Flowers for Armando - short story

I find it difficult to believe but tonight is the first anniversary of morialekafa. I have written this blog almost every night since my first essay, "On Deodorant." There have been 37 rather curmudgeonaly essays, 11 short stories, a few tanka and other poems, but mostly just political comments. Very few people seem to read morialekafa but it pleases me and allows me to rant and rave as I choose.

As so little seems to happen on weekends, or at least gets reported, I have decided to offer another short story.


Flowers for Armando


As the anaesthetic wore off the room came slowly into focus. The institutional green walls were bare except for one inexpensive landscape hanging crookedly from the wall to my left. The blinds on the windows to my right were half closed, softening the harsh afternoon sun. The other bed, between mine and the windows, was unoccupied. Immediately in front of me was an open bathroom door through which I could see the sink and part of the toilet. The mirror above the sink revealed a sign hanging immediately above and behind my head. Deciphering it backwards I read in large handprinted letters, "Nothing rectally."
"What's that for?" I pondered, "Are people going around arbitrarily sticking things up people's rectums?" The intravenous needle in my arm was uncomfortable. I wanted to change position. I was barely able to push the button raising the head of my bed. I undid the huge bandage and inspected my belly. The incision ran all the way from my navel to my groin. The two edges were neatly held together by metal staples. "Must be something new," I said out loud to the empty room.
Just then one of the nurses brought me a roommate; a poorly dressed nondescript looking little man who followed her dutifully as she entered the room and pointed to his bed. "You can take your clothes off in there," she instructed, indicating the bathroom. "Put this on." She handed him a hospital gown and departed. In a short time he emerged, holding the flimsy gown awkwardly together with his left hand. He slowly climbed into bed and lay back with a quiet sigh. I noticed that his face was brown and weathered. He had brown eyes and straight black hair. I assumed he was probably a Mexican. It was impossible to tell how old he was; he could have been anywhere from thirty five to sixty five. He was quite obviously frightened. The two of us rested there in silence. Exhausted, I fell asleep. When I woke he spoke for the first time.
"Sir, are you a Christian?"
Surprised by the unexpected question I had to pause before I could answer. Considering the question carefully I answered, "No, not in the way you mean, I guess."
He seemed to accept the answer, then announced, "I am a Catholic. I wear a cross. But I also wear a star. You see, my father was Catholic but my mother was Jewish."
"An interesting variation on Pascal's wager," I thought cynically.
Do you go to church?" he persisted.
"No. Not since I was a boy."
"I am a good Christian," he said with obvious pride. "I go regularly to mass and confession." When I did not reply he changed the subject, "Have you been here long?"
"No. I just had surgery this morning."
"What was wrong with you?"
"Cancer. Of the prostate. They took it out."
"Oh," he said, obviously not sure what I meant. "I'm sorry. They don't know what's wrong with me. But I have a lot of pain. It hurts when I pee and there is blood. My doctor sent me here for more tests. I don't know what they are going to do to me. Did you have a lot of pain?"
His English was somewhat hesitant but I could tell from his voice how frightened he was. "No. I had no pain at all. They just found the cancer when I went for a physical."
"Did you have blood in your pee?"
"No. I had no symptoms at all."
Just then an intern entered the room. "Armando Blanco?" he asked, looking at me. I shook my head and indicated the next bed.
"Mr. Blanco," I heard him say. "I am Doctor Bowers. Are you comfortable?"
"What is wrong with me doctor? What are you going to do?"
"Now don't be alarmed Mr. Blanco. You need to have some tests so we can learn exactly what the problem is. The nurse will help you get ready. Don't worry, everything is going to be all right." He left the room, nodding to the nurse who had just arrived.
The nurse explained to Mr. Blanco how to take an enema, illustrating by showing him the squeeze bottle and reaching behind her to where he was to place it. He seemed to understand but sat dejectedly on the side of his bed for a full ten minutes before disappearing into the bathroom. He emerged shaking his head slowly from side to side and muttering to himself in Spanish. An hour later they came for him.
Early the next morning the first of the flowers arrived for me. It was an obviously expensive arrangement sent, I believed, out of obligation rather than affection. As there was nowhere to put them on my side of the room the delivery man placed them on the window ledge.
"What beautiful flowers," my roommate observed, with genuine wonder in his tone. "I love flowers. I have many flowers in my garden. Every year I have flowers. They are so beautiful."
"I'm glad you like them Armando. That is your name isn't it?"
"Yes sir," he replied meekly. "Armando Blanco."
I started to ask him to call me by my first name but realizing that he wouldn't do it and not wanting to embarrass him I said nothing. We lay quietly, admiring the flowers.
"Sir," he began again, "Do you think it is a good thing for a young man to join the Marines?"
After pretending to think about it for a moment I replied, "I don't know. Why do you ask?"
"My son. He is seventeen. The youngest. He wants to join the Marines. I don't know if he should. He is a good boy. I am so proud of him."
Having no idea what to advise him I said, "Armando, I'm very tired. I think I'll sleep for a while." I turned away.
When I woke it was late at night, the darkness broken only by the hall light coming in through the half closed door. A faint smell of disinfectant drifted through the hallways. Someone was speaking in gentle tones with Armando. I listened but could not understand the Spanish except for a few words. There were two female voices interrupted occasionally by Armando's low but steady comments. They talked softly into the wee hours of the morning and then departed. I heard Armando trying to choke back his tears.
After breakfast, which neither of us could eat, Armando said proudly, "My wife and daughter were here last night. My daughter came all the way from New Mexico on the bus. It took her two days and one night. She has to go back now. She has a good job."
"Yes, I heard you talking in the night. How many children do you have?"
"Six. Four boys and two girls. They are all fine children. I am very proud of them. I have seven grandchildren, too."
"Seven," I said, "How wonderful." There was an awkward silence. Then I asked, "What kind of work do you do?"
"I used to do construction work and sometimes I worked as a gardener. But then I had this pain and I couldn't work. I haven't been able to work for several months. And now they don't know what is wrong and I am frightened. I am frightened that I will never be able to work again."
"Did you get the results of your tests? What did they tell you?"
"They don't know what is wrong. They told me I had to have more tests."
"Do you still have blood in your urine?"
"Yes. Always now. And it hurts. It hurts me so much sometimes I can hardly stand it. Do you have pain?"
"No. Not now. They apparently have morphine in this thing," I said, indicating the intravenous bottle, "so that if I feel any pain I just push this button and it goes away. Something new. They claim it works much better than when you have to ask all the time. Seems to work."
Armando obviously did not understand. I began to explain it more carefully but just then four older doctors entered together followed by young doctor Bowers. They crowded around Armando's bed and pulled the sliding curtain around them all. They succeeded well enough so I could not see them but of course I couldn't help but overhear.
"Mr. Blanco," one of them began, "I am sorry to have to tell you that you have cancer of the bladder. We will have to operate. But before we do you will need to have some more tests. We think it may have spread but we don't know how much. You will have the tests tonight and we should know by tomorrow when to schedule the surgery. Do you understand?"
Armando must have nodded as I did not hear him respond. The doctors left the room but stopped to confer in the hallway. Although I could hear only snatches of their conversation I heard enough to realize the doctors knew much more than they had told the unfortunate Armando. The cancer had spread widely throughout his organs and he had no realistic chance of survival. The surgery was little more than experimental; something they had never attempted before.
Armando was quiet the remainder of the morning and throughout lunch which, again, neither of us could eat. After lunch three more ostentatious bouquets arrived for me and were placed alongside the first, filling all the available space on the windowledge.
"You must have many rich friends," Armando observed in a sad voice. "They have sent you so many beautiful flowers."
I knew that with one exception the flowers were from co-workers who ordinarily paid little attention to me, but, not wishing to explain, I said simply, "Yes, many friends." I forced myself to get out of bed and, pushing the wheeled metal stand holding the urine bag, attempted to walk down the hall as I had been instructed to do. I moved as slowly and cautiously as I could but still the catheter pulled at me uncomfortably. I passed a woman in the same predicament. Although we passed close to one another both going and coming she would not look at me.

"Mr. Blanco?" the man asked as he entered our room. He walked past me and stood at Armando's bedside. "Are you Armando Blanco?"
"Yes sir."
"I have come from the church to pray with you. To help you through your ordeal."
The unexpected visitor was shiny faced and plump and dressed in a stylish suit with a tie obviously picked to match. He looked like a huge self-important four-year-old whose mother had just dressed him for Sunday school.
"Are you a priest?" Armando asked.
"No. I'm sorry to say I'm not. But this is my church work. I visit those in hospitals and try to help them be at peace." He was very pleased with himself. Armando obviously did not know what to make of him but said nothing.
"Come, Armando, let us pray." Without waiting he began, "Our father who..." In a moment Armando picked up the cadence and the two of them recited the prayer together. When they finished the visitor began praying extemporaneously, making it increasingly obvious that he knew nothing about either Armando or his illness. Smugly satisfied he said, "Well Armando, I must go. I have several other patients to see. Remember," he gushed, "God loves you." He waddled out the door and down the hallway, looking at room numbers as he went.
"If God loves him so much," I thought, "why in hell has he done this to him? And why did he send such a pompous self-righteous ass to impose on him?"
Armando said nothing for the next hour. Finally, when a nurse came by he asked, "Please Ma'am, could I see a Priest?"
Although I was exhausted I couldn't sleep. Armando's misfortune and my own kept occupying my thoughts. "Why?" I thought, "should such a gentle person as Armando have to suffer so? And why should he have to die while I am apparently to live? He has a large family," my mind raced on, "while I have no one. He is a good person, goes to church, is proud of his children, has probably never harmed a fly. I've not been a very good person and certainly I've sinned. Yet I am being spared and Armando is not. What kind of a god would permit such a thing? Perhaps I'm just smarter, smart enough to go for a regular physical, whereas Armando was not. But, then, probably he just couldn't afford to go? Whatever the case, what good do those ridiculous medals do? They certainly didn't protect him from harm. And the prayers, too, what good are they? What nonsense. But, still, he believes. How can he continue to believe when he knows how sick he is? See, there, I hear him crying again. Poor Armando!"
I began to reflect on my life, trying to think of whatever good things I might have done. There were few and at the moment seemed remarkably trivial. Of course all the stupid, mean, and terrible things I had done forced themselves unwanted into my consciousness, causing me relive the shame and embarrassments all over again. "Why is it," I wondered, "that all of the rotten things you do continue to haunt you throughout your life, coming back over and over again, while more pleasant memories do not? Or is it that I have no pleasant memories?" The thought worried me. I tried to get rid of it by thinking of other things. I must have finally fallen to sleep in the early hours of the morning, a troubled sleep at best. Over breakfast, which we both merely picked at, Armando asked, "Sir, does it hurt when you have the surgery? I keep thinking about it. Does it hurt?"
"No, Armando. It doesn't hurt a bit. They'll put you to sleep. You won't know what is happening. You won't feel a thing. It hurts afterwards for a time. But they'll give you something to help. Like me, see? All you do is push this little button and the pain goes away."
Armando's expression indicated he was doubtful. Indeed, that he was terrified.
"I'm going to have the surgery this afternoon. The doctor told me. I guess this cancer has spread and they aren't sure what will happen." He paused and then went on. "What will happen to my family? We have only a little money. My wife is sick and can't work. My children can't help much. What will happen to them?"
"Perhaps God will provide," I thought sarcastically. To Armando, however, I said feebly, "Things usually work out for the best." Again my mind raced through the injustice of it all. "If there is a god, he certainly works in strange and malicious ways," I thought. The existence of evil tormented me while death sat at Armando's bedside. I fell back heavily onto my pillow and tried to put it all out of my mind. I tried to imagine myself fully recovered and walking in the park near my home. "The leaves will be turning colors and starting to fall," I thought. And then I thought of death. Thinking of the falling and decaying leaves and the mystery of the changing seasons I suddenly realized that death was somehow just part of life. But I could not fit Armando's impending demise into this picture. It was premature. Unnatural. I became angry at my inability to understand.

"It's time to go," the nurse announced cheerfully. "I'll help you with your things. I struggled painfully to get out of the high hospital bed, careful to manage the urine bag now strapped unpleasantly to my leg. I put on my soft jogging suit and the canvas shoes I could slip into easily. The wheelchair to transport me was waiting at the door with a sour faced young man ready to help. The nurse began to place my flowers on a cart so I could take them home. "No!" I said firmly. "Leave them." Instead of walking to the waiting wheelchair I went awkwardly to Armando's bedside. "Good luck Armando," I said, looking directly into his frightened eyes. He said nothing but took my hand in his and squeezed it gently. I turned to go. When I was almost to the door I turned and made my way painfully back to him. Placing my hand tenderly on his shoulder I said softly, "Remember, Armando, God loves you."