The Warrior

By all accounts my Uncle Razmig was a very handsome man in his younger days. In photos of his childhood he looked almost doll-like, growing into a more rugged, rebellious look as he got older.

"He looked like James Dean,” my mom told me on more than one occasion.

“He was very popular with the ladies,” my uncle Jiro, his younger brother, commented.

“He was obsessed with his hair,” my father once mentioned, “One day I’d had enough and cut it off to teach him a lesson.”

When Razmig was sixteen or so, he was seduced by his teacher.

Fearing reprisal, Razmig abandoned his education, fleeing Beirut for Damascus to avoid consequence. The teacher, rocked by scandal, was forced to leave in shame.

—

The restaurant was in one of the many pedestrian alleys in downtown Glendale. My cousin Vicken’s daughter had just been christened and we had gathered to celebrate. As I entered, I noticed that the attention inside was split between the Lakers playing in the NBA and the celebration itself.

I arrived alone.

This was my father’s side of the family and he was out of town as usual. My brother stayed away, a result of his disassociation with our father. And my mother, being separated from my dad, was ever unsure if she was welcome.

And so as usual I was the lone representative.

When I entered I was greeted by various family members, all asking the same questions about my father and brother, where they were, were they talking, why didn’t they come, after which I was shown my seat.

An hour or so into the party, I stepped out of the restaurant and saw Razmig talking on his phone as he took a drag from a cigarillo.

I did not expect to see Razmig there. I was looking for a place to smoke discreetly. Instead I pulled a cigarette from my pocket and asked him for a light, which he provided. A moment later he put his phone away and looked me over with his pale blue eyes.

“You smoke?”, he said.

“I do,” I said, “and other things too.”

Razmig smiled at that.

I knew that Razmig had had surgery on his prostate, and so I asked how he was doing.

“I’m good,” he said, “It takes some getting used to. When you cum, it feels different.”

—

When Razmig was diagnosed with a brain tumor, it was a shock. Not too long before Avo, my Aunt Arpig’s husband, had passed away from cancer, and now the pain was about to repeat.

Surgery had left Razmig weak and bed bound. During this time I worked with his cousins, Art and Dikran, at their auto-repair shop. Art wanted to visit Razmig, so together we went to his home in Chatsworth one night to spend time with the man.

He was in a medical bed in the living room, sitting upright and watching television. His wife, Antoinette, was in and out, playing host to our impromptu visit. There was awkwardness, questions that begged to be asked but were seemingly bad form, so instead we watched Dancing with the Stars.

Eva Longoria, an attractive actress, began to dance on screen.

Razmig, watching the screen intently, remarked in Armenian “Oh, the things I would do to her.”

—

A second tumor was discovered under the first, and the removal of one caused rapid growth in the other. Prior to the surgery Razmig had signed a request to be denied care if things went wrong.

The decline was rapid.

I received a phone call in the early evening. My grandmother was on the other end, sobbing uncontrollably.

“He’s dying,” she wailed, “They’re killing Razmig. Please come.”

I had never heard my grandmother panic as she did that night. I got dressed and headed out, not knowing what came next.

When I arrived the house was dimly lit and the aura solemn. My grandmother sat at the dining room table looking at the medical bed in the den, sobbing. Antoinette was busy tending to my uncle.

I don’t know when the process began, but he was denied food and water, and unable to speak he was forced to communicate his thirst visually. His lips and tongue clearly expressed thirst, and his loved ones were forced to deny him.

Gasping and in pain, we watched Razmig slow crawl toward death.

He did not die that night, as my grandmother had predicted. Several days would pass before the inevitable became reality. The funeral was as funerals are, full of grief, but also of stories about the man we loved.

—

Over a year later we gathered in Armenia to spread a portion of his ashes on Lake Sevan.

My grandmother’s hair, once dyed brown in perpetuity, had become silvery white. Razmig’s siblings, my father, aunts and uncles, boarded the boat. My uncle Hovig passed out cigars, and we lit them as my grandmother released doves into the sky and then the ashes into the water.

The final ritual was complete.

Though it was spring, the wind was blowing in from the ice capped mountains, causing a chill. The boat headed back to land, to a restaurant to eat, as per tradition.

As we ate and drank, I remember my father, an emotional man, trying to come to terms with his sorrow. There was helplessness and anger in his voice.

A moment later he loudly excoriated, “You should have left him alone. You should have let him die slowly and with dignity. He could have had more time,” and then sullenly said to no one in particular, “I could have taken him to one more whorehouse..”