It was as if his life had completed its biological round only to start the passage at the beginning again. But that was just an illusion: my uncle was reaching the end point of his life’s journey, a journey from which there would be no return. The signposts of oblivion were becoming more distinct to him now. In a fit of delirium he imagined himself like Christ near his own death, feasting at his last supper. He simply substituted the breaking of the bread with the slurping of the arrozcaldo.
The onslaught of the cancer had restricted much of his bodily functions with one glaring exception: he could still cry.
The scene I was witnessing unsettled me, for I had never seen my uncle cry for any reason. His narcissistic masculinity had always been present, thus blocking any onset of tears that would besmirch his manhood. Now, he was frozen in a undeviating state of vulnerability, his manhood deeply-offended, his pride whittled away. This caused a rift between his patriarchical heritage and his ability to show the world that he was still every bit a man, virile, unafraid, and immutable.
Virgie tried to perk up his spirits with the fiction that the cancer would be allayed by the best effects that chemotherapy and radiation could offer. With the current technologies available, she assured him at least ten more good years on this earth. Nevertheless, he saw through the well-meant fabrication and continued his grieving unabated. For much of the eight hours I spent with my uncle during what turned out to be the last time I would ever see him alive again, he cried in a way that revealed in all of its despondency a wave of contrition that sent any heart into a tailspin.
