Luis Aguilar León

At the end, father faced one last enemy

Some people believe that man is only flesh, blood, mind and molecules. My father's last days were an argument to the contrary.

Luis Aguilar Leon died recently at 82 after a futile fight with Alzheimer's. He was a beloved luminary of the Cuban exile. You can read about him in the new bestseller, The Boys from Dolores by Patrick Symmes or in the autobiography of his former Georgetown University student Bill Clinton, My Life.

As a writer and teacher, my father made the complexities of Castro's Cuba understandable to scholar and laborer alike. More than once did a security guard or valet parking cars gush to me about one of his columns.

Dad semi-retired in 1992 to Key Biscayne, where he became the media's go-to guy for breaking news from Cuba. He commented on everything Cuban, continuing a lifelong love affair with his native island. Yet there was one thing that Dad loved more than Cuba. That was his wife of 55 years, my mother, Vera, whom he recognized almost to the end, even through the mist shrouding his mind.

Two years ago Dad was stricken unintelligent by a monstrous disease that he referred to as the Enemy. ''I think the Enemy will beat me,'' he would bemoan in his more-lucid times.

From the start, Mom dismissed any suggestion of a nursing home, instead setting up a sick room in her two-bedroom apartment and hiring a live-in caretaker. There, Dad's mental storm would calm at the sight of a familial face. After an early rage against the dying light, he began to go gentle into that good night.

Then his life signs dipped, not precipitously but noticeably. Though it still seemed as if he would last for months, Mom called a priest. Father Jose Hernando gave him last rites, expecting to repeat them at a later date. The next day, for the first time, Dad needed oxygen to breathe. It was as if he had been awaiting the final sacrament to be free of his body.

When Dad stabilized enough, I took my mother out to dinner. She feared that he wouldn't last the night. We got back to the sick room, and I noticed something odd. The little stuffed dog that my dad never let go of sat all alone on the arm of his chair, though Dad was breathing regularly. As I did every night, I carried Dad from the chair and to his bed. He coughed twice and died. He had waited for Mom to get home to say goodbye.

My father left the world in peace, if not at peace. A much older enemy, Fidel Castro, had outlasted him. I doubt they'll meet in the hereafter.

LOU AGUILAR, Los Angeles