My Family After Tragedy

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" ...

I am not finished with my stories. Even so, I wanted to make one thing clear: a great deal of care and effort has gone into this work. I write first for my own enjoyment, but that does not mean it is taken lightly. When I complete a story, I share it on my blog following a principle my mother taught me: let your friends play with your toys . In that spirit, what I share is offered as a gift. The Anomaly , as you may have noticed, is a work of fiction, but it moves in rhythm with real history and real human suffering. For that reason, I want any reader who finds it to know that it is written with respect—for the subject, and for them. Yes, I use modern tools, including AI, ethically and sparingly, in the limited way I understand the world. They help me polish the work, not replace it. I love this work. It carries a distilled human feeling that resists easy explanation. When I love something, loyalty follows—and that loyalty shapes how carefully I hold it, revise it, and share it. Thi...

Oh—Lacrima, Lacrima mia, Would you be my friend? Must I contend—my constant intent, to carry you forever? Where should I treasure your remains: my hands, my face? Oh—Lacrima, Lacrima mia, You are already my friend.

Recently I have been assisting a very dear person to me. The name will remain anonymous, because it is not for me to disclose. But believe me, I would lay my life down if it were to come to that. These recent events have made me look deep inside; it is inevitable. I lost my wife to cancer: Glioblastoma Multiforme, or GBM for short. There is no cure for this affliction. I took care of her until her last breath. She faced her predicament with bravery and gallantry. She wanted to be in the "5%," the ones who beat the odds. But life does not work like that. I stopped working, and for 16 months we fought together for her life. When it was evident she was losing, she told me: "No hospice, no hospital." She died with no bedsores, a testament to her care. At the moment before she crossed, I asked my daughters to join me in a ritual. Our younger daughter played her clarinet, and our older daughter held her hand. We were telling her she was not alone. In my wife's will, t...

  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.

My wife passed away in June 2021. Before she did, she told me to write. Somehow, I believe that from the shadows she still urges me on. I work during the day, and with quiet anticipation wait for the moment I can slip back into the world I am creating. I have always enjoyed writing stories about my family—it mattered deeply to me—but the series that became The Anomaly has bewitched me in a different way. Perhaps it is because every character, every moment, feels layered with humanity. They move me. I can see them; I can meet them. When I began writing The Last Mission of K-88 Grom , I stepped outside. It was raining, six degrees Celsius, with a gentle wind sharp enough to make me shiver. For a moment, I wanted to be in their skin—to draw from my own humanity and carry it back into the story. To all the readers around the world who visit these pages, thank you. Here are the most popular posts. Postscript I hope  The Man Under the Uniform  and  The Last Mission of K-88 Gr...

My Turning Point The public hearings at the University of Havana during the so-called “Deepening Process” were some of the darkest days in our history. At the Faculty of Chemistry, classes stopped entirely; nothing was taught, nothing was learned. Attendance at the hearings was mandatory, and each day felt like walking into a tribunal rather than a university. Many students were expelled. Charlie was not the only one. I remember a young woman—I can’t recall her name—who was cast out simply for wearing a crucifix. It had been a gift from her godmother. When the commission demanded she take it off, she refused. The leader pointed at the door, and instantly a chorus began: “Out, out, out!” Her classmates followed her to the street, chanting in what was called a “repudiation act.” It was horrible to watch. These acts were not spontaneous. They were an intimidation tactic perfected by the government. They could—and sometimes did—turn violent. The year before, in 1980, lives had already be...

It was 1981, and I had barely survived my first year at the University of Havana, where I was studying chemistry. The leap from high school to university had been a huge adjustment—not just for me, but for many others. In the fall of 1979, about 250 of us began the program together. By the second year, fewer than 50 remained. That year we were introduced to a new subject: Philosophy. Every subject has to start somewhere, and we began with the classics—their ideas, their conflicts, their strengths and weaknesses. But one question weighed heavily on us: why study philosophy at all? Shouldn’t we be focused on chemistry—the nature of substances, their reactions, the concepts of atoms, molecules, and bonds? That was the very first challenge we posed to our philosophy lecturer, and to us, it seemed perfectly legitimate. The answer, fittingly, was philosophical. In the Soviet context, philosophy was meant to train us in analytical reasoning and critical thinking—by grappling with big questi...

 Can Glycosylated Antitumor Ether Lipid be used to treat GBM? ChatGPT said: Great question. Let's break it down clearly and carefully. Glycosylated Antitumor Ether Lipids (GAELs) are a class of synthetic lipid-based molecules designed to have anticancer properties. They are derivatives of antitumor ether lipids (AELs) , with added sugar moieties (glycosylation) to improve selectivity, solubility, and reduce toxicity. Use of GAELs in GBM (Glioblastoma Multiforme): 1. Research Evidence: Direct studies on GAELs and GBM are limited. There is preclinical evidence that antitumor ether lipids (especially compounds like edelfosine or miltefosine ) have activity against glioblastoma cells in vitro . Glycosylated variants of these compounds (GAELs) have shown antitumor activity in other cancers, such as leukemia, melanoma, and breast cancer, but direct clinical studies on GBM are sparse or non-existent as of now (2024). 2. Mechanism of Action: GAELs are thought to: D...

A thousand pictures, scattered wide, Moments frozen, side by side. Laughter, sunsets, faces bright, Fleeting echoes caught in light. Yet in the haze of time's embrace,` Only three still hold their place. One of love, so pure, so true, One of loss a tear in blue. One of hope — a flame so small, Yet the dearest one of all. Yes, you have guessed right; I was not having a perfect moment then I discovered these pictures in my Blogger picture drive; fresh air from the past.  I will sleep with a smile tonight.

  I never dared to continue with this story .   My feelings for what happened are unchanged.  My resentment is also there, however, as time passes I learn that those feelings will not lead me anywhere.  We do not forget but choose to survive and continue.  Sometimes I go for a walk and think about those days and it still hurts. It is better to close this chapter and leave it as is, that way this monster will not catch me again.

T o our daughters, I learned so much from your mother. She was my lover and my dearest friend. The summer of 1992 was in full swing, and your mom and I spent every day escaping to different places around the mainland. We were having the time of our lives. By the end of the summer, I didn’t have a penny left — but I was the happiest man alive. Your mom drove a white 1989 Chevrolet Cavalier station wagon. That car smelled like a wet dog — Sam, her dog, had been the main passenger before she met me. It would break down every 100 kilometers or so, and it would run out of gas the moment the warning light came on. And guess who had to push? That’s right — your dad. But we were like peas and carrots: inseparable and as happy as could be. You often say, “Dad, you use all these strange old words no one says anymore!” Well, your mom is responsible for that. I learned what a sea shanty was in that white Cavalier, listening to CBC Radio. There was a program about sailors and fishermen, focusi...

Today, completely out of the blue, a memory from my childhood surfaced. In my old neighborhood, there was a kid everyone called "Buchee." He was about three or four years older than me, so I reckon he was a young teenager when these events unfolded. Buchee lived close to my maternal grandparents, only two blocks from my house. Every time I visited them, I'd walk past his place, and we'd usually exchange hellos, maybe some light teasing – nothing ever offensive. Since I went to my grandparents' house daily after school, Buchee and I would often chat. One evening, a group of us kids, myself included, were playing cards on the sidewalk a few doors down from my grandparents' place. These games could get pretty competitive, and the currency we used was crystal marbles. At one point, the stakes were incredibly high, and the pile of marbles in the center was considerable. Buchee was in on the game, but suddenly, he scooped up as many marbles as he could with both han...