A virus, an empty medicine cabinet, and the haunting image of those who grow old alone reveal the depth of Cuba’s health and demographic crisis.

14ymedio, Havana, Yoani Sánchez, August 1, 2026 / Day One. I wake up with a tingling in my right shoulder. “I must have slept in the wrong position,” I tell myself. By ten in the morning, the discomfort has spread to my other shoulder and upper back. I keep hoping it’s just some muscle spasms, the result of all the acrobatics I have to do in bed during a night with a blackout and mosquitoes. But by the afternoon, it’s clear I have something more. I’ve caught one of those many viruses circulating in Havana, where the epidemiological situation worsens with each passing hour.
I start taking stock of the medications and medical supplies I have on hand. There aren’t many because the illness has hit my family and my neighbors hard in recent months, so a good part of the medicine cabinet is empty. There are two dipyrone tablets left, no thermometer, and the oral rehydration salts are gone. “It can’t be that bad,” I fool myself a little, although when night falls I know this isn’t the result of curling up in bed trying to find some air, nor a passing discomfort. The early morning will confirm it in the worst way.
The headaches are so intense I can’t sleep. They’re throbbing and seem to come from everywhere. Behind my eyes, in my forehead, on my cheek, and near my ears. Just when they reach a crescendo and I think I’ll get a few seconds of relief, they start up somewhere else. Sitting down is torture because then the throbbing becomes even more frequent. I’m irritated by sounds, lights, and the hum of the nearby Ministry of Transport power plant. When I try to get up, I realize I can’t speak or swallow. My entire neck, throat, and larynx are swollen and painful.
I resort to a Chinese ointment I found at the last minute. I rub it in until it’s all gone. Then the fever hits. I take a second dose of dipyrone and start crying for a thermometer. But my head hurts more as the tears flow, so I try to compose myself. What is this? Where did I catch it? Trying to answer these questions is as futile as it is agonizing. The hospitals lack the reagents to determine the name of what’s afflicting me, but I suspect it’s a virus I caught through a mosquito bite. continue reading
The hospitals lack the reagents to determine what the name of what’s wrong with me, but I suspect it’s a virus I contracted through a mosquito bite.
All the precautions I took were in vain. Finally, the insect carrying this infectious agent reached me. So many citronella incense sticks burned at night, so much repellent spray used before leaving the house, so many long-sleeved shirts and pants to avoid bites, and finally the virus entered my body. There’s no way to prevent it in a city overflowing with mountains of garbage, mired in an epidemiological crisis, and without an anti-vector campaign to reduce the mosquito population.
The second day is the worst. The fever sends chills through my entire body; I can’t get out of bed, but lying down is painful. Images race through my mind, chaotic and senseless. The rigidity spreads throughout the rest of my body. My family asks if it’s time to take me to the hospital. “To the hospital?” I reply, alarmed. There’s no electricity; in this condition, I’ll never be able to go down 14 flights of stairs, and just imagining that when I get back the power will still be out and the elevator won’t work makes my temples throb. Besides, the emergency rooms are overflowing with people like me: feverish, weak, and desperate. They can’t do much for the wave of patients arriving. They don’t have the capacity to run tests to determine what’s wrong with us, they don’t even have syringes to give injections, and the disputes with the desperate patients make the ER feel unsafe.
I decide to stay home. The following night is brutal. My fever is rising, but I’ve finally got a thermometer and can measure it; the chills are getting more intense, and new, very unpleasant symptoms are appearing, like diarrhea. I have no appetite at all, but I force myself to drink as much water as I can, even though it hurts terribly to swallow and the nausea isn’t helping me stay hydrated. In the midst of the darkness and the heat of the blackout, which I no longer feel thanks to the 39 degrees Celsius my body has reached, I start thinking about other patients in parallel situations, but under different circumstances.
Emergency rooms are overflowing with people like me: feverish, weak, and desperate. They can’t do much for this wave of patients arriving.
I imagine Matilde or Pancho, elderly people who live alone because their children have emigrated. They’ve been caught off guard by the same virus as me, but they have no shoulder to lean on and no way to buy, on the black market, the thermometer and dipyrone they need. In the delirium of fever, I can almost see them. In their beds, drenched in sweat, trembling, with the kitchen and dishes unwashed, with no one nearby to hear their faint voices pleading for help, with the power outage that has lasted for more than twenty hours, spoiling what little they had in the refrigerator and leaving them without water in the pipes.
Pancho and Matilde will keep me company for part of the time. I imagine them in their beds, with flies buzzing around and the stench growing. I manage to get a little chicken broth down my throat. It’s the last bit that survived the complete thawing after long hours without electricity. It soothes me, but I can barely swallow, so I only take a couple of spoonfuls. I go back to bed, where I’ll spend the next twelve hours in a continuous stupor, accompanied by the stories of those other patients who are going through the same thing, but with even more difficulty.
Where did I get infected? I’m obsessing again. Does it matter? I try to calm my mind. But there’s nothing more unproductive than trying to push away an obsessive thought. I remember a few days ago I was in a part of Central Park where I was attacked by mosquitoes. There were so many of them in such a short time that I can’t forget that moment. Several benches were occupied by homeless people. Are they sick too? How do you survive something so debilitating while living on the streets? People walk by and don’t notice that you’re shivering, that you’re moaning, that you’re sick.
The third night arrives. I convince myself that I’ll feel better when I wake up, that the worst is over. The fever subsides, the sore throat lessens, but sleep remains a struggle, plagued by aches and pains all over, the heat from the blackout, that affects me again, and the obsessive images that come my mind. I dream I’m beside the bed of an old woman with filthy sheets, pleading for help. There’s no one around.
A helping hand is needed to support the convalescent, someone to assist them to the bathroom, and that is very difficult to pay for from abroad.
Then I’m in an armchair in a dilapidated mansion where an elderly man tries to stand up and ends up falling to the floor because his legs won’t support him. Nor does anyone come to help. The number of elderly people living alone on this island has been growing due to the mass exodus. In times of health crisis, a remittance or a food package can hardly help; what is needed is a hand that comes to rest on the convalescent, someone to help with going to the bathroom, and that’s very difficult to pay for from abroad.
I wake up and try to get up, but the stiffness in my hips, knees, and ankles won’t let me. I diagnose myself with chikungunya. By then, I imagine Matilde and Pancho must be very ill. One must be on her way to the hospital after her neighbors noticed her absence; the other is perhaps still lying on the living room floor. Because, although the virus isn’t particularly lethal, going through it alone, in a country where even running water isn’t guaranteed and hospitals are lacking supplies and overwhelmed with patients, the chances of not surviving increase. The images of the shivering old woman in the room and the man collapsed on the floor no longer return.
I’m having my first coffee in many days, but it tastes bad. I’ll have to keep fighting this.
The “Havana Chronicles” series can be read here.
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