Chapter 1: An Unexpected Loss

In my writing, I often draw from my own life, sharing experiences that reveal a multifaceted view of Cuba—full of mystery, complexity, and beauty. Many readers have found humor in my stories, even when they touch on difficult topics, such as the sudden passing of my older brother on Labor Day.

To say my life has turned chaotic since that night would be an understatement, yet I have found a sense of peace. This narrative isn't meant to be sorrowful; rather, it aims to elicit laughter and reflection, as what transpired post his death felt like something out of a telenovela.

My brother, RA, battled Type 1 diabetes from a young age. He had a playful spirit, often teasing our grandmother with elaborate pranks, and was a talented medical doctor loved by many. Unfortunately, the Cuban healthcare system failed him when he needed it most.

To learn more about my tribute to him, I encourage you to visit my post, though I'm wary of sharing the link directly due to the whims of algorithmic fate.

After significant challenges in Cuba, my 75-year-old father was able to bring RA to the United States. Here, he underwent numerous procedures, which kept him alive yet often left him feeling despondent. It was heartbreaking to witness the light in his eyes fade during tough times. Nevertheless, he remained inquisitive, peppering doctors with questions throughout his treatments.

But ultimately, his body could endure no more.

It was Monday, May 27, 2024, at 7:47 p.m. I was wrapping up a quick Peloton session when I missed a call from my dad. Knowing I rarely check voicemails, he still left one, prompting me to sit on the floor and listen.

The message was chaotic—screams and commotion filled the background. The only coherent phrase I caught from my brother's wife was, "Your brother is dying." My father, despite the tension, was attempting to calm her.

We are a family of five siblings: two from my father's first marriage, one from his second, and two younger brothers from his last. Just seven months earlier, we had lost our older sister under similarly sudden circumstances, making this situation feel surreal.

My younger brothers and I received similar messages and began our frantic search for RA, who was being taken to a nearby Baptist hospital. After some aimless driving, we finally arrived, only to realize we were too late.

Gathered in a small waiting room, RA's body lay just two rooms away. I focused on keeping my father steady, while my 30-year-old brother, A, cracked dark jokes to lighten the mood, and our youngest brother, O, alternated between stepping out to cry and rejoining us.

With a quivering voice, Dad recounted how they were dining at a restaurant when RA began feeling unwell. Despite initial reluctance, he agreed to go to the hospital for emergency dialysis. Tragically, he collapsed in the car. Dad pulled him out and began CPR, while RA's wife called for help.

Emergency responders arrived, forming a barrier to shield them from traffic and onlookers. A nurse finishing his shift saw the commotion and rushed to assist Dad until paramedics took over.

I struggled to hold back tears, picturing that desperate scene. I hugged Dad and assured him I would handle the hospital inquiries, which I promptly did.

Time felt suspended as we waited to retrieve RA's body from the hospital. With no primary care physician listed, the discharge process became complex. The nurse coordinator explained that without a designated doctor, they couldn't release his body. I provided every name I could find in his medical records, and she promised they would reach out for a signature in the morning, keeping RA in their morgue for the time being.

As I gazed at his freckled face, peaceful yet jaundiced, the surreal nature of it all hit me. I visited him one last time before heading to my father's home, where I spent the next three days negotiating with funeral homes, the hospital, and the county morgue, as no doctor would respond. My attempts to communicate felt futile.

I knew RA was watching over us, likely enjoying a café con leche and chuckling at our plight.

The appointment at the funeral home allowed only three people in the room, so I tactically chose to accompany my dad and A, who could lighten the mood. The funeral staff turned out to be incredibly compassionate, quickly securing a signature from one of the doctors listed.

Meanwhile, we began selecting urns for RA’s cremation, as he had expressed a desire for no memorial service filled with insincere people. The urns we encountered were awkwardly designed, prompting A to joke incessantly, making us laugh until it hurt.

"That one looks like an old Cuban abuela's bata de casa," he quipped, referring to the floral patterns.

"Just so you know, when I die, I want to go out like the Vikings," RA had said in jest. As A continued, "And you, Dad, need to practice shooting arrows to set me ablaze!" the funeral director couldn't help but burst into laughter.

Life has shifted significantly since RA's passing. My sleep has suffered, and my dad has grown increasingly anxious. However, we find solace in knowing RA is enjoying his eternal rest, perhaps with his feet propped up for everyone to smell.

I often recall those days when I feared his body would remain in the hospital fridge forever, certain that RA would have made a lighthearted joke about it, embracing the absurdity of it all.

Cuban Glossary:

Telenovela (teh-leh-noh-VEH-lah): A sensationalized soap opera from Latin America, filled with drama, romance, and twists.

Chismosos (chee-SMOH-sohs): Gossip-loving individuals.

Café con leche (kah-FEH kohn LEH-cheh): A delightful mix of milk and Cuban coffee.

Colada (koh-LAH-dah): A small, potent cup of Cuban espresso.

Bata de Casa (BAH-tah deh KAH-sah): A traditional house dress, often worn by Latina grandmothers at home.