Visiting an unwell person

During my winter vacation, I went to Peru with my grandmother (I refer to her as mama).  Unfortunately, she was only pleased when I hung out with her and her friends who were all people her age (she’s 80 years old). Because of her possessiveness, I was able to visit many elderly people who were quite sick. Each visit began with mama"s friends telling me I look exactly like my mother. This would be followed by “I haven’t seen you since you were this big! (motioning with there hands close to the ground).  Then finally, my grandmother would tell her friends a story about how much trouble she had getting me from the airport or another story that I had heard already. 

The visit that stuck out for me the most was when we went to see my tio Ricardo. When I had visited Peru in my younger ages, we always stayed at his house. I remember that tio Ricardo would always buy my brother and I Sublime’s (Peruvian chocolate), and often took my brother and I to the arcade and parks where we could release our childhood energy. I always thought of my tio Ricardo as a man of much strength and power. I began to think about some of the stories that my father told me about my mother's past. My uncle was one of my mother's guardians when she was younger and the only father figure she knew. He was often portrayed in these stories as a strong, strict man.

This visit to see my uncle was different from the many others. Mama now has an apartment not far from his in Miras Flores.  This time we stayed there instead of my tio Ricardo’s home. The last time I went to Peru was the summer before ninth grade. I went with my brother on a program called Visions.  We went with other high school students to the Andean highlands of Peru to build a school and brick ovens in a town called Urubamba. After our program ended we spent a week with mama in Lima.  At the time, she and tio Ricardo were in the midst of a feud, and visiting him was out of the question. They were on good terms before I visited this time, and she was eager to visit him, which we did on my second day in Peru. 

When we arrived his apartment, we rang his doorbell, and it took what seemed like forever for him to open the door. While we waited in the hallway of his apartment building for him to welcome us, I heard a cane tapping the floor and the sound of feet being dragged. Opening the door, his eyes gleamed at the sight of his sister and grand niece, and he embraced us both. I noticed that his hair was as white as I saw it last, but everything else was different. His cheekbones stuck out, eyes sunk in, and his skin yellowed. His pants hung loosely on his legs, and it appeared as though he had lost about 30 pounds since the last photo I saw of him, which was not that long ago. When he put his arms around me, I could feel the bones beneath his shirt and I was sure that he had become frail, and I grew uncomfortable.

 What surprised me most about seeing my uncle was his isolation. Although he had family and friends throughout Lima, and a wife that he was estrange from, at the age of 86, my tio Ricardo lived alone. His isolation seemed to add to his vulnerability. I imagined that on days when he felt tired or weak, there was no one there to cook him a meal or even bring him water. I also thought that if he were lonely and wanted to speak with someone, he wouldn't have anyone to share it with. Unlike Morrie, who was surrounded with people during the last years and months of his life, my tio Ricardo lives alone and keeps his suffering to himself. 

My grandmother bought him a large box of See’s famous chocolate. He smiled and told her that he was thankful, but he’d hardly started the one she brought him months before. I had trouble understanding him when he spoke. At first i thought it might be my Spanish, but then I realized that his words were slurred. This might have been due to the teeth that were missing from his mouth or the medication that he had been taking. He sat on his couch, and I consciously choose to sit across from him while mama sat at his side. Mama was in mid sentence of telling my tio about her favorite show- Doctor Phil, when she abruptly excused herself to use the bathroom. My uncle looked at me and motioned for me to sit next to him. I walked over to the couch where he sat, and it was then that I noticed he was almost blind. I hadn’t brought my glasses with me that day and so I wasn’t able to absorb in full detail my uncle’s condition. He asked me to bring my face close to his, and I followed his instructions. “Pareces igualito como to mama!” He said, and then kissed me on my cheek and began to cry. His hand reached up into his sweater, and he pulled out a napkin. “Es mi culpa.” My arms touched his shoulders as he continued to cry, and tears began to slip out of my eyes. He repeated my mother's name, “Patricia, Patricia.” When mama returned from the bathroom, she noticed our tears, and handed us tissues while my uncle wrapped up our session. “Entonces, a donde van a almozar?” he asked where we were going to eat. I excused myself and walked out over to the balcony. Down below I saw miniature Nasca lines in the park, where children ran, trying to find their way back to their mothers.

I shot some photos and then returned to the room where they continued to speak about food. The conversation went on, even though my uncle didn’t eat much these days. When it was time to leave, my uncle made no promise of seeing me soon. He embraced me once again right before I entered the elevator and I said "Cuidate". He smiled and walked back to his apartment.

I realized during my brief visit with my uncle that I was overwhelmed with sorrow for him because his isolation seemed to add to his suffering. It also made me think about how different Morrie's last months of his life were because he was surrounded by family and friends. Maybe it was this social support that made it possible for Morrie to be so accepting of his death. At least in his last days, he had the comfort of others and knew he was loved and appreciated.