Tu y Yo

You were from Puerto Rico, the youngest of eighteen children. Your strong accent, and more so your strong culture, rang through your words. I was delighted to witness the youthful play between you and your husband, a midwest man to the core, with large hands and a quiet demeanor.

The two of you met when you were a young single mother, an island transplant stuck in northern Michigan. Your husband told me he could barely understand you at first, yet he was mesmerized by your beauty and spark.

There was an element of racial prejudices present in your relationship, even though you had been married for seventy years. He taunted you playfully when you mispronounced English words, or would use a mocking accent when saying words in Spanish, and you teased him with a ferocity fired by your Puerto Rican blood. The banter was always joyful, even this close to the end of your life.

Then one day you didn’t get out of bed. And the next day too. I knew the end was nearing, you had only days left to live at this point. I encouraged your husband to join you at your bedside, although he often declined.

One afternoon, your pain began to get out of hand. You were refusing morphine and asking for brandy instead. I attempted to coax you into taking the drugs, because you couldn’t really drink enough brandy to reduce the pain you were in. You were crying loudly, very distressed, so I asked your husband to console you.

He lumbered slowly into the room, and sat in the chair beside your bed. He took your hand and spoke your name, trying to get your attention. You were thrashing and crying at this point, still refusing the morphine.

Your husband leaned nearer to you, cradling your tiny hand in his, gently stroking your arm.

And then he said, in a perfect Spanish accent, “Tu y yo.”

He said it again, a whisper, a love poem, a prayer, “Tu y yo.”

He whispered it again and again, leaning ever closer, and with each repetition, you became more calm.

I stood in the doorway, witness to the waves of miracles washing over the room. Your pain seemed to dissolve as your husband reassured you, all you needed in that moment was his love. Not morphine, or brandy, or a skilled caregiver. Just love, his special love for you, and the promise you made to each other to stick together, no matter what.