We’re walking back to his office from the hospital. It’s hot; the stretch of Ejercito Nacional where the hospital is has few trees, and no shade at 4 in the afternoon. The sun reflects off of the plywood wall that has been erected to block off the construction site on the other side. We are both sweating, even Mario under his sweater. We always hold hands as we walk, but not today. Too sweaty. She sees us from 20 feet away, and greets us both enthusiastically: “How are you? Are you back in Mexico permanently? Mario, you’re so thin! Congratulations.” We used to work together, all three of us, a long time ago. She remembers Mario 10 or 15 kilos heavier – it’s always been hard for him to lose weight, until now. We walk in silence after we say goodbye to our friend.
We’re in the elevator, on the way home. Two coworkers are in the elevator with us; “You look thin,” one says to Mario. “I’ve been working out,” he replies, like it’s nothing, with a smile. “Looking good,” the other replies. Mario smiles, he says thank you. He says good bye with a handshake and a slap on the back as the other gets out of the elevator. The doors close and Mario turns to me. “Sometimes it’s so hard to keep smiling,” he says. He hangs his head, dropping it onto my shoulder, and I put my arms around his shoulders and neck, and massage the back of his head, and say, “my poor darling.”
What else could I possibly say? This is something I say a lot these days. When we are at home, and he falls asleep in the overstuffed chair in front of the television while watching a soccer game. When I walk into our room and find him laying on the bed, pale, lacking either the will or the strength to drag himself up – I can’t tell which. I sit on the bed and stroke his forehead. Every day he is paler. His shoulders are narrower, his arms are thinner. My poor darling.
We are leaving the hospital. I ask if he has completed the radiation – if he resisted the urge to run away from the blue corridor. He says yes, “barely.” I look at his face and I realize that he is not joking, he does not smile and his expression is completely serious. “We aren’t supposed to be here,” he says then. “You mean you’re not supposed to be sick?” “Yes. It’s not fair.”
No, it is not fair. But life is not fair sometimes. Sometimes things just happen. Sometimes bad things happen, a lot of bad things, to good people who have no idea what they’ve done to deserve this punishment. But the things that happen in life aren’t supposed to be fair, or unfair, they’re not intended to be a punishment, they just ARE and we’re left with one option only: to cope any way we can.
So I say, “poor darling,” and I wrap my arms around him and I wish with all my heart that I could make it go away, somehow protect him from all of the hurt. I make lunch every day, I take it to the hospital, I wait on the black pleather chairs for him to emerge from the blue corridor. I stay nearby in the afternoon, just in case, and then we drive home together. I make quesadillas for dinner and tell him how proud I am when he manages to finish 2, with no hunger and in spite of the nausea. I stand in the kitchen, eating ice cream from the carton, and I suddenly realize how hard it must be for him to face this with a smile – the symptoms of his treatments are becoming more apparent, and friends who think they are being supportive congratulate him for it – and my heart breaks a little more.
Rose
February 22, 2017