Gone for 30 Years, Woody Is Always With Me
One of the most lasting and wrenching transitions of my life was losing my brother Woody 30 years ago. I was 47 and Woody, my best friend and confidant, my ally, my teacher, was 54 when he died of complications from AIDS. Some of the light went out of my world.
I always think of Woody at this time of year — his birthday and World AIDS Day are in December. But year-round, he’s never far off. The times that I smiled or laughed as a child, the times I was happy, Woody was there. He could wrap his laughter around me.
When he called to tell me his T-cell count was so low his physician gave him only months to live, he asked me to do two things for him. First, would I take his dog Shaughnessy and love her as much as he did? (Of course.)
And would I wear a black satin dress to his funeral and throw myself on his casket, sobbing, like the character in the 1959 movie, “Imitation of Life”? (Our parents firmly nixed it!)
He never lost his sense of humor through many battles with AIDS — friends’, his partner’s illness and passing and, three years later, his own death.
A few weeks before he died, his former partner, Van, came from Chicago to help care for him. One afternoon, Woody woke from a nap and heard sirens in the distance. He yelled, “Van! Come quick. I need help!” Van ran to the bedroom and Woody said, “Do you hear those sirens? You’ve got to hide me! They’re coming to arrest all the beautiful people.”
On my last visit before he died, Woody took me to the Sunday morning service at his church, where most of the members were gay men. The minister read the names of those who had died of AIDS since the previous Sunday. It was a long list. I was weeping, holding my brother’s hand, knowing that it wouldn’t be long before Woody’s name was on that list.
This was May 1995, the height of the AIDS epidemic. More than 4,100 Americans were dying every month — over 50,000 that year. Fear of HIV was widespread, and even more discrimination, intolerance and hatred of gay men. The funeral director wanted a ridiculous amount for Woody’s cremation. “Take it or leave it,” he said. “This is the only funeral home in Fort Lauderdale that accepts people who die from AIDS.”
The way he approached death was another of Woody’s gifts. For the last years of his life, Woody, a former hospital administrator, volunteered at hospice and AIDS organizations to promote AIDS awareness and compassion; some facilities that had turned AIDS patients away slowly started working with them. He took both friends and strangers with AIDS into his home, caring for them as they died.
Woody taught me the importance of championing the rights of all people, of loving individuals for who they are regardless of gender, race or ethnicity, religion or sexual identity. Without Woody, these are lessons I might never have appreciated as fully, and they stay with me to this day.
Brenda Cooper lives in Trinidad.
