ANDREA, MY GRANDDAUGHTER, WAS BORN IN OUR TV ROOM, ON ONE of the first warm days of spring. Celia and Nicolás’s apartment is on the third floor, and has no elevator, so it isn’t practical in case of an emergency, and that’s why they chose our ground floor as the place to bring the baby into the world, in a large, much lived-in room with windows opening onto the terrace; on clear days you can see the three Bay bridges and at night the lights of Berkeley twinkle from across the water. Celia has adjusted so well to the California lifestyle that she decided to carry The Music of the Universe to its ultimate conclusion, bypassing hospital and physicians to give birth among her family. Her first pains began at midnight; at dawn, her water burst and, soon after, she and Nicolás appeared at our house. They arrived with the dazed air of victims of a natural catastrophe, in bedroom slippers, carrying a worn black bag containing necessary belongings, and Alejandro, still half asleep and in his pajamas. He had no idea that within a few hours he would have to share his space with a little sister and that his totalitarian reign as only child and grandchild was about to end. Two hours later, the midwife arrived, a young woman willing to run the risk of working in private homes, driving a station wagon packed with the instruments of her trade and dressed like a hiker in shorts and Keds. She fit into the family routine so easily that soon she was in the kitchen helping Willie prepare breakfast. In the meantime, Celia was walking back and forth, leaning on Nicolás, never losing her calm, taking short breaths when she doubled over with pain, and resting when the small being in her womb gave her a brief respite. My daughter-in-law carries in her veins secret songs that mark the rhythm of her steps as she walks; during the contractions, she panted and rocked back and forth as if listening to an irresistible, internal Venezuelan drumbeat. Toward the end, I thought that occasionally she made fists of her hands and a flash of terror passed through her eyes, but immediately her husband made her look straight at him, and whispered something in the private code of husband and wife, and her tension eased. That was how time went by, vertiginously for me and all too slowly for the one bearing this ordeal without complaint, tranquilizer, or anesthesia. Nicolás supported her; my humble participation consisted of offering crushed ice and apple juice, and Willie’s of entertaining Alejandro, while from a prudent distance the midwife followed developments without intervening. I couldn’t help remember my own experience when Nicolás was born—so different from this. From the instant I crossed the threshold of the hospital, I lost my sense of identity and became a number, not someone with a name. They took my clothes, handed me a gown that opened in the back, and assigned me an isolated room where I was subjected to additional humiliations and then left alone. From time to time someone explored between my legs; my body had become a single throbbing, pain-filled cavern. I spent a day, a night, and a good part of the next day in labor, exhausted and frightened nearly to death, until finally someone announced that the big moment was approaching and I was taken to a delivery room. Flat on my back on a metal table, my bones turned to ash, blinded by lights, I gave myself to the suffering. I had nothing to do with anything now, the baby was struggling to come out and my hips opened to help without any intervention of will. Everything I had learned in manuals and courses was forgotten. There comes a moment when the journey begun cannot be halted; we roll toward a frontier, pass through a mysterious door, and wake on the other side in a different life: the child enters the world, and the mother a different state of consciousness, neither of the two will ever be the same. With Nicolás, I was initiated into the universe of woman, the previous cesarean had deprived me of the rite only female mammals share. The joyful process of engendering a child, the patience of gestation, the fortitude to bring it into life, and the feeling of profound amazement with which everything culminates can be compared only to creating a book. Children, like books, are voyages into one’s inner self, during which body, mind, and soul shift course and turn toward the very center of existence.
The climate of tranquil joy that reigned in our house when Andrea was born bore no resemblance to my anguish in that delivery room twenty-five years earlier. By midafternoon, Celia made a sign; Nicolás helped her climb onto the bed and in less than a minute the apparatus and instruments the midwife carried in her station wagon materialized in the room. That girl in shorts seemed suddenly to mature; her tone of voice changed and millennia of female experience were reflected in her freckled face. “Wash your hands and be ready,” she told me with a wink. “Now it’s your turn to work.” Celia put her arms around her husband, gritted her teeth, and pushed. And then, on a surging wave of blood, emerged a flattened, purplish face and a head covered with dark hair, which I held like a chalice with one hand while with the other I quickly unlooped the bluish cord wrapped around the baby’s neck. With another brutal push from the mother, the rest of my granddaughter’s body appeared, a blood-washed, fragile package: a most extraordinary gift. With a primeval sob, I felt in the core of my being the sacred experience of birth—the effort, the pain, the panic—and, gratefully, I marveled at my daughter-in-law’s heroic courage and the prodigy of her solid body and noble spirit, designed for motherhood. Through a veil, I seemed to see a rapturous Nicolás, who took the baby from my hands and placed her on her mother’s belly. Celia rose up from among her pillows, panting, dripping with sweat, transformed by inner light and, completely indifferent to the remainder of her body, which continued contracting and bleeding, she folded her arms about her daughter and welcomed her with a waterfall of words in a newly coined language, kissing and nuzzling her as every mammalian mother does, then offered the baby her breast in the most ancient gesture of humankind. Time congealed in the room, and the sun stopped above the roses on the terrace; the world was holding its breath to celebrate the miracle of that new life. The midwife handed me scissors; I cut the umbilical cord, and Andrea began a destiny separate from her mother’s. Where did this small wonder come from? Where had she been before she was conceived in Celia’s womb? I have a thousand questions to ask her, but I fear that by the time she can answer she will have forgotten what heaven was like. . . . Silence before being born, silence after death: life is nothing but noise between two unfathomable silences.
Paula spent a month in the rehabilitation clinic; they examined her inside and out and when they had finished gave us a devastating report. Michael had come from Chile, and Ernesto was there, too, on special leave from his job. He had succeeded in being transferred to New York, so that at least we were in the same country, six hours away in case of emergency and within easy reach by telephone any time we were overcome with sadness. He had not seen his wife since our nightmarish trip from Madrid and, in spite of my having kept him informed in minute detail, he was visibly affected when he found Paula looking so beautiful, and so much more absent. This man is like those trees that survive hurricane winds, he bends but doesn’t break. He arrived with presents for Paula, rushed into her room, put his arms around her, and kissed her, murmuring how much he had missed her and how pretty she looked, as she stared staight ahead, her large eyes like a doll’s, totally devoid of light. Later, Ernesto lay beside her to show her photographs from their honeymoon and recall happy times from last year; finally, they both slept, like any normal couple at siesta time. I pray he will meet some healthy woman with a gentle soul like Paula’s, and be happy, far away from here; he should not be bound to someone so ill for the rest of his life, but it isn’t time to talk about this yet, it’s too soon. The physicians and therapists who treated Paula called the family together and gave us their verdict: her level of consciousness is nil, there have been no signs of change during these four weeks, they have not been able to establish communication with her, and it is realistic to expect that she will continue to deteriorate. She will never speak or be able to swallow, she will not be able to move of her own volition, and it is doubtful she will ever recognize anyone. Rehabilitation is out of the question, but she must have exercises to maintain flexibility. Their final recommendation was that we place her
in an institution for people in her condition, because she will require permanent care and cannot be left alone, not even for a minute. A long silence followed the last words of the report. On the other side of the table sat Nicolás and Celia, holding their children, and Ernesto, with his head in his hands.
“It is important to decide what should be done in a case of pneumonia, say, or some serious infection. Will you opt for aggressive treatment?” asked one of the doctors.
None of us understood what he was saying.
“If massive doses of antibiotics are administered, or if she is placed in intensive care every time there is a crisis, she can live many more years. Without treatment, she will die sooner,” he explained.
Ernesto lifted his head and our eyes met. I also looked at Nicolás and Celia and, without hesitating or consulting, each of the three made the same sign. “Paula will not be taken back to the intensive care unit, nor will we have her tortured with further blood transfusions, drugs, or painful tests. If her condition is serious, we will be at her side to help her die,” I said, with a voice so firm I could not recognize it as mine.
Michael left the room, completely undone, and a few days later returned to Chile. In that instant it became clear that my daughter was being returned to my arms, and it would be I and I alone who assumed responsibility for her life and made decisions at the moment of her death. The two of us, together and alone, as on the day of her birth. I felt a wave of strength surge through my body like an electric current, and realized that the travails of my long road had been a cruel preparation for this test. I am not defeated, there is still much I can do. Western medicine is not the only alternative in these cases, I shall knock at other doors and resort to other methods, including the most improbable, to save my daughter. From the beginning, I planned to take Paula home, and so during the month she was in the clinic, I had watched how they cared for her and how they used the physiotherapy equipment. Within three days, I obtained everything we needed, including a hospital bed with a lift, and hired four women from Central America to help me with day and night shifts. I interviewed fifteen applicants and chose the four who seemed the most loving, because we have passed the stage for efficiency and are entering the stage of love. Each of the women carries the burden of a tragedy, but none has lost her motherly smile. One of them has knife scars on her arms and legs; her husband was murdered in El Salvador and she was left for dead in a pool of blood, with her three small children. Somehow, she dragged herself to where she could get help, and shortly afterward escaped the country, leaving her children with their grandmother. Another of the women is from Nicaragua; she has not seen her five children in many years but she is planning to bring them here, one by one; she works and saves every penny in order to be reunited with them one day. The first floor of our house had been turned into Paula’s kingdom, but it is still the family room, too, where we have our television and music and the children’s games. It was in this room that Andrea was born only a week ago, and her aunt will be living here for as long as she wants to remain in this world. Summer’s geraniums are visible through the windows, and roses in wheelbarrows, loyal companions through many rough times. Nicolás painted the walls white, and we have surrounded Paula’s bed with photographs of relatives and friends from happy years, and set her rag doll on a shelf. There is no way to disguise the huge machines she needs, but at least the room is more welcoming than the hospital rooms where she has lived in recent months. On that sunny morning my daughter arrived in the ambulance, the house seemed to open happily to welcome her. For the first half hour, everything was activity, noise, and busyness, but suddenly everything had been accomplished: Paula was installed in her bed and we began our routines; the family went their various ways, leaving the two of us alone, and then I felt the silence and calm of the house in repose. I sat beside Paula and took her hand as time ticked slowly by. As the hours passed I watched the colors of the Bay change, and then the sun was gone and June’s late darkness began to fall. A large tortoise-shell cat I had never seen before jumped in through the open window, made a few turns around the room, familiarizing herself with the layout, and then leapt onto the bed and lay at Paula’s feet. She likes cats, perhaps she called this one with her thoughts to keep her company. The hectic pace of life has ended for me, I am moving to Paula’s rhythm, time is still on the clocks. Nothing to do. I have days, weeks, years beside my daughter’s bed, hours to spend without knowing what to expect. I do know that Paula will never be the person she was before; her mind has gone God knows where, but her body and her spirit are here. Paula’s intelligence was her most striking characteristic, it was at second glance that her goodness was revealed; it is so hard for me to imagine that such a gifted brain is reduced to a black cloud on an X-ray screen, that her bent for study, her sense of humor, her memory for the smallest details are gone forever. She is like a plant, the doctors said. The cat can entice me to give her food and let her sleep on the bed, but Paula doesn’t recognize me and cannot even squeeze my hand to indicate what she wants. I have tried to teach her to blink, one for yes, two for no, but it is a fruitless effort. At least she is here with me now, safe in this house, with all of us protecting her. She will not be troubled again with needles and probes; from now on, she will know only caresses, music, and flowers. My task is to keep her body healthy and to prevent pain so that her spirit will have peace in which to fulfill the remainder of its mission on earth. Silence. There are hours and hours for doing nothing. I become aware of my body, of my breathing, of the way my weight is distributed in the chair, of how my spinal column supports me and my muscles obey my desires. I decide I want a drink of water, and my arm moves to pick up the glass with the precise force and velocity; I drink, and I feel the movements of my tongue and lips, the fresh taste in my mouth, the cold liquid going down my throat. My poor daughter can do none of that; if she wants to drink she cannot ask, she must wait until someone else divines her need and comes to squirt water from a syringe into the tube in her stomach. She does not feel the relief of thirst satisfied, her lips are always dry; I can barely moisten them because if I wet them the liquid can go into her lungs. Stalled . . . the two of us are stalled within this brutal parenthesis. My friends have recommended a Dr. Cheri Forrester, who is experienced with terminal patients and known for her compassion; I called her and, to my surprise, she had read my books and will come to see Paula here in the house. She is a small and soft young woman with dark eyes and an intense expression, who said hello with a hug and listened with an open heart to my story of what has happened.
“What do you want me to do?” she asked finally, tears in her eyes.
“Help me keep Paula healthy and comfortable, help at the moment of her death, and help in seeking other avenues of treatment. I know that traditional doctors can’t do anything for her, I’m going to try alternative medicine: healers, plants, homeopathy, everything I can find.”
“That is just what I would do if she were my daughter, but you should set a time limit for these experiments. You can’t live on wishful thinking, and things here don’t come cheaply. Paula could remain in this condition for many years, so you must husband your strength and your resources with care.”
“How long, then?”
“Let’s say three months. If in that period of time there are no appreciable results, you stop trying.”
“All right.”
She introduced me to Dr. Miki Shima, a colorful Japanese acupuncturist whom I am saving to be a character in a novel, that is, if I ever write fiction again. The word spread quickly, and soon I had a parade of unconventional practitioners offering their services: one who sells magnetic mattresses for energy, a hypnotist who tapes stories from end to beginning and plays them to Paula on earphones, a holy woman from India who incarnates the Universal Mother, an Apache who combines the wisdom of his great-grandfathers with the power of crystals, and an astrologer who sees the future, but in visions so confused they can be interpreted in contradictory ways. I listen to al
l of them, at the same time trying not to disturb Paula’s comfort. I also made a pilgrimage to a famous psychic in Utah, a man with dyed hair and an office filled with stuffed animals, who, without moving from his home, examined Paula with his third eye. He recommended a combination of powders and drops quite complicated to administer, but Nicolás, who is very skeptical about such things, compared the ingredients with a bottle of Centrum, an everyday multivitamin tablet, and found they were almost identical. None of these strange doctors has promised to restore my daughter’s health, but perhaps they can improve the quality of her days and achieve some form of communication. The healers also offer me their prayers and natural remedies; one of them sent for holy water from a sacred spring in Mexico, and sprinkles it with such faith that maybe a miracle will happen. Dr. Shima comes each week and lifts our spirits; he examines Paula carefully, places his slender needles in her ears and feet, and prescribes homeopathic remedies. From time to time he strokes her hair as if she were his daughter, and his eyes fill with tears. “She’s so pretty,” he says. “If we can keep her healthy, maybe science will find a way to renew damaged cells, even transplant brains. Why not?” “No way, Doctor,” I reply. “No one is going to conduct Frankenstein experiments on Paula.” For me, he brought Oriental herbs which translate as, “For sadness provoked by grief or loss of love,” and I suppose it is thanks to them that I continue to function with relative normality. Dr. Forrester observes all this with sadness. Maybe she also prays for a miracle. This kind woman has become a friend. She seems concerned about my health, too; she finds me depressed and drained, and has prescribed sleeping pills, warning me not to take more than one because they can be fatal.
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