My very special friend Mary and I met through a horrifying tragedy. Mary lost her husband Mike and I lost my brother Johnny both from Covid in the beginning of the Pandemic in the New York-New Jersey area. We live 10 minutes from one another in Northern NJ and have been special friends for almost 5 years. We got to know one another after our loved ones died suddenly and unexpectedly. I could not have made it through the grief and trauma without her ongoing support, compassion and love. I am so grateful that we will always be there for one another for the rest of our lives.

Thank you, Mary.

My brother Johnny died in a NY Nursing Home early in the pandemic because of Andrew Cuomo’s very poor judgement and gross negligence. He was getting short term rehab following surgery and was getting ready to be discharged and go home. Cuomo sent active Covid patients into my brother’s nursing home from hospitals when The Comfort, a Navy hospital ship, and the Javits Center, as well as many other prudent options were available.

Johnny caught Covid and instead of going home wound up on a ventilator approximately 8 days after Cuomo’s March 25, 2020 directive encouraging nursing homes to accept hospital patients with Covid. Afterwards Cuomo underreported the deaths that occurred because of his recklessness. Now Cuomo wants to run for Mayor of NYC with the potential threat of Avian influenza. New Yorkers deserve better. So did all our loved ones who lost their lives.

Well, I haven’t been here for a while. This darkness, the sadness, the missing, the wanting. As I sit here with my thoughts, the TV’s on, just for the background noise. It’s been a rough couple of weeks, actually it’s been a little longer than that. Trying to heal through a shoulder injury and all the million details required to get anything done. The way the world has been turned upside down and there is no longer any stability, for anyone.

It hadn’t been easy, but I had been managing. I have to. I’m the daughter, the wife, the mother, the grandmother, the employee, and me. Usually, I find a way to balance everything. Trying to make sure I keep the important people first. There are lights that also help, the two-year old granddaughter who runs to me saying “I love you Gee!” as she throws her arms around my legs. The four-year old grandson, who quietly gently places his head against my arm and in a whisper asks, “Can you play a board game with me?” Their brother, who is always eager to share the new art technique or amazing fact he’s learned, just with me. They keep the shadows at bay. It becomes more difficult as more things pile on. Everyone has had the flu. As hard as it has been, I can’t imagine how horrible it would have been if we hadn’t been vaccinated. It’s reminiscent of Covid and distancing from Mom so she won’t get sick. Even with all of that, I had been coping.

It’s this chest rattling, bone shaking cough that hurts from the strained muscles I can’t get rid of, leaving me crying on the way home from work. The not feeling well, the unknown future, the simple fact that I just want my dad, that’s where I am right now. There’s a brindle-colored 82-pound dog named Hopi, who has placed her head in my lap, with her paws around me as write this, letting me know she’s here. Another light. I know this will pass. I’ll feel better. But right now, I don’t care what the calendar says. I’m six again, reaching up to my daddy. I want him to lift me up in his arms, wipe away my tears with his handkerchief, hug me and tell me everything is going to be okay. I need my dad. I miss him more than anything.

Driving home from work today, I heard that Roberta Flack had died.

I immediately began crying, so surprised by the sudden memory of my dad taking me to record store to buy “Killing Me Softly,” my first 45. I played it endlessly, every day after school, on my little record player.

Roberta died today at 88. If my father was still alive, he would be turning 95 this April …

As I approach the third anniversary of my brother’s passing from COVID-19, I find it’s time to share another story about him—one more chapter to be recorded at Who We Lost.

Georgie died on February 16, 2022. He was my baby brother, nearly eleven years younger than me, and from the moment he was born, he was a force—a presence you couldn’t ignore. Doted on by his mother, grandmother, and two sisters, he was the center of our world. My father, though not one to dote, was proud to have a son and let Georgie get away with just about anything.

After my father passed away, our mother, Vee Vee, began splitting her time between her own home in Florida and her three children here in Rhode Island. As she aged and needed more care, she spent most of the week with Georgie and stayed with my sister or me on weekends. Georgie had been divorced for many years so he loved having someone in the house with him. He owned and ran three businesses, including Frenchy’s Popcorn which had originally been established in 1956 by my parents. He had a lot to say about all this and my mother was his audience and sidekick. She was a willing companion on business errands and dinners out. He would cajole her to work at Frenchy’s Popcorn even into her early 80’s.

At one point, Georgie expanded his business, adding an ice cream shop. He hosted a ’50s night on Thursdays, complete with a DJ and classic tunes, and he insisted that Vee Vee come along. And so, she did—holding court in the crowd and becoming somewhat of a celebrity guest.

Then, in late January 2022, everything changed. Georgie was hospitalized on January 29. I rushed from work to his house to get our mother and bring her to my home. By then, her memory was failing, and she asked me—constantly —what was happening. At first, despite how sick he was, we could still FaceTime with him but the noise of the BiPAP machine made it hard to talk. Then he worsened. ICU. Intubation. A devastating cascade of multi-system failure.

The unthinkable happened.

Despite my prayers, despite my desperate pleas to God not to take him, I watched my baby brother take his last breath—on Zoom.

And then I had to tell our mother.

She refused to attend his funeral. She has never wanted to visit his grave. And even now, in the assisted living facility where she resides, our conversations always return to the same haunting questions and in the same exact order:

“Did Georgie die?”
“When?”
“What happened?”
What about the Frenchy’s trailer?

Some days, I can answer without breaking down. On other days, the weight of it is too much. A few weeks ago, she asked differently—Why isn’t Georgie visiting me? That hit hard. Her room is filled with photos of Georgie. In my favorite, he is five years old—so cute. I look at it and think, how could this little boy be gone?

I wish, more than anything, that he were still here.

My conversations with my mother always end the same way. Vee Vee smiles and says, “Oh, he was so much fun.”

And she is right. Georgie could make anyone laugh.

I still enjoy my life, the family I have left, my job, and my art but there is not much joy anymore. There’s not much silliness or fun without Georgie and I miss that most of all.