Monday, September 9, was Chemo’s 19th birthday, but we spent most of the day watching Guillermo die.
His timing was perfect; he lived to celebrate the wedding on Saturday of his son Isaac, big celebration back at the house, full of guests, Guillermo, though bed-ridden, beaming. Out-of-towners left on Sunday, only to get urgent calls early Monday from Erlinda, Guillermo’s wife, that the end was near. Everybody headed back “home,” some arriving from San Pedro Sula on the late bus about 8:30 p.m., minutes before Guillermo breathed his last, just time for an intense farewell. He died surrounded by most of his 12 children (Dunia lives in Spain), and their children, and in-laws.
Let’s back up a little, because this news must come as a shock after Guillermo’s “miracle” operation for stomach cancer that seemed to set him firmly on the path to full recovery. But follow-up evaluation and treatment were delayed for weeks by his doctor’s “vacation.” No one here noticed! Guillermo was happy as a lark; he even started preaching again on Sundays in Paraiso. When he finally did “check in,” the doctor panicked or something and huge bouts of radiation and then chemo were begun. Were they making up for lost time? No one ever saw a crowded schedule like this, especially for someone supposedly “cancer-free.” Almost 40 days of radiation (and you could see the blackened patch on his back where the radiation burned through), tailing into chemo gone wild. Erlinda says they overdosed on the chemo; after 4 treatments in a row, with Guillermo weak but still talking, walking, and eating, somebody apparently misunderstood the regimen and ordered another round of 4 chemos right away. But Erlinda is not blaming anybody. “It was meant to be.” That’s just what my former student, now Dr. Justin Diedrich, told me his grandmother used to say in Yiddish: “b’shert.”
So Guillermo came home too weak to do anything but throw up, as I reported in the last CASA. A brief respite came when I finally found the absurdly expensive “Modifical” that had been prescribed. (I can’t imagine many Hondurans without fantastic friends like you who could even afford such a thing!) After just two of the tiniest pills you ever saw, Guillermo’s stomach calmed, he slept 14 hours straight, and awoke with a smile--and an appetite, ready for the wedding of his son. But I guess it was too little too late. After the glow of the wedding, the darkness. Erlinda was his--and our--light throughout. No hysterics for her, her faith measured in service as she prepared us lunch during the death-watch, and later coffee and rolls. With help, of course. You know how people will say, “If there’s anything I can do....” Well, here, no one asks that question: they just DO.
In his very last moments, such a crowd around Guillermo, all I could see were his toes, twitching little flashes of life, till they finally stilled, like Tom Hanks’ nervous hand in “Saving Private Ryan.” Then the cry went up, a howling and screaming, a couple faintings, desperate hugs, a swirl of bodies. I’m lost in a tumble of thoughts myself, when Erlinda calmly makes her way over to me: “Miguel, we need your chairs.” Duh! I should have thought of that myself! The same chairs I had just loaned for the overflow crowd at the church two days before. (Actually, 11 couples united in that grand Mass.)
As folks settled in the for all-night wake, a celebración was planned, scripture readings, preaching, etc. Again Erlinda: “We’re going to sing, aren’t we? Guillermo had so many songs he loved.” And she started ticking them off by number from the hymnal. Well, Guillermo couldn’t carry a tune, but he did love to sing. Now he’s an angel, in the heavenly choir.
Love, Miguel
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