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17 The End and the Almost-Fight Tío Juan enjoyed very good health. He was never sick a day in his life, was never in a hospital until his last illness, and still had all his own teeth when he died. His only malady was poor eyesight. A horse never threw him. He only suffered a broken bone when he was eighty-three; his hand was by the trailer gate when some cowboys rushed in a bull and slammed the gate, breaking the middle finger on his left hand. He was in his mid-eighties when he started having trouble with his vision. A trip to San Antonio to an eye specialist revealed that he suffered from macular degeneration . The macula, which is a covering on the inside and back of the eye, simply starts cracking like a piece of old film, causing spotty vision. Sometimes he could not see well; at other times he would shock us and comment on the pretty girl about 30 yards away. He could watch television and see and understand the entire show. When he took an eye exam upon renewing his driver’s license on his eighty-ninth birthday, he failed the test. They would not renew his license. One morning in January 1995, my ex-wife Cata and our helper Inocente were grooming Tío prior to getting him to the breakfast table, and on to his routine for the rest of the day. He suddenly fainted on the bed and was unconscious for several minutes. My wife called an ambulance, knowing that she could not get him into the car, even with the help of others. Juan was always a big man, and in his last year still weighed over 200 pounds. At the hospital in Laredo that evening, the doctor said that Tío suffered a minor cerebral stroke, and that he would require special The End and the Almost Fight 183 attention. He was in the hospital for a couple of weeks, and we had to make a very hard decision—that of taking him to a nursing home: a decision I regret to this day. He was in and out of the hospital and the nursing home for the next several months. The nursing home was grossly understaffed and overpopulated. His teeth were always dirty, they never groomed him, and his water pitcher was always empty. He required lotion on his hands and face and it was never applied, consequently his skin was always dry and scaly. No amount of complaining helped. If I had to do it all over again, we would have kept him at home and hired more people to take care of him. The last time I saw him alive was late in the afternoon, and he was lying quietly in his bed. He wasn’t talking much. I leaned over, kissed him on the forehead, and said “I love you,” and he responded , “I love you too.” That was the only time in our lives that we expressed our love for each other. The almost exact same thing happened to me with my mother. We expressed our love for each other on her deathbed. Why is that? Was it something cultural, or was it the era into which they were born? I never exchanged “I love you” endearments with my father. To the contrary, my ex-wife and I and our children say “I love you” to each other almost every time we talk. I am puzzled at why it was not always done in the past. I think it was the era; everyone was so busy trying to survive, they forgot to be emotional and loving, les faltaba cariño (they lacked love and tenderness). Several hours later, on June 22, 1995, I got a call at 2:00 a.m. from my cousin Margie telling me that the old cowboy was gone. My dear Tío Juan, who was born and grown before automobiles were invented; who saw the automobile take over transportation; who witnessed man’s landing on the moon; who marveled at new inventions, particularly PVC plastic pipes and the screwworm eradication program; who traveled the country doing what he loved best, roping calves, was finally gone at age ninety-four. I rushed to the hospital, and there his body was, lying on the bed. Margie was waiting for the funeral home staff to come and get him. It was so sad; the strong...

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