Armando

Armando Camacho Guzman
1957 – 2007
Cook, Clown and Beloved Friend

Whether it was the M.S. or his diabetes wasn’t clear, but his kidneys were failing and he knew his days were numbered. The doctor said he should return to Tijuana, to his family and the health care available across the border. However, he wasn’t well enough to travel.

He didn’t answer his phone but I knew he was having mobility problems and was probably home anyway. The door to his apartment was open. “Armando?”

“I’m in here” he called from the bedroom.

I found him laid out on his bed, watching TV. “I’m just so weak I can’t move. I’m ok in the mornings. I can get up and make it to the bathroom, kind of using the walls as support. But after breakfast I don’t have any strength left.”

Despite his weakness his spirits seemed good. I lay on the bed as he told me the story of his Aunt.

“She married two Generals. My father said she killed them both. So she was getting two military pensions, good pensions. And she lived to be 100. However, no one bothered to tell the government when she passed away. We all wondered how this one cousin managed to live so well without working. When my aunt supposedly reached what would have been 110 years old, I guess the government decided that they needed to see this woman. The pensions stopped and the cousin disappeared.”

I helped him sit up in bed and propped pillows behind him. He refused my offer for anything. “I have every thing I need. Issac is coming over later and he always brings food. And it’s really good. I just hope he doesn’t bring any meat. I can’t have any protein right now.”

I kissed his little bald head. It felt smooth and cool. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Yes, stop by” he said.

We heard later that he had fallen and didn’t have the strength to get off the floor. He called Jane and she called Issac and Carlos and told them to get over there. I called and Issac answered and said the doctor was there. He would have the doctor call me when he was free. He did call and told us that he had taken Armando to his clinic. An hour later he called to say that Armando’s heart had failed.

The consolation is that it happened fast. Armando did not relish the idea of dialysis. He told me that he’d watched his father go through it and he’d quit and died rather than suffer through the process. Armando thought he would do the same.

A light went out in San Miguel last night.

We will miss your food, your stories, your candor and your humor, Armando. Rest in peace.