This is the 20th anniversary of the saddest night of my life.
At 9:30 I walked through the door of my Venice apartment aware something was amiss. The door was ajar. On a cool evening, an ocean-friendly wind exhaled against my curtains, the house was dark and the television was running,
I found my brother lying dead on his back on the bathroom floor, extinguished cigarette in hand. Twelve hours had passed since his second heart attack struck him down.
Even though we were only months apart in age, we had less in common than I do with a Muslim terrorist.
He was one of the sweetest, quietest, handsomest, smartest, most introspective, insular persons you ever will encounter. No one ever has lodged any of those accusations against me.
In suspicious health the last 11 years of his life following a heart attack, he and I differed in areas beyond completely different sets of friends and interests.
Paul’s brother was born with a massive, unquenchable thirst for life.
Paul’s appetite was far more modest. Without complaint, he accepted, embraced what came his way.
When Paul died, previously unnoticed friends emerged from previously unnoticed woodwork.
Paul could have entered a room with President Trump and B. Hussein Obama, and left with Don and Bar hugging each other.
We lived together seven years after my divorce, and for seven years he was my rock.
We had one argument in seven years, and it was my fault.
I told my family after Paul died that it would have been better if I had died because I would have been missed much less.
Three other times in recent years I have been confronted with deaths of dear ones.
- My kid sister whom I barely knew – she was born just before I left home permanently.
- Pop, who died eight years ago at 94.
- Diane, my wife, who died in 2015 after suffering for three years with ALS.
Some are comforted by reasoning that the dear one has found a desired place in the world to come.
That failed to relieve me.
There is no substitute for life.