Nyuck Nyuck Nyuck

Joey died on August 8, 2004. He was and still is my younger brother. Not as young as my “little” brother Ray, but eight years younger than I am. Coming from an atypical family, my siblings and I were close and dependent on each other. Diana, the oldest sister ( two years older than me) was our savior/protector. She took bullets for all of us. Joey and I were close in a Three Stooges sort of way. We used to bop each other on the head and do un-Godly things when one or the other was not looking; all in the name of fun. I would say that Joey and I did have fun. Our sibling relationship was not serious, it was silly. One night, I remember Joey and I decided to do the Three Stooges slap and bop on each other until we fell asleep. It was hilarious fun, though painful. We were the only ones who appreciated the joke.


Like my sister, I broke my way out of our parentalized childhood by leaving the house at sixteen years old. It was difficult keeping track of Joey and Ray after that. They remained with my distracted, misogynous dad and my hysterical, co-dependent mom. While attempting to disavow my parents, I also disavowed my brothers. It was much later, as an adult that I once again began to reach out and connect with my brothers and sister, however, by then both my brothers had reached the magic age of sixteen when all of my parents’ children turned into rolling stones and tore right through the front door, never fully to return.

Though we were spread all over the map, my siblings and I maintained a connection cemented through shared pain, and the knowledge that what we experienced was a common thread in our lives. We knew that our memories were real and unadulterated because we all had similar stories to tell.

By the time Joey found out, he had contracted Hepatitis C from a pre-1980 blood transfusion, we were both regularly in each other’s lives. I did not understand what it was my brother had. My sister, who is a nurse, seemed to be fatalistic about Joey’s chances of long-term survival, but I did not believe that. Joey was himself during this time; strong, capable, beautiful, funny, and angry. It was impossible to see how Joey could be terminal; it did not make sense.

It took ten years for the disease to crash down on Joey. After many treatments and a botched liver transplant, we learned that Joey’s liver was not only cancerous, but the cancer had metastasized throughout his organs. I was on the way to my daughter’s bridal shower that June of 2004. I knew that Joey was supposed to be having his transplant, and I prayed the whole way to Seattle. When the plane touched down, there was a message from my brother Ray. There would be no transplant. Joey was not going to make it; his life expectancy would be two years at best.

I remember the shower, the wedding dress fitting, and everything else that happened that weekend in Seattle like an underwater film. The filter that allows us to walk through each day was gone. There was only a feeling of unreality and senselessness in all that I did.

From Seattle I flew directly to Washington D.C. where my brother was still hospitalized; getting there just in time to see the liver surgeon in tears telling my family that Joey was not only going to die, but it would be much sooner than we expected. I became so angry and hard. It makes no sense now, but I tap danced outside of his room in the hallway of that hospital. I tapped danced and ran.

Joey died August 8, 2004. He died at home, submitting to his fate little by little. His breath growing slower and slower over a weekend of emotional pain unlike I have ever experienced in my life. The moment Joey died, I ran. I ran out of his door, down the street, and kept running until I could no longer breathe. I wanted to somehow keep as much distant as possible between his death and myself. Perhaps at that moment I wanted to make it not real. If I did not see it, it had not happened.

My daughter was married in Seattle exactly one week after Joey died. I never made it to his funeral because I was in transit to the West Coast. In many ways, it did not matter that I was not there. I was there before he died. I was there to hear his last words. He called me over to him, he could only whisper by then. I thought he was going to ask for something to drink or to tell me something important; not Joey…no, he called me over to call me “Fat Ass,” his endearment to me since we were kids. He also called my partner, Jo to him, held out his index finger, and said, “Phone home.” That was Joey; his last words were a call to our Three Stooges childhood. I am so glad Joey left this world being his sarcastic funny self.

I still regularly wonder where he went. Where do people like Joey go after death? He was anti-religion, though believed in a higher power and a guiding spirit. Where is he now? What is he doing? Perhaps he is slapping some angel on the head saying…woooooo woooooo wooooo nyuck nyuck nyuck.