The Reason I Write

I wrote "What Are You Going To Do With It?" late last night, and have read it many times to re-live it, and also for editorial purposes. There are many stories in draft mode in my blog. Often I remember something and I start the post because I do not want the thought to go to sleep again.

Many years ago, around the time I arrived from the United States to join my wife for good, I told Christina that perhaps we should write our story.

"Write it" - she said to me. I meant to tell her, that we should write it together; but she was adamant.

"No, this is something you need to do. Write it".

It is amazing how much I remember.

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The Planner 00Iren

When I tell my daughters that their mother was amazing, I am not sure they grasp the magnitude of her stature. They tell me, “Yes dad, we know,” but I want them to understand the steel in her soul. I remember the day I saw Christina for the first time. it was in the halls of the chemistry department at Simon Fraser University. We both entered a long hallway at the same time, walking in opposite directions in our white lab coats. We had the opportunity to take a good look at each other. When we passed, our eyes crossed. She kept walking without turning, but I looked back to see her disappear into one of the laboratories. I thought, “Wow, I do not have a remote chance with that girl!” Years later, after we reunited in Vancouver, she told me she had thought the same: "He is going to make a woman very happy one day." She said she had no idea it was going to be her. In 1993, after I received an ultimatum letter from Canada Immigration, I was left with no option but to escape to th...

My Gift

To my daughters, I tried to be her, and I could not. I tried to be their buddy, and I could not. Then I understood: I am Dad. That is my role, my strength, and my gift. Now, it is recorded forever, here.

Letter to My Children

The Architecture of a Legacy To my children, At 65, I find myself looking back at a journey that moved from the hospital wards of Havana to the research labs of New York, and finally to the servers where I write code today. I want you to understand that while I changed my tools, I never changed my mission. The Detective’s Eye (Havana) It started with your grandfather. At the Hospital Militar Finlay , he wasn't just a doctor; he was a detective. He taught me that every "outbreak"—whether it was a single cook getting sick from tasting raw pork or a soldier sharing a cigarette—had a hidden cause. He taught me to look for the pattern . The Bridge-Builder (The Linker Arm) When I became a chemist, I applied that "detective" logic to molecules. In the 80s, we were trying to find leprosy before it destroyed lives. I realized that to see the bacteria, we needed a "bridge"—a linker arm —to show the immune system what to look for. That same "linker" ...

My Family After Tragedy

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