Heartbreak in Tulum: young man dies of monkeypox after doctors ignore his symptoms
We gathered in a circle by the sea. The priest offered blessings in the Mayan language. Standing before the waves, we released his ashes into the water. As they blended with the sea, he finally seemed free. He became one with the place that brought him so much joy.
- 6 days ago
November 28, 2024
Santiago, pictured before his passing from Monkeypox. | Photo courtesy of Claudia Follin.
TULUM, Mexico — Chasing his dreams, Santiago left for Mexico. He settled in Playa del Carmen, a vibrant haven of turquoise waters and lively streets filled with opportunity. At a hostel, he found joy managing its operations, welcoming travelers from around the world, Santiago became the warm, familiar face that greeted guests, shared stories, and offered advice.
He embodied the adventurous spirit of the place. Then, everything changed. I remember the call vividly. Santiago casually mentioned a small pimple on his nose. It seemed harmless, a detail hardly worth noting. Yet, that tiny blemish became the first sign of a nightmare we could not have foreseen. I never imagined that soon, I would lose my son to monkeypox.
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Santiago moved to Mexico, chasing his dreams
As a child, Santiago was a whirlwind of energy. His bright green eyes, alive with curiosity, burned like twin flames. At ten, he dressed as a gaucho for his folklore classes, tapping his boots against the ground with mesmerizing precision. Capturing everyone’s attention, he seemed oblivious to the applause. He focused solely on the rhythm he created and the harmony of his steps meeting the earth. Watching him, so small yet so confident, I marveled at his bravery.
There was something in Santiago’s gaze. He displayed a longing for more, a spark that hinted at dreams too vast for the confines of our world. He seemed destined to reach for something extraordinary. With his hands, he crafted costumes and brought to life characters of his invention. He transformed the ordinary into something magical. I often felt that even Córdoba was too small for him. His laughter lit up the house, and his heart seemed forever searching for something greater than himself.
Chasing his destiny, Santiago traveled to Mexico. He settled in Playa del Carmen. At a hostel, he managed the administration and welcomed travelers from around the world. Santiago became the warm, friendly face that greeted guests. To him, it was not just a job, it was a chance to connect, share dreams, and learn from the kaleidoscope of cultures passing through. In that lively, ever-changing environment, he found a sense of purpose and fulfillment.
Early signs of monkeypox: Santiago mentioned a small pimple
Mexico became the first chapter of Santiago’s grand dreams. He planned to save money, explore Europe, and eventually travel the world, reuniting with his sisters. He spoke passionately about his plans to visit Tulum, explore distant islands, and embrace every experience with the intensity that defined him. Santiago yearned for the journey itself. He dreamed of a life in motion, filled with discovery and endless horizons. The hostel job served as the beginning, with each step bringing him closer to the life he always envisioned.
Suddenly, one day, everything changed. I remember the call vividly. Santiago told me he had a pimple on his nose—something so small and seemingly insignificant that neither of us thought much of it. That tiny blemish marked the beginning of a nightmare we never imagined. A few days later, Santiago’s condition worsened. The hives spread relentlessly across his skin. A fever sapped his strength, and the pain in his joints and chest became so severe he could barely move.
He went from one doctor to another, but each dismissed his symptoms as stress or panic attacks. Our calls became a lifeline, fragile but vital, as he deteriorated. At first, he tried to sound upbeat, downplaying his condition. “It is just a cold, Mom, do not worry,” he would say. Yet, his voice betrayed him. It sounded muffled and devoid of spark. I pressed him for details, listening carefully for any sign of alarm, but he deflected. He often shifted the conversation to stories about the hostel or places he visited before falling ill.
Santiago becomes distant and fragile as his health rapidly declines
Each call left me feeling increasingly uneasy. Santiago seemed to be slipping away. With every conversation, I felt him growing more distant and more fragile. The Santiago I knew slowly faded from my grasp. The distance became unbearable. I wanted to be by his side, to support him through this ordeal. From Córdoba, I felt every one of his symptoms as if they were my own. Each time he described a new pain or the welts spreading across his skin, anguish surged through me.
Santiago admitted he no longer had the strength to leave his apartment and struggled to breathe. I urged him to see a doctor, but he dismissed my pleas, insisting it would pass. He echoed the doctors’ claims that it was just stress, like a temporary rough patch. My instincts shouted that something far more serious was happening. Feeling powerless, I knew he needed someone by his side, but all I could do was listen and support him from a distance.
Nights became torturous. Sleep evaded me as I replayed our conversations over and over in my mind, scrutinizing every word and pause, searching for answers. I pictured his once vibrant, strong body now fragile and vulnerable. The thought of not being there to help him tore at my heart. Often, I awoke startled, his image vivid in my mind. The crushing weight of his isolation in that apartment overwhelmed me. In those moments, a deep sadness consumed me, and I struggled to hold back my tears.
After numerous dismissals, doctors finally recognize the severity of Santiago’s condition
Santiago’s deterioration felt swift and harrowing. His messages grew brief, his voice faint and strained. With each conversation, his anguish became more apparent, and I sensed that Santiago knew his body was failing him. As his symptoms worsened, the situation spiraled into a nightmare. The welts spread to his face and genitals, while stabbing pain coursed through his legs, leaving him unable to walk. Deep, painful wounds formed on his face, making it hard for him to look at himself in the mirror.
A close friend stepped in, helping him get to and from the hospital, but every visit ended with the same dismissive diagnoses: stress or panic attacks. Each time he heard those words, his frustration and helplessness deepened, breaking him piece by piece. Santiago felt desperate for answers, but the medical system kept failing him. His strength, both physical and emotional, waned as the weight of uncertainty bore down on him.
After a final visit to the hospital, the doctors finally grasped the gravity of Santiago’s condition. They admitted him immediately, and tests confirmed an aggressive monkey pox infection that already spread to his lungs. His sister Rocío rushed from Chihuahua to be by his side. The attending physician, seeing Santiago’s fragile state, decided to intubate him. The last image of him conscious remains seared in my mind: his face covered in painful wounds, etched with a mix of resignation and suffering. In that hospital bed, his battle truly began.
A ruthless disease: aggressive monkeypox
For me, Santiago’s illness became an enigma. I knew smallpox seriously attacked the skin and weakened the body, but never imagined how ruthlessly it consumed someone as young and strong as my son. After his monkeypox diagnosis, I dove into available information. I read about symptoms, treatments, and outcomes. Each word filled me with a conflicted mix of panic and hope. I clung desperately to the thought that now we knew, and he was with doctors. I reassured myself of his recovery, but deep down, a gnawing fear began to take root.
Rocío called me regularly from the hospital, her voice trembling as she recounted his condition. She tried to sound strong, but her anguish seeped through every word. She described helping him eat, adjusting his position in bed, and lifting his spirits during moments when pain overwhelmed him. I absorbed every detail, feeling as though the torment she described happened to me. Sometimes, I broke down in the middle of our conversations, unable to contain my tears. I thought of Rocío’s strength, her courage in facing Santiago’s suffering up close, and I ached for both of them.
The doctors explained Satiago’s critical state and disease progression to Rocío. The infection spread beyond the skin, attacking his internal organs, particularly his lungs. His body seemed to be losing the fight on all fronts. Though the medical team worked tirelessly to stabilize him, the damage proved profound. The chances of a full recovery slipped further away with each passing day. The infection entrenched itself deeply.
Mexico became an endless nightmare of red tape and restrictions
Still, I refused to let go of hope. The thought of losing Santiago felt unbearable. I placed hope in his strength, youth, and resilience. I kept repeating to myself he had so much life left to live, so many dreams yet to fulfill. Yet, as the pain intensified and the sores multiplied, something in him began to shift. I sensed a quiet resignation. Getting to Mexico became an endless nightmare of red tape and restrictions.
In my desperation, I tried everything. I booked flights, completed endless paperwork, and made desperate phone calls. Yet, each attempt crumbled under the weight of bureaucracy. Time slipped through my fingers, each second heavier than the last. Every wait at the airport felt like a blow to my chest. The updates I received created a whirlwind of relief and dread. I became trapped in limbo. The financial burden also became immense. Between the emergency flight, mounting medical expenses, and the flood of required paperwork, the costs created a wall separating me from my son.
I didn’t have the luxury of time to figure out how to cover it all. So, we organized a collection. Friends, family, and even strangers came together to help. Contributions poured in like a web of hands reaching out to lift me in my moment of despair. This wave of solidarity became my lifeline, a glimmer of hope that I might still get to hold him again. In the meantime, Rocío recounted the days in the hospital, sharing how Santiago’s condition worsened and how every minute became a fight to breathe.
My son’s death hit me like a blow
My daughter called every night. She tried to sound strong, but I heard the anguish and fear in her voice. She told me about his condition but eventually said, “Mom, he can barely move.” Those words haunted me. She explained the doctor’s relentless efforts to ease his pain, but it remained constant, like a futile battle. Drained and weary, Santiago lacked the strength to even open his eyes. On rare occasions, he tried to smile at Rocío, as if to reassure her despite the overwhelming suffering etched in his body.
She told me his spirit seemed to diminish with each passing day, worn down along with his physical strength. Watching him fade, she cried silent tears by his bedside, helpless yet determined to stay with him through it all. On the night of September 1, my sister showed up at my door unannounced. Her visit felt strange, and the moment I saw her, a wave of dread washed over me. I did not need her to speak; I already knew.
“Did something happen with Santiago?” I asked, my voice trembling. She could not find the words; she only nodded, and in silence, my son’s death hit me. The news shattered me. A piercing cold gripped my heart, and an unbearable emptiness enveloped me. I hugged my sister tightly, searching for solace but finding none. Words felt meaningless. Together, we stood in the weight of our shared grief.
A cold reality set in: Santiago was no longer there to greet me
Images of Santiago flooded my mind—his bright green eyes, frank smile, and endless energy. A piece of me felt tore away. I understood then that I would never see him again. Our next meeting would be symbolic—a farewell in a world where Santiago no longer existed. Yet, I felt a part of him remained with me forever, intertwined with my being, guiding me through the silence of his absence.
On September 5, I traveled to Mexico. It was a journey I did not wanted to make, and the most heartbreaking of my life. My sister joined me, and her presence became a source of comfort. I clung to some fragile hope, telling myself this was not real. Perhaps I would find Santiago waiting for me at the terminal, just as he had the last time we met.
We boarded the plane and time seemed to fragment, stretching unbearably between each layover and flight. The hum of the engines and the murmur of passengers felt muted beneath the weight on my chest. My thoughts spiraled endlessly. I thought, I should have come sooner, much sooner. When I finally saw the lights of Mexico from the window, a cold reality set in. Santiago was no longer there to greet me.
The city loomed like something unfamiliar and hostile. However, it was also the last place where Santiago lived, laughed, and dreamed. I felt that contradiction. At the airport, my nephew and Rocio met me. Their eyes mirrored my pain, and their embraces kept me from crumbling. Together, we made our way to Tulum, where we held a ceremony for Santiago. The silence in the car felt heavy.
Santiago’s farewell ceremony felt perfect
Each step in my journey in Mexico brought me closer to the sea, to Santiago’s final resting place. As I neared a goodbye I felt unready for, I wrestled between denial and acceptance. The urge to hold on clashed with the need to let go. My nephew helped organize Santiago’s farewell ceremony. We chose a Temazcal in Tulum [a type of sweat lodge that originated with indigenous people]. It lay in a secluded spot in the jungle he loved. The vibrant energy, filled with music and life, mirrored his adventurous spirit. It felt perfect, just as Santiago would have wanted it.
We gathered in a circle by the sea. The priest offered blessings in the Mayan language. Standing before the waves, we released his ashes into the water. As they blended with the sea, he finally seemed free. He became one with the place that brought him so much joy. Twilight painted the sky in hues of orange and pink. The air carried the damp scent of the jungle mingled with the salt of the ocean.
Torches flickered around us, their light swaying to the rhythm of music played by a local DJ. The murmur of the crowd, soft laughter, and the familiar tunes Santiago cherished created a bittersweet harmony. Every sound and scent reminded me of his bold, carefree nature. Tears streamed down my face as the wind brushed my skin, carrying my whispered goodbyes.
For a moment, I felt him there in the music, the waves, the breeze. I felt him as part of the place he loved so deeply. It felt sorrowful yet peaceful. Our farewell to Santiago remains forever etched in my heart. Returning home felt as painful as leaving him behind. Santiago was my dream son, a free spirit who was kind and joyful. I hold onto his laughter and I often imagine the places he dreamed we would explore together.
