My baby brother died of Covid in February of 2022. He had gone to a dark place and despite having underlying conditions, he adamantly refused to be vaccinated. It was three weeks of hell from the day he went into the hospital until he died and I was afraid the whole time. Initially, he was alert and we talked and texted. Knowing how distrustful he was of the medical establishment, I walked on eggshells as I gently encouraged him not to dismiss their treatment recommendations. He blustered but accepted them and was “holding his own” during the first week. But the inevitable happened. His breathing worsened and his kidneys started to fail. Before being intubated, his last text message to me was saying he was scared and then a big red heart emoji.

Then came two weeks of ICU hell: days where staff did not think he would make it through their shift, fleeting moments of hope but always dread and fear. So many people prayed for him but he was the sickest person they had ever seen. I watched this little boy, now 57, who was adored from the day he arrived on the planet, die on Zoom. I used to tell people that when I was eleven years old, I had “ordered” my brother. I clearly remember being in the car with my mother and telling her that I was sick of my sister. “Why don’t you have another baby?” I pleaded. So, the “accident” baby, my brother, George M. Gregorian was born and instantly became the shining light of our nuclear and extended family. Everyone has a presence, an essence of course, but George’s was always louder, larger, and impossible to ignore. Outgoing, curious, annoying, kind, generous, smart, and up for anything, including allowing my sister and me to dress him up in girl’s clothing and send him to return Christmas trees we had deemed too skinny.

My mother worked outside the home so I took care of him. People sometimes thought he was my child. I was just a teenager and in the late 60’s that was quite scandalous. I didn’t mind taking care of him. I did all the things for him and with him that maybe I felt my mother didn’t do with me and later on, I realized that nurturing him was healing for me.
Christmas was so much fun when he was little and even as we aged. One memory I will cherish is of him walking into my home on a Christmas day about five years ago, with his Santa hat on, his arms full of gifts and a huge smile on his face. He was late, as usual, but how could I be mad? He was known for last minute shopping and buying gifts no one ever knew they needed or wanted.

Stuffing stockings with useless or kooky things was sort of our “thing” and George had a total of 5 stockings to hold all his loot. Some are labeled with his many nicknames, Georgie, Bad Georgie and Mazod (which means “hairy”) in Armenian. I can’t throw the stockings away and yet; my heart aches at the thought of Christmas morning without my brother.

One Christmas memory that I will cherish began rather tensely due to a family disagreement. I was enjoying an adult beverage to ease my nerves and somehow started to dance and sing to “Party Rockets in the House Tonight.” I am NOT a good dancer nor singer. Georgie took his phone out and started filming. You can hear him egging me on and giggling like a little boy until we both crumple to the floor in hysterics. I loved that we liked to bring out the fool in each other. Now that he’s gone, there is no one left to laugh with me and at me in quite the same way. I will miss you forever, Georgie.