Page created by: Elsa Fernandez

My quietly loving father, my mom's devoted husband, my children's and niece and nephew's rock of a grandfather. My husband and sister-in-law's kind father in-law. A helpful neighbor, and loyal employee. A dependable brother to fourteen siblings, and his parents’ proud and joy.

Carlos Manuel Ojeda was a remarkable and strikingly quiet man. A hard working provider, who selflessly toiled until the day this crippling disease prevented him from picking up a hammer or saw ever again. A carpenter by trade, he built his first marital home with his own two hands. Born in Cuba and driven out by a regime that did not value personal sacrifice or hard work, he left his birthplace in 1968 with my mother and one-year old brother, to build a new life in the US, a country that did value hard work and personal responsibility. Not knowing the language never stopped him from using the greatest tools God gave him to the best of his ability: his strong hands, unusually long arms, tireless work ethic, and quiet kindness. Never accepting a nickel of welfare, my father worked in construction until he was 70 years old. He stopped only after realizing he would end up severing a lot more than an index finger if he continued, due to the trembling that had begun in his hands. Even after having to reattach a piece of his finger, he continued to work for several months, but eventually understood he could no longer safely do so. His inevitable decline accelerated when he stopped working for a living.

A man of even fewer words after the official diagnosis, he continued helping wherever he could as the family handy-man, which was essentially his lifelong hobby. But when his disease attacked his internal organs, necessitating emergency colon surgery, his body could no longer perform even the most basic task. His devoted wife, my saint of a mother, transformed herself into his caregiver, day and night. That full-time role took its toll on her, depleting every bit of energy she had. Still, without ever complaining, she carried out what she knew was her responsibility, accepting it gracefully.

The enormous sacrifice of the caregivers of those stricken by this horrific disease cannot be overstated. With her own health and sanity affected, my mother tirelessly cared for her husband until she could no longer do so on her own. For the last eight months of his life, my mother visited my father every day at the assisted living facility our family helped her choose for him. We lost him after his sixteen-year battle with Parkinson's. He died the summer of 2016, but will forever live in our hearts and souls.

May you rest eternally in peace in God's grace, Papi. Your silent love will forever be seen and felt. Seen in all the carpentry your long arms and strong hands so lovingly built around our family's homes, and felt deep within our hearts when remembering your kind, quiet smile.