On August 19, 2008, I received a frantic call from my older sister Cuky (pronounced “Cookie”) at just after seven in the morning.
“Oh my God, Sonia,” she said, as if she had just been punched in the stomach. “Bruce died!”
“What?” I said, shaking myself out of the deep slumber I was in only moments ago.
“Bruce died.”
“No!” I responded in shock. “When? How? What do you mean?” I pummeled her with question after question, confused and disbelieving.
“He died in his sleep last night. In Durango.”
“You’re kidding. I can’t believe it,” I responded, completely in shock.
Breathing deeply, and now speaking more calmly than ever, but still clearly shaken, she assured me it was true. “Yes, honey. He died in his sleep.”
“Oh no! Bruce!” I cried, realizing my brother had slipped out of my life forever. “I just talked to him two days ago. He asked me for the Rolling Stones documentary Shine a Light for his birthday. I just ordered it for him. He can’t be gone.”
“I know. It’s unbelievable,” she answered, sounding as stunned as I now was.
“How did you find out?” I asked. “Who told you?”
“Noelle called. Bruce’s girlfriend called her and let her know. She was afraid to call Mom and Dad.”
“Do they know yet?”
“Yes, Noelle went over there and told them in person about an hour ago.”
Poor Noelle. She was always the kid in the family to do the hard things like this.
“How are they?” I asked, suddenly afraid for them, especially for my mom. They were not young. How would they take this news? They were both so devoted to taking care of Bruce.
“I’m not sure. I’m going to call now and check on them. Call Noelle.”
I hung up the phone and stared into space. My brother had had a difficult life. He’d struggled with schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, addiction, and depression, as well as a whole slew of physical ailments ever since he was a teenager. But he always seemed to hang in there and had recently seemed to be doing much better.
He was a difficult brother to have, because of both his illnesses and his stubborn temperament. We all loved him very much and tried our best to support him, but he was willful and did things his own way, which at times was self-serving and shortsighted, causing an awful lot of drama in the family, especially for our parents.
At heart he was mostly just a kid. He was a drummer and played in bands for much of his life. That’s what led to his drug problems more than anything. It was part of his rock-and-roll world. He was also an artist, a poet, and a great cook. He loved music; food; friends; his family; and, of course, his kitty cat, Winter Girl. He had a huge heart and never shut himself away in spite of his challenges.
Bruce’s finest achievement was graduating from college with a degree in computer design, which he had only recently completed. Because of his mental illness, it was difficult for him to concentrate, and yet he was determined. Only months earlier, he had walked with all of the other graduates of the University of Colorado, Denver, to receive his diploma. It was a glorious moment in his life, and we were all so proud of him.
Over the years, my parents supported him in every way. While he lived with his girlfriend of many years, it was my parents who made sure his life was on track. Especially my dad.
Because Bruce didn’t drive, Dad drove him to school, to his doctors’ appointments, and to get his groceries. He also helped Bruce pay his bills and take care of the house that his girlfriend owned and in which he lived. He was endless work and wearied us all.
Both parents checked in on Bruce every day, several times a day, and had for years. In fact, my father’s biggest worry was wondering who would take care of Bruce after he died, even though we reassured him that we all would and not to worry. He did worry, though. A lot. Bruce was a handful, and Dad questioned whether we would be able to handle him with the same patience that he had.
Recently we were all feeling very optimistic about Bruce. After what seemed like a lifetime of drama and trauma, he seemed to be feeling and acting better than ever before, and more self-reliant in every way.
His long-standing girlfriend had been transferred from Denver to Durango, Colorado, and he had decided to spend the summer there rather than be apart from her. She had secured a decent job in a pharmacy after also having had a fair amount of emotional and financial setbacks. My family was relieved and encouraged to see each of them standing more and more on their own two feet for a change.
Underneath his illness and drug use, Bruce had a sweet nature. He had the best smile in the world, and to experience it made you immediately smile right back. We were very close when we were young, as he was only a year older than me. We played and plotted as only siblings can do, and managed to get into a lot of trouble while growing up.
That started to change around the age of ten, when he got his first drum set. I was left in the dust for rock-and-roll. Bruce played in a band with my other brother Neil, and then went on to play with many other bands over the years. Unfortunately, along with that world came a lot of drugs, which scared me to death. I ran away, and he dove in. He tried them all, and some grabbed hold of him, ravaging his mind and body.
Eventually Bruce broke down and needed medical care and treatment, mind and body, to keep him alive and healthy. But once he decided to get well, he stayed the difficult course and seemed to be slowly succeeding, particularly with the help of my father.
We were encouraged and even excited when he decided to move to Durango. That showed he felt strong and confident because he was stepping away from my parents’ daily support.
Once there, he took up yoga to pass the time and keep fit. He lost more than 35 pounds, which was great because he had gained so much weight in his stomach due to the drugs he was taking for his ongoing mental problems. He was proud of this and seemed happier than he had been in a long time.
In fact, I’d just had perhaps the most rewarding conversation in years with him only two days earlier, and so hearing that he was dead was almost impossible to absorb.
Sitting in silence, I prayed for Bruce’s spirit and his peaceful transition. Then I picked up the phone and made a reservation to fly to Denver. It was time to go home and lay him to rest.
The funeral was surreal. My parents, although shattered, were strong and dignified. My dad was mostly quiet and very emotional. He hardly spoke as he fought back the tears, as most men of his generation did. My mom vacillated from being wildly optimistic that Bruce was now in heaven to being genuinely confused and overwhelmed that he had died. She was clearly in shock, and it wasn’t wearing off.
My brothers and sisters and I surrounded them both and did our best to comfort and blanket them from the pain they were no doubt suffering. All I could think of was that he was at last free of a life of physical torment. I was glad for that.
Six weeks later, I traveled to Japan to teach a workshop. It was a quick trip, and I returned home after five short days. When I landed, I received a message on my voice mail that my husband, Patrick, would be meeting me inside the terminal, which was something he never did. If anything, because I travel so much, if he picked me up at all, he usually just pulled up to the curb at the airport and I jumped in the car once I had my bag. Sometimes I just took a cab home. Coming inside to meet me was all wrong, and so was his voice. Suddenly I was scared.
I retrieved my bag and quickly skirted through customs. Once I walked out from behind the customs hall doors and into the terminal, I saw Patrick standing there waiting for me, his face completely white.
I walked directly up to him and asked, “What happened?”
He shook his head and grabbed my hand and said, “I’m sorry, Sonia. Your dad died this morning.”