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