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Final Chapter: Joy versus happiness (letting love in)

February 2, 2019

      This is the happiest I’ve ever been—or ever will be—in my life.

      That December morning I woke up curled under the blankets next to David. My head tucked in his chest, our limbs entangled, the delicious warmth of his body sheltering me from the winter chill. The scent of his skin—what I’d later call the smell of heaven mixed with testosterone—blended with the coffee aroma rising from the kitchen. The bubbling noise of the brewing coffee maker mixed with the gentle sound of wind chimes coming from the neighbor’s back porch.

      I slid closer and, still asleep, he instinctively held me tighter. Not once had I reached for him and not find him there, willing to take me in his arms. My heart soared in gratitude and bliss for that man I loved so much.

      “This is Nirvana,” my soul whispered.

      To which my mind would soon answer, “And, of course, it’s doomed to end horribly.”

      Wait, what?


January 12, 2019

      “Can you smell that? It’s the scent of the distant rain carried by the wind.”

      I stopped rowing, straightened my body in the canoe, and sniffed the air. All I could sense at first was the faint swampy smell of the Indian River’s briny water.

      “Ahh! Can you feel it?” David insisted. “Isn’t that a wonderful smell?”

      I inhaled deeply, fearing I’d disappoint him if I couldn’t get it—but this time I did.

 “You are right! I can smell it!”

     I smiled in surprise. The storm clouds were so distant on the horizon it was hard to believe we could smell the rain from there. Right around us there was no hint of bad weather. The Indian River waters were incredibly calm; as we rowed, a soft, warm late September breeze caressed my face. The sun had just set and the sky and water were still dyed the most amazing combination of orange, pink and burgundy that only a Florida sunset can create. Above us, a tiny slice of a new moon hung lazily.

     My thoughts wandered to that book about sacred shamanic ceremonies I had read once. “The new moon is the perfect timing for new beginnings.”

     Beginning of what? I couldn’t tell yet. At that moment everything felt surreal as if I floated in a pleasant dream. To say the least: for the past week I’d been haunted by memories of the future.

Chapter 11: The Art Show

November 10, 2018

Dancing couple

      Never in my prudish life would I have imagined I’d be dating four men in one week!

      It was a busy weekend on call, my kids gone to their dad’s, and I’d still managed to break my own record in that assembly line of platonic dates. The week had started saying goodbye to blue-eyed surfer (AKA Cheescake man) and ended with three prospects. Toto, I have the feeling we’re not in the DR anymore. As I headed to the Melbourne Art Show that Sunday, I tried to process it all.

Chapter 10: Memories of the Future

October 6, 2018

       I opened my rainbow-colored umbrella and stepped out of the car into the gray late September afternoon. The rain felt like a fine, cool mist spraying over my skin. I strolled to the coffee shop, skipping over puddles, while balancing on my peep-toe, black stiletto heels. I prayed the rain wouldn’t shrink my favorite purple flower, silk skirt, or mess up the hair I’d just finished doing. Minutes earlier, in my office, I’d carefully flat-ironed every lock of hair, and applied makeup on every inch of my face, aiming to erase my tears.

     The day before I’d had the last of several dates with Blue-eyed Surfer (AKA Cheesecake Man). He wasn’t ready to date seriously; I wasn’t ready to sleep with him—or anybody—so we’d agreed to not see each other again. 

Chapter 9: the finicky eater (searching for sushi man)

September 2, 2018

      “Oh thank, God! What a relief! You do look like your profile picture! You have no idea how many times I show up to a date and the woman is twenty years older than the picture she posted!”

      The same words I’d found endearing on that first online coffee date sounded much less cute when I heard them for the fifth time. So did the obligated next conversation starter.

      “So, you’re a hematologist, huh?”

      Actually, I’m a hematologist-oncologist. But I understood the urge to avoid gloomy cancer talk on the first minutes of a first date.

      “Yes, I am,” I would answer with a smile.

      Just like all his predecessors, the online-date-guy of the day would deviate his eyes, scratch his arm, clear his throat and shoot his best guess. “That’s the skin doctor. Right?”

Chapter 8: Playing with the boys (Daring to date)

August 5, 2018

     The blinking cursor on my laptop screen dared me. My friend Rosa begged, bargained and threatened, insisting that I do it. It was the boldest, bravest thing I’d done—and this comes from a woman who once jumped into a grave and gathered skulls in a sac. This present adventure was scarier and riskier.

      It was called, online dating.

      Recently divorced, I’d forced myself to socialize in small groups. Rosa had taken me under her wing to teach me the secrets of Single Life and kept putting pressure on me to sign up for

      But I was terrified.

Chapter 7: Libido CPR

April 14, 2018

      “Either my libido is dead for good…or I’m a lesbian and I still don’t know it.”
     The conversation with myself had been ongoing for a couple of days. It was my attempt to find a logical explanation for the fact that I’d been celibate for almost two years and the thought of having sex with a man didn’t turn me on and instead was vaguely unpleasant.
     In the past months, since my divorce finalized, my friend Rosa had taken me under her wing to teach me the secrets of Single Life, and kept encouraging me to sign up for online dating. But I was dragging my feet. I vaguely remembered saying once that I wanted a man in my life—but currently I couldn’t remember what for. Was it for company? For that, I had my children. Was it for emotional support? I had my friends.
     Wait. For sex?
     What’s that?


February 3, 2018

Single Life

     In a sea of long-faced doctors with not even time to brush their teeth—let alone their hair—my friend Rosa stuck out. When she entered the doctor’s lounge, a technicolor character blew into a black-and-white movie.
     Compare this, for example: Have you noticed how actresses in telenovelas wear red lipstick to bed, and chunky necklaces in the kitchen? Have you noticed how women newscasters look fine on the screen, but if you put them next to any other woman, their hairstyles and make up look abnormally perfect?
     Rosa was like that. When she passed by, you had to give her a second look—you could’ve sworn she was someone famous.


November 25, 2017

 “When we’ve finally learned the answers, God changes the questions.”

     In the midst of my social rehab after my divorce, I’d gotten off my butt, got out of the house, and out to brunch with girlfriends.

     I was proud.

     But then, stretching me out of my comfort zone, my friend Mary invited me to join her group of hospital friends in their weekly Happy Hours.

     (Sigh). Why is it that socializing with people has to mean drinking alcohol?

     I have an embarrassing secret: I can’t drink to save my life. I’m a disgrace for all Dominicans. 


November 11, 2017

      I’d had a massive stroke and was bedridden, and now I was expected to go run a mini-marathon.
     Not literally. But that’s how overwhelming facing the world of dating––and even socializing–– felt after my divorce.
     Like that stroke victim, when a patient is so debilitated that she’s become bedridden, the physical therapists start their treatment right in bed. Through passive exercises––doing the work for the patient by moving their limbs–– they slowly encourage the muscles to recover.
     I’d started started my own passive rehab for my social skills months back.
     It was called Facebook.

Chapter 3: I'm not normal (self-love)

October 14, 2017

      The ink hadn’t dried on my divorce papers when people started asking me why I wasn’t dating. Their pitying eyes seemed to say, “So, you don’t have a man? Oh, there must be something wrong with you.”

      Come on! I didn’t need people insinuating I wasn’t normal.

      I already knew that!

      I’ve always known I’m not normal. In fact, there’s a very good chance that I’m not an Earthling. Life on Earth has never come naturally to me. It’s as if everybody around me got a memo that I missed.

Chapter 2: Welcome to the boondocks!

June 15, 2017

     Welcome to Melbourne, Florida! A charming town on the Space Coast, strategically located not-far-from-anything-yet-close-to-nothing. Melbourne is also known as “Melboring,” “Ten miles past where Jesus lost his sandals,” and, as they say in the DR, “Where The Devil howled three times and no one heard him.”

      Moving to Melbourne implies becoming an expert in Florida geography—trying to explain to family and friends where home is. “It’s three hours north from Miami, two hours south from Daytona Beach. Have you ever heard of Cape Canaveral? Do you remember that old TV series I Dream of Jeannie, happening in the town of ‘Cocoa Beach?’ No, it’s not there, but not too far from there.” Eventually, I just gave up and simply said, “Close enough to Orlando.”

Chapter 1: homeostasis

June 5, 2017

      My mother used to say, “Daring the Devil isn’t the same as seeing him arrive.”

      Her advice crossed my mind as I stood at the courthouse, pen in hand, staring at the still wet ink on the papers in front of me.

      The documents had been signed.  My divorce was official. I was single.

      A single woman—in my thirties—living in the United States.

      For a terrifying instant, I remembered watching Sex and the City for the first time, when I’d nearly died of embarrassment.

      Was THAT what was expected of me?

      Uh-oh. I was in deep trouble!

Introduction: the naked man

      The first naked man I saw in my life was a cadaver. I was sixteen and a precocious college freshman. Around that time I had second thoughts about the crazy idea of signing up for medical school and knew that, unless I could prove myself able to face the morgue without fainting, it was a lost cause.

Miscellaneous short stories


March 31, 2018

     The Easter Bunny can be a freaky concept when you didn’t grow up with it.
     I mean, does the Easter Bunny lay the eggs? Rabbits aren’t even oviparous! And for what I gather, he’s a boy. Are you sure those are eggs and not something else? After all, they are brown in the inside.
     Growing up in the Dominican Republic (the DR) Easter didn’t include treats for kids. It was called “Semana Santa” (Holy Week) and there were only two acceptable ways to celebrate it: Either you spent it on your knees in church, or you spent it flat-on-your-face drunk at the beach. 
     Spring-Break Girls-Gone-Wild back off! Do you think flashing a camera is daring? Take risking your life. In the DR Spring Break (Semana Santa), was the holiday for “thinning the herd,” and “natural selection.” We all knew that not everyone who left home would return alive.


January 6, 2018.

     Have you ever believed something even when all evidence was against you?

     I do that every year. It’s called my New Year’s resolutions. “Sure, I never before stuck to this exercise program (or diet, or study routine), but this time it will be different. All because one day, long ago, Julius Cesar decided that January 1st was ‘New Year.’” (The truth? The Earth rotates endlessly around the sun, and doesn’t care about calendars).

     Everybody I know has some crazy belief. Think about the delusion that a Louis Vuitton bag is worth $3000. Just because it has a logo on it! (Really? Is it going to carry my wallet and my make up any better than my twenty-dollar bag?). 

The Art of Gifting

December 16, 2017

     The worst two presents I ever got were a multi-carat diamond ring and a Mercedes Benz convertible car.

     Before you slap me, hear this: The best presents I’ve gotten cost near to nothing.

     My husband David is the best gift-giver in the world. He can bring me to tears of joy with a present that cost under ten dollars. What is his secret?

     He pays attention.

     Like a ninja of love, he sneaks into my thoughts through casual conversations and finds out something connected to my happiest childhood memories. 

Halloween Special: have you ever jumped into a grave?

October 28, 2017

      One of my author groups sent me a challenge: to write a horror short story for Halloween.
      I passed. Trust me; you don’t want me writing horror stories. Some scenes of my life beat anything you’ve seen in the most hair-raising movies.
      One time, when I was only 18, I jumped six feet underground into a mass grave in the cemetery––yes, one full of dry skeletons. Like an amateur Indiana Jones, I landed inches away from a pile of bones.

They're not evil, they're mentally challenged (changing perspective)

September 29, 2017

     I used to enjoy messing around with the brains of racist people. That’s why I started lightening my hair. And I’m not proud of it – it’s not nice to make fun of people with mental challenges.

     Wait, that didn’t come out right. It sounded like an attempt to insult racist people, but it’s not. My little girl, Lili, has autism. I have great respect for people with special needs and I’d never joke about mental challenges. But this is my scientific theory: Racism is a variant of autism.

     Allow me to explain.


September 16, 2017


     As I type these lines my neighborhood still doesn’t have power. Every street and yard is a mess. Branches of trees lie everywhere. Fences and railings have blown over, and almost everybody is dealing with something broken on their house – from lost sidings, to leaky roofs.

     And if we dare to complain we deserve a whipping. Because that’s nothing compared to the losses so many people have suffered in the rest of Florida, in Cuba and the Minor Antilles Islands.

     Do I wish to rewind time and change the moment when I moved to Florida?

     Absolutely not.

Shopping is Good for you (Self awareness)

September 1, 2017

     I owe much of my current happiness to the practice of the ancient art of Bargain Shopping.

     I know what you’re thinking. Every woman loves shopping for new clothes and shoes and we’ll all find excuses to justify it. But I swear I’m serious. Bargain shopping was my brain-rehabilitation exercise for self-awareness. It lead me to reconnect with my lost inner voice.



August 18, 2017


      Sometimes a very small decision can change the course of your life. Especially if that decision requires stepping out of your comfort zone.

     I was fifteen years old. I was afraid of needles and terrified of the sight of blood. Even the smell of isopropyl alcohol, which I associated with hospitals, made me shake. But I needed community service hours for high school graduation, and the fastest way to get them was signing up as a volunteer for the latest pediatric vaccination campaign.

Did I go crazy? (Finding Love Against All Prognoses)

August 4, 2017

     “My poor friend Diely lost her mind. All that sleep deprivation and stress from Medicine and kids finally caught up with her and fried her brain”
     I smile, imagining that’s what many of my friends and relatives must be thinking right now.
     Seriously! Why is a Board-certified physician with a bunch of degrees in dead-serious matters (from Hematology-Oncology to Clinical Investigation) writing about all this crazy stuff?

Overcoming Fear (Genes and Memes)

July 22, 2017

     One of the biggest psychological triumphs of my adult life –  which I’m convinced helped propel me toward finding love – was learning to eat sushi.

     All my life I had a love/hate, fascination/terror relationship with sushi.

     In the pre-globalization Dominican Republic, where I grew up, sushi was a joke. It proved that people in rich countries who didn’t have to worry about hunger, water-borne epidemics, craters on the roads and lack of electricity eventually got so bored they lost their minds. 

Amazons and Mermaids (Forgiving Men)

July 11, 2017


     My grandmother Casilda once used her seamstress scissors to cut off a doll’s little penis. It was the first (and last) anatomically correct baby-boy doll my cousin Medry had. For a while, my sisters and I jokingly called our grandma “Lorena Bobbit.” (If you don’t get that reference, you’re way too young, or I’m getting too old. Please Google it).

     Mamá Casilda’s excuse that day was that she tried to put a diaper on the doll and it kept falling down. But the truth is that for her the view of a penis —even if an innocent, four-millimeter-long, plastic one—was intolerably disturbing.

Getting married to America: A love letter to the USA

July 4, 2017

Dear America:

     I’m not marrying you for your money, or your social position.  I’m not marrying you because society is pushing me or because “it’s time.” I’m marrying you simply because I love you.

     When I first started getting to know you, over a decade ago, I didn’t imagine I’d fall for you this way. I admit that you did impress me with your amazing skyscrapers and highways, your incredibly well-stocked grocery stores and your shopping centers — even the fact that electricity and water always worked amazed me. But back then, coming from a place where chaos and lawlessness are the daily bread, you felt too strict, so full of rules — so stiff. 

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