There are certain moments that you expect to change your life, those milestones that mark your memory like rest stops on a highway: high school graduations, sweet sixteens, bar mitzvahs, weddings. But there are other moments, the subtler, unexpected ones that come and go, and only later you realize how those very moments are forever etched into your mind. This moment was one of those.
It was my last night in the country. I had some time to kill before going out, so I went down to the lobby and sat with the building super and handyman. His name was Octavio, a seventy-something, rickety, wise-cracking viejito. He was taking a break, rocking gently in one of the ancient rockers. I sat next to him in a cracked pleather armchair with my journal, expecting to write some of my final thoughts. Instead, I asked Octavio an innocent question that snowballed into an hour-long exchange. It wasn't particularly dignified or eloquent, but our conversation changed everything for me.
"Are you happy?" I asked.
At first, he gave me a laundry list of reasons why despite the many hardships, life had been good to him: universal health care, free education for life, discounted housing, subsidized food. He explained how each had impacted his life and made an otherwise meager existence easier to bear.
But bit by bit, he transitioned into all of the things that weren't so wonderful.
"I make a pittance with this job--only one peso an hour [about US$0.04 at the time]. It's barely enough to live on, but what's worse is that everything I need to buy is in a different form of currency that makes everything much more expensive. I can't even afford to buy shoes. I've had this pair for years. I really wish I could get new ones. I can't afford to buy new clothes either, and I have to take really good care of the little I have. I haven't bought a new pair of pants in ages, and the ones I'm wearing are falling apart. I'm getting old and I have to take medicine and sometimes pain relievers, especially since I have a bad back. But simple things like aspirin are scarce or expensive, and most of the time, I just have to take the pain."
I nodded dutifully, biting my lip and trying to keep my face from falling. He went on:
"But you know, in the end, it's not all so bad. I get by, and I'm happy. The worst thing, the thing that really has made life unbearable, is that my wife died six months ago."
Before I could say the usual polite things you say in this situation, he pointed vaguely, his voice trembling, "Sometimes I forget she's gone...I can just see her standing over there, across the room." And with that, he burst into tears.
I'm not sure if you've ever seen an old man cry, but it's one of the most terrible things you can possibly see, much worse than a child or a woman crying. And so, of course, tears began to well in my eyes, and gradually poured down my face during the rest of his story.
We sat quietly for a moment, both weeping, and I broke the silence by telling him that my grandfather had just died a few months ago, and how hard it was for my grandma. Then he launched into the painful story of what happened to his wife, in his windy, circular Latin way (below is the very condensed version).
"She was getting headaches all the time, terrible, splitting migraines. She went to the doctor and they gave her some drugs for the pain but that was it. They said nothing was really wrong with her. A few more weeks went by, and she was still getting the headaches. I took her back to the doctor, and this time they ran more tests and they found something. She had a brain tumor--a malignant brain tumor. By then it had grown and it was too late. She died very soon after. There was nothing they could do."
I sighed through my tears and reached over to hold his withered hand.
"Our love was so pure, you know? We got so lucky, because were made for each other. We did everything together, everything. We had this mutual respect for each other that you don't always find, a respect for each other as human beings and as husband and wife. We always understood each other and we hardly ever fought. We were just perfect together.
It's funny, because we met so late in life. We were in our forties at the time, and we fell hopelessly in love and got married right away. We were married for 29 years when she died. She was 73. We could have had so much more time."
"I'm so sorry," I managed.
"It's been months, but I'm still heartbroken. When she died, I vowed that I'd never so much as look at another woman again. Every night before I go to sleep, and every morning when I wake up, I kiss her picture that I keep on my nightstand. I even left her blanket on the bed where it's always been. There will never be anyone like her, and I'll miss her every day for the rest of my life."
"But in the end, has life been good?" I ventured.
"Of course," he answered. "I had such a wonderful youth, and I enjoyed every minute of it, as much as I could. I went to school, and I had friends and girlfriends, and I'd go dancing and watch games, and life was good. Now I'm old, and God will take me when it's time. In the end, love has kept me alive. Despite the poverty and the scarcities and the constant struggles, love is the only thing that has ever really mattered, in the end."
When I recounted the conversation later that night in my journal, I wrote, "It's a kind of love I can't quite comprehend, but more than anything I can only hope to have someday. Maybe that's what keeps people here alive, united, surviving. Love."