Mike was raised by a single mom. But he was the one who all those years took care of his brothers and sisters with financial advice and a lot of emotional support. He was the one they called when things weren’t going well for them. And he continued this with me, his kids, many friends.

The saddest part of his life is we now have eight grandchildren and only one has a slight recognition of him. The others were too young, and Mike, more than anything, couldn’t wait for grandchildren. But he only knew two of the eight.

Every time I hear of a New York City train incident I think of Mike. He worked for 40 years at the New York City transit authority as one of the chief financial officers and he probably would be appalled at what is going on in New York City. Even though he didn’t live in the city, he loved it.

We just had Easter which makes me remember how one year Mike started a tradition when our kids were little of leaving chocolate eggs coming down the steps into the living room where their Easter baskets would be. This way, when they woke up, they could see the Easter bunny had come and they would then collect the eggs. When they got older, the 5 of them would scream and run to see who got the most eggs. We still do this and now those who have their own house have continued this silly tradition. As for me, I say too much candy for me to eat.

I am coming up to four years since my husband passed away from Covid—heartbreaking everyday. However, I met a wonderful woman named Marlene Bandfield who lost her brother Johnny, four years ago today, April 11, 2020. She has been my support for the last four years. I could not have made it without all the people who lost someone to COVID, those who understand and have not left my side. Thank you to all of you.

Wilmard Santiago
October 22, 1954 – April 15, 2020
Bronx, New York

It was the year 2020. COVID 19 was spreading like wildfire in New York City. It was the morning of April 15, 2020. My brother, Wilmard Santiago had been in a Bronx, New York hospital, on a ventilator since April 7, 2020. His last text was “Intubation soon, I love you, love each other and take care of Lucia.” Lucia was his wife. It was also Easter Week. Every morning while he was in the hospital, I would text him hoping and praying that one day there would be a miracle and he would be able to answer me. The last text I sent was on April 15 and it said, “Good morning. Just passing by to say I love you. It’s been eight days since you last texted. Can’t wait until that day when you are home with Lucia. Stay strong. God is with you always and we are praying really hard for that day to happen soon. Love you and see you soon. #SANTIAGOSTRONG!!!”

The eight days he was in the hospital were terrifying. We didn’t know what to expect. We were only allowed one phone call a day to get an update. Sometimes we didn’t get a call back so my sister would call again. There was no offer to face time or to call and place the phone near his ear so he could hear our voices. We didn’t even know that we could ask for that. We prayed so hard. We were so exhausted and desperate and scared. So many emotions. And then we got the call that his pressure was dropping and that they were doing all they could. We went on high alert and began praying even harder. There was no way he would leave us. He was going to make it. But, by that early evening, my big brother was gone. He was 65 years old. No visits, no facetime, no final goodbyes…nothing. He died alone in a hospital room. No one to offer him love and comfort. No one to hold his hand and tell him he was going to be alright and that he was loved so much. Maybe, just maybe, if we were there, we could have given him the strength to fight harder. Maybe we could have fought harder and demanded more from the doctors. Maybe we could have demanded they use certain drugs to help him. But we didn’t know. The guilt is overwhelming for me still. What could I or my family have done differently? So much was taken away from us. The world was collapsing all around us and it was taking my brother with it.

The next few days were numbing. Now, we had to make the arrangements. We called the hospital and couldn’t get any definitive answers. The left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing. But part of me could understand. These weren’t normal times. People were dying so fast. Finally, I got a call.We would have to have his body claimed and out of the hospital within five days if not his body would have to be placed in a refrigerated truck. What?!! How cruel! My brother, nor anyone else, deserved that. Now the rush began to find a funeral home to take care of picking up his body and making all the arrangements. There were phone calls that went unanswered. For days I couldn’t get a funeral home that could take care of the arrangements, but I kept calling and calling until I finally got one that would be able to handle them.When the funeral home finally picked up his body, a family member advised me that perhaps I should ask for a photo to identify him and so I requested it. A funeral home staff person took the photo and texted it to me. I could tell it was him, but the photo was so dark and I needed to make sure it was him. So, I asked for another one. They agreed and sent me the second photo. This time I could confirm it was him, but what I saw was horrifying. My brother died with the vent tube still in his mouth and there was a tape on his chest that identified him as “William” Santiago. His name was Wilmard. I called them back and corrected his name and thanked them for sending the photo. The image was and is still with me and it is still in my phone. I don’t have the heart to delete it because I feel as if I’m discarding him.

The following days and weeks were very hard. We tried multiple times to retrieve my brother’s belongings from the hospital only to be told that we could only get his phone and glasses because his clothes had been burned. My brother’s wife was still recovering from COVID, my brother-in-law was also recovering from it and my older sister then contracted it. She was so very sick, but she refused to go to the hospital. The hospital killed her brother she told her doctor. We were so scared to lose her too, but by the grace of God, she recovered. We tried to be there for each other even though we couldn’t be together. People continued to die and some people thankfully recovered. Every time the news covered a story about someone being discharged from the hospital, I asked myself and I asked God, why not him? Why didn’t you spare my brother? He didn’t deserve to die that way. None of our loved ones deserved that.

It wasn’t until the middle of June that we were able to place my brother’s ashes to rest. Just ten of us, six feet apart. My brother came from a big family. He had tons and tons of friends that loved and respected him. He deserved better. He was a humble, kind, funny, compassionate and talented man. He gave from his heart and loved people. A proper send-off would have been appropriate and fitting. So, when I came across the COVID 19 Support Group on Facebook, I was so thankful that I was able to share my story and learn from so many others that they were feeling the same pain. The stories sometimes were eerily the same. But it helped to know that I was not alone. Then there were the temporary memorials. Every time I saw a post about a memorial, I would add his name. I felt I had to do it because he never got to have his proper farewell. He is remembered in so many places and I am so thankful to all who have honored and remembered him here in the states and in other parts of the world. It has been a source of comfort, and I will be forever grateful.

Four years later and I still have very strong emotions when March comes along. My family and I, along with millions of people, relive those terrible moments. It hasn’t gotten any easier. We talk about him all the time. We miss everything about him. We miss his love and support, his love of music, playing the piano, singing, taking photos and his crazy sense of humor. He loved that he was born in Puerto Rico. He loved the NY Yankees, but most of all, he loved his children and three grandchildren. The two youngest are twins and he only got to meet one of them. He left behind a wife, his siblings, and a host of nephews, a niece and tons of family and friends who were devastated by the loss as well.

The pain of losing a loved one is deep and painful. Since 2012, I’ve lost my mom, my husband, my dad, and my stepson who also died from COVID complications. With my mom, husband and dad, we had a chance to be there for them. They didn’t die alone. We gave them the proper farewell. That’s the way it’s supposed to be. That’s what they deserved. My stepson passed in 2021, and we were thankfully able to give him a proper farewell. But it’s a complicated grief with my brother. It’s an open wound that may never heal. It’s the feelings of guilt, anger, heartache and that there is a chance that you will never, ever have closure. But we must push through because that’s what they would want us to do, as painful as it is. They would want us to be happy. So, all we could do is try. Try to live our lives with their love tucked in our heart. We must honor and remember them while taking care of ourselves with love, patience and compassion.

Rest in peace my dear brother. Until we meet again…
Wiandy

The void of Abuelo’s magic.

If you are as lucky as me or my kids, to have grown up with a grandparent/great-grandparent, then you’ll understand the unique void left when they are no longer by your side. For us, abuelo, “Lelo” as my daughter nicknamed him, was magical.

Not only was I raised by my grandpa and spent practically every day by his side, but my kids, Shea and Lincoln, his great grandkids, had that privilege as well. To wake up and have him prop them up on his recliner for breakfast or feed them their bottle and rest them on his shoulders to burp them as babies, who else could say that their great grandpa did that. Or just as is the perfect pairing of peanut butter and jelly, so were Tobias and Chivita (me). Oh God how fortunate were we, only to have that all go away -poof- just like that.

My grandpa was simply the best. I can still recall his jovial smile and his face plump up as he witnessed something that was probably incredibly ordinary, but for him was being in the presence of greatness. Like my son building a Lego set in our living room. “Wow papa”, as he would refer to my son,” That’s good-good job”! Or my daughter playing a xylophone and hearing his thunderous claps, encouraging her as if watching her in the audience at a musical theater.

Just like magic evokes a sense of wonder and awe, and prompts us to think, How did they do it? so did my abuelito. How did he make me feel nothing less than loved even when I was being a brat? Who else but grandpa could let us get away with anything even when we knew we probably shouldn’t be doing it? Or at the age of 82, still be the daily caregiver for his wife of 62 years? He had superpowers, nothing short of extraordinary to still be cooking, laundry and find time to make us all laugh. My abuelito’s greatest trick was never giving up on us, and always encouraging us especially when we didn’t think we could.

My abuelito’s magic is eternal. Even though he is gone, he still finds ways to “Wow” us with his memories.

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El vacío de la magia del Abuelo.

Si tienes tanta suerte como yo o mis hijos de haber crecido con un abuelo o bisabuelo, entonces comprenderás el vacío único que queda cuando ya no están a tu lado. Para nosotros, nuestro abuelo, “Lelo”, como lo apodaba mi hija, fue mágico.

No solo fui criado por mi abuelo y pasé prácticamente todos los días a su lado, sino que mis hijos, Shea y Lincoln, sus bisnietos, también tuvieron ese privilegio. Despertarse y hacer que los recostara en su sillón reclinable para el desayuno o que les diera el biberón y los descansara sobre sus hombros para hacerlos eructar cuando eran bebés, ¿quién más podría decir que su bisabuelo hizo eso? O tal como es la combinación perfecta de mantequilla de maní y mermelada, también lo eran Tobías y Chivita (yo). Oh Dios, qué afortunados fuimos, sólo para que todo eso desapareciera -puf- así como así.

Mi abuelo era simplemente el mejor. Todavía puedo recordar su sonrisa jovial y su rostro regordete al presenciar algo que probablemente era increíblemente común, pero para él era estar en presencia de la grandeza. Como mi hijo construyendo un juego de Lego en nuestra sala de estar. “Wow papá”, como se referiría a mi hijo, “¡Buen trabajo!”. O mi hija tocando un xilófono y escuchando sus atronadores aplausos, animándola como si la mirara entre el público de un teatro musical.

Al igual que la magia, evoca una sensación de asombro y nos insta a pensar: ¿Cómo lo hicieron? mi abuelito también. ¿Cómo me hizo sentir nada menos que amado incluso cuando no estaba siendo razonable?¿Quién más que el abuelo podría dejarnos salirnos con la nuestra, incluso cuando sabíamos que probablemente no deberíamos hacerlo? ¿O a la edad de 82 años, seguir siendo el cuidador diario de su esposa durante 62 años? Tenía superpoderes, nada menos que extraordinario para seguir cocinando, lavando ropa y encontrando tiempo para hacernos reír a todos. El mayor truco de mi abuelito fue nunca darse por vencido con nosotros y siempre animarnos, especialmente cuando pensábamos que no podíamos.

La magia de mi abuelito es eterna. A pesar de que ya no está, todavía encuentra maneras de “sorprendernos” con sus recuerdos.

On what would have been her 67th birthday, I gingerly lifted a yellow piece of paper shaped like a bell from the box of my parents’ mementos and looked quizzically at my dad. “Oh, Mom’s bell!” he smiled as he held it gently in his own hands, emotion and memories creasing his face.

Printed on it was “Your 21st – Many Happy Returns … Clint Castor’s Pretzel Bell” and inscriptions and signatures covered it like you might find in a yearbook. All written to my mom. My dad told me how it came to be:On September 12th, 1969, my mom celebrated her 21st birthday. She had already graduated from the University of Michigan in Ann Arbor — she was so intelligent that she entered college having skipped ahead two grades — and was then living in New York, working for IBM as one of precious few female programmers in that day and age.

She and my dad had been dating for a year and so she flew to Ann Arbor for a birthday weekend celebration — which included a gathering at The Pretzel Bell — a tradition my dad explained to me. A maize & blue paper bell was signed for you by everyone who shared the party with you. A time-honored U of M tradition. The Pretzel Bell eventually closed (after being open from 1934-1985) and my dad and I lamented this when we were looking at boxes of memories (including her paper bell that I alighted on) on my mom’s first birthday after her death, September 12th, 2015.

But that wasn’t where the story ended! The Pretzel Bell reopened in a new location also near campus in 2016. I learned this when the new Instagram account for The Pretzel Bell interacted with the photo of my mom’s bell from her 21st celebration. My dad was overjoyed and we agreed we had to visit on our next Ann Arbor trip.

That trip took place in October 2017, and that much anticipated visit to #meetmeunderthebell happened on a gorgeous Michigan fall Friday afternoon. It’s hard to find the words to describe how it felt seeing all of the memorabilia from a place where my mom and dad clinked glasses and laughed and celebrated with friends. Where love was stoked, where memories were made. Where they existed together before I ever existed.

We relished the terrific food, the Michigan local beverages, a stellar dessert, and simply lovely surroundings. My daughter, Amelia, made herself at home and the restaurant staff who cared for us could not have been warmer or more receptive and kind after hearing our story. Caring hearts. We were even treated to something special reserved for birthday celebrations: our own little bell, which Amelia rang repeatedly with a joy only a toddler knows.

Fast forward to 2024. The story was renewed again. Incomprehensibly it is nine years since my mama was alive, and three since my daddy was alive. That memento bell from our 2017 visit? I unpacked it from a box labeled “SPECIAL! Open ASAP!” moving into our new home and set it out on my dresser with a handful of other treasures relating to my parents.

Remembering how my daddy’s immense heart was constantly beating for honoring people and places and moments which made us. Realizing that purpose has melded with my own. Making plans for our upcoming Michigan trip to take Amelia and Luka to the Pretzel Bell to lift a glass to Grampy and Grammy and the love which paved the way to today.

If you’re ever in Ann Arbor, go. Lift a glass for my mom and my dad. And remember that places with history stay with us — even in life’s twists and turns.