“Every time I see your face,
It reminds me of the places we used to go.
But all I got is a photograph
And I realize you’re not coming back anymore.”
-By Ringo Starr and George Harrison

“You might want these,” my sister says as she hands me two photographs. It’s Christmas morning and I’ve joined her family to celebrate the holiday after a three-year gap due to the COVID-19 pandemic. I look at the photos – one of me and one of my late partner, Jody. We’re dressed in ski gear at the base of one of the ski slopes at Mohawk Mountain in Connecticut. As I look at Jody’s photo, I realize that this is one of the few photos I have of him when he was walking. It would be just a few months later that he would experience a severe exacerbation of his multiple sclerosis that would leave him using a wheelchair for the rest of his life. Thinking back to that day, that wasn’t anything we anticipated. I just remember how much we laughed.

***

It was a typically gray winter morning, the Saturday of the President’s Day weekend in 1988. Our friends, Joe and Rob, picked us up early at Jody’s apartment and we headed from the city toward the ski resort in Connecticut. The traffic was light and we arrived within ninety minutes. Then, the “fun” began.

None of us had our own gear, so the first stop was the rental shop where we were fitted out with skis and boots. As a first-time skier, I should have known trouble was in the offing. It seems that ski boots are designed to make you lean forward so your legs are in the proper position for skiing. As for me, they made me feel like I was going to fall flat on my face… but that would come later.

Joe and Rob were experienced skiers so they headed off to the more advanced ski trails. Jody, intended to hit a medium level slope, but dragged me over to the place where I would get my “introduction to skiing” lesson. He gave me a quick kiss on the lips and headed off to his trail, leaving me to my fate.

Once he was out of sight, I looked around to see that I was the only adult amid a swarm of preteens. The instructor demonstrated all the basic movements involved in skiing and had each of his pupils perform them. He had to give me extra attention because I was slow in catching on. In fact, I was the only one who fell on his butt – repeatedly. And, to think, I paid extra for all that embarrassment.

After each of his runs, Jody stopped by to see how I was progressing. One time, he arrived in time to see me arrayed in all my glory, face down in the snow, having tripped over my skis. I was mortified, but after watching him laugh, I could see the humor in my ineptitude.

Gradually, I started to improve and I was declared ready for the “bunny slope.” Jody was off on one of his runs so my first runs were done solo – thank goodness. I would fall and get back up and continue. Eventually, I finished a few runs without a problem. By then, Jody had returned and he skied with me on the bunny slope giving me pointers and suggestions for improvement. We skied for hours and, while I can’t say I was thrilled with the overall skiing experience, I was elated to spend the time with Jody.

Late in the afternoon, we caught up with Joe and Rob and returned our rented gear. We stopped for a meal before heading back to the city where they dropped us back at Jody’s place.

Long hot showers helped loosen up the normally unused muscles we had taxed that day, and we fell into bed, dropping into a deep sleep dreaming of the next adventure we hoped would come.

***

Gazing at the photo now, I have to smile — we were so young, still bubbling over with the love shared by a new couple. Jody was so happy that day. His diagnosis of MS had weighed on him and that day helped him to forget those cares at least for a while. I don’t know if he realized it or not, but he proved to me how caring a person he was by interrupting his own ski runs to check on me and my progress. Over the years, Jody always insisted “I will walk again,” and did everything he could to maintain the strength of his legs. From time-to-time, a smile on his face, he would even say to me “we should go skiing again.”

When we were first dating, he had a low rider Camaro. He lived one street from me. He had a sound system that I could hear from my house. My entire neighborhood knew he was coming to see me because he would play “Amigos tuve una novia,” a Spanish song by Los Dinámicos del Norte. My neighbor told me, months after he passed, that every time she hears this song she can see him driving to my parents’ house.

My father passed away Christmas night 2020; it was also his 75th birthday. It breaks my heart that he had to fight this horrible virus all alone. No one there to hold his hand or provide comfort.

We will be reminded every Christmas of my father’s passing. I try my best to find comfort that he passed on our Lord’s birthday. But I have to admit, my heart may never be whole again.

On March 15th, 2023 it will be three years since the mayor of New York City, the greatest city on earth, cancelled the Saint Patrick’s Day parade after days of deliberations. During world wars it was never cancelled. How could this be? How dangerous was this “corona virus” as they were calling it then be that much of a threat to us when they were planning on having the parade?

Why did everyone let us down and not tell us the truth when they knew about it? Over 1 million Americans have lost their lives because our government failed to tell the truth about Covid. NYC was concerned about the millions of revenue they would lose if they cancelled the parade. They have already forgotten because in two weeks the St. Patrick’s day parade will go on as if Covid never existed.

My sixty-five year old brother Johnny went into a hospital for surgery followed by short rehab in a nursing home three years ago and never came home. Because of the poor Pandemic preparation and poor infection control almost everywhere, he caught Covid and died.

He was a gentle and kind soul and we shared a most wonderful childhood as well as our teenage and adult years together. I lost so much of my past and future. Johnny was the one I was the closest to the most years of my life. Johnny was my confidant the most years of my life. For the most years of my life he was my best friend. Why does sibling loss and grief appear so neglected and underappreciated?