My brother David was a pain in the ass. He was born jaundiced (literally). As I said, I hated him when he was first brought home. I was a solo artist and suddenly he’s part of band, forcing me to share lead vocals. Fuck him.

But he was cute. Bright red hair. A sweet little face. Amber eyes. Even though one day before school I decided to stick my foot behind me as he was running past me in the kitchen and he cracked his head on the floor (it wasn’t that bad).

I did like him. I’d read him Ozma of Oz before he went to sleep. I made funny voices for him, his favorite being Clyde the Clam. He loved dinosaurs and Star Wars and he was like Tom Sawyer, getting friends who’d sleep over to make his bed and clean his room.

We went to the same day school, and every time he saw me in the halls he’d shout, “That’s my sister!” He always had so many friends. He didn’t want to go to high school where I was forced to go—Ramaz–so he made a deal with my parents: if he took the test and got into Stuyvesant, he could go there. My parents laughed and said, “Sure!” But he got in. So they had to let him go. I envied him his laic status while I was submerged in the parochial.

After he saw my father die, my brother went out every night. With his girlfriend, with his friends, he just didn’t want to be home. He went to Washington University and was a political science major but he never knew what he wanted to do. One day he’d decide to be a French chef, the next day a tap dancer, or a guitarist (he taught himself to play).

He moved in with his girlfriend, Randi. They wrote songs together. David and I would talk on the phone and tell each other our secret fears. He was terrified of getting cancer. For no tangible reason I was convinced that I had AIDS because I’d had unprotected sex twice. With two different guys. My fear soon dissipated. As did David’s.

Then on Yom Kippur night, 1995, my mom called me up sobbing. She couldn’t talk, so her asshole second husband, Norman, got on the phone. “Your brother has cancer. He’s in a hospital in St. Louis. Your mother can’t talk. She’s going there tomorrow.”

I found out what hospital he was in and called his room. He said, with a slight smile in his voice, “Tam, I got the Big C.” I flew to St Louis a day later. He had leukemia. He’d had a constant headache for three weeks and when he started sweating and could barely walk, Randi drove him to the nearest hospital, where it was discovered that he a million white blood cells and would probably have died if he hadn’t been brought in.

He went through chemo and a bone marrow transplant (they found a perfect match). My mother stayed with him for 8 months. Norman hated David for taking my mother from him. Story of David’s life. But he was cured. The cancer was gone.

About six months later he was diagnosed with toxoplasmosis. From touching cat litter during the chemo. It calcified certain parts of his brain. He recovered, with just a bit of brain damage. Not horrible.

He moved back to New York and his doctors in the city took him off the anti-toxo meds. Then his housekeeper found him bruised, unconscious, on the floor of his apartment. He’d been there for two days like that. He was unconscious for a week. My mother was terrified.

Finally he woke up. He’d had a grand mal seizure because the toxo had returned. He had to re-learn how to walk and talk and eat. He went to a facility in Long Island and got better. But the damage was more severe. He needed 24-hour help. My mother sued the NY doctors on his behalf and won. He had so much money at his disposal. But fewer and fewer friends.

Because he was a pain. He’d only talk about his illness and wouldn’t leave his apartment. He’d call my mother about six times a day. Norman was always furious with him. Mom was exhausted and torn in two.

And then in 2009 my mother died suddenly, at her home, after she’d just had a successful minor surgery. I had visited her every day in her private room (in her high-pitched voice: “Oh, fuck it, Tammy, I want room service!”). Then she was released on 10/31 – I had a Blondie band show that night but spoke with her in the late afternoon and she sounded hale and chipper, “Normie’s being an angel! I feel so much better!” (Normie being her second husband.)

The next morning I got a call and said, “Hi, Mom!” It wasn’t Mom. It was their housekeeper, Olga, who said, “Your mother…she died.” The hardest part was telling my brother. He started screaming and crying hysterically. My mom was his world.

We arrived in front of her apartment in a cab. I saw the coroner’s car. As soon as we got upstairs Norman started yelling at David about something. Norman’s daughter, who was already there, said, “Dad, he just lost his mother. Lay off.” I went into the bedroom and saw my mother’s body, lifeless on the bed. Her lips were parted. I wondered if she’d tried to cry out but stupid Norman didn’t hear her. But what’s the use of speculating.

I loved her so much. I was devastated. Couldn’t eat or sleep for about a week. But I went on and did the play that I’d been rehearsing prior, and had more emotional stuff to draw on. Always an upside. Chamber Music, by Arthur Kopit. Directed by Austin Pendleton. I played Pearl White. I sometimes sing to my mother onstage–Marianne’s “The Ballad of Lucy Jordan” or Nico’s cover of “My Funny Valentine,” which is quite the version. I don’t know if Mom hears me or not.

David never recovered from our mother’s death. His body weakened. He needed a wheelchair. I kept pushing him to do physical therapy, to try to walk. He tried, but would give up easily. He spent his money lavishly on food and gifts for his home health aids. He wanted to marry one of them. She wanted to marry him too until she realized she wouldn’t be allowed to spend any of the lawsuit money.

He got weaker. I went to see him on my birthday, July 30th, in 2014. He gave me $500. I told him I couldn’t take it. He said I had to. We put on a record (maybe Janelle Monae?) and he stood up and danced with me. It was a really good visit. I spoke to him the next morning and around 6 PM the day of the 31st.

He told me he was lonely. I told him we’ll fix that somehow, we’ll figure out a plan. Together. I got a call from a policeman at around 11:30 PM, that same night. David had died. He was 44.

I felt a strange sense of freedom. Eerie freedom. No one to answer to. No obligations. That night my husband Keith and I went to his apartment to wait for the coroner. I hugged his still body. His dog wouldn’t leave him and just sat on his chest.

I don’t know if I miss him. But I know I can’t think about him without crying.

Pictured below: David

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