Sylvia and I met in the nineties—just a few months after my mom died of cancer. I had watched in anger as my mom’s friends, and even some family members, abandoned her, putting off hospital visits until it was too late, and letting calls go unreturned. Whatever their reasons, it pissed me off, and made me think about how people with AIDS probably faced even more isolation, since that disease was far more stigmatized than cancer was. So after she died, I signed up to be an AIDS buddy with the Jewish Board of Family Services.
After going through a brief training, the social worker told me that they had a volunteer who needed help with her patient—he was too big a job for one person. I didn't really understand what that meant, but Sylvia was that volunteer and I quickly found out that she needed help because she had been assigned the world’s worst human. At the risk of making us sound bitchy, Jay—not his real name—was possibly the worst person I’ve ever met.
Jay was cruel, ignorant, racist, and despite being gay—homophobic; openly bragging, with glee, about all the men he had potentially—hopefully—infected. He started fights with other patients from his stretcher, and found our suiting up in gloves, gowns, and masks, a grievous insult, even though his doctors asked us to do so, because they were afraid we’d infect him with something from the outside world. We leaned on each other throughout the rest of his brief life and bonded over guiltily complaining to each other about his latest asshole move. But I knew I would love Sylvia forever after she told me about her phone call with Jay’s mother.
Jay’s ultra-right wing evangelical family in Oklahoma had disowned him after they discovered he was gay, but now that he was dying, there was a constant stream of religious greeting cards, imploring him to accept the lord Jesus Christ as his savior and promising that this acceptance would cure him. In his dying desperate state, Jay half believed this, which was unspeakably cruel, no matter how big an asshole he’d been. When Sylvia called his mother to give her an update on his condition—hoping they might visit, which they didn’t—Sylvia made sure to tell her that we were from the Jewish Board of Family Services; not some Christian outfit.
Over the years, Sylvia and her husband Julian kind of adopted me, as they did so many people. The timing of our relationship, along with our age difference, could’ve meant that we fell into a mother/daughter relationship, but we didn’t. She and Julian definitely looked out for me, but they never nagged and there was none of the baggage that comes with family—at least with my family. I have many great and lovely friends, but my relationship with them was unlike anything I’d ever experienced or can ever hope to again.
Before meeting her, I’d never had brisket and now I know how to cook it. (Secret ingredient: prunes.) They recommended tons of books to me, some of which I even read! Against my very sincere protests, Sylvia bought a copy of my first book, “How Not to Date” and told me about the funny looks she’d gotten on the crosstown bus, reading it on her way to get her hair done. I KNEW she wouldn’t like it and I was horrified about some of the things she learned about me reading it, but she managed to be very diplomatic without outright lying in her review.
She introduced me to the fantastic art of Florine Stettheimer, and sat me next to Peter Martins at the NYC Ballet. My New York was so different than Sylvia and Julian’s and I loved seeing it through their eyes. As I cycled through a series of jerky boyfriends, their relationship reminded me of how love should be—respectful and kind, always evolving. So I didn’t bother introducing them to any of my chumps until I found Spyro, the guy I would eventually—FINALLY, to Sylvia’s mind—marry.
I said earlier that Sylvia wasn’t like a mother to me, but there was this one time in Amsterdam . . . my sister and I were planning a trip and so Sylvia and Julian decided to meet us there. My sister Sue had convinced me to rent bikes with her—I’m extremely uncoordinated, so this wasn’t my idea of fun. Predictably, I fell off my bike. You know how sometimes accidents seem like they happen in slow motion? This one actually did happen in slow motion. We were at a stop and my jeans got tangled in a pedal or something and I tipped over, sloooowly onto the pavement. I skinned my knee and my sister skinned my ego by laughing at my near-bruise experience. She said I’d fallen so slowly she could’ve leapt off her bike and come over and caught me. Though I might note that she didn’t.
That night Sylvia and Julian took us out to dinner at their favorite Amsterdam restaurant. I told them of my brutal fall and showed Sylvia my skinned knee. Sylvia fussed like I’d taken a bullet, as my sister rolled her eyes. My own mom wouldn’t acknowledge we were sick unless we were practically vomiting blood, so this was very satisfying. Though less so to my sister.
They say that couples who lose children have a high rate of divorce and Sylvia and Julian lost both of theirs, yet they had one of the most beautiful marriages I’ve ever witnessed. I’m not candy coating it—I know they had arguments and no relationship is perfect, but they took care of each other in a way that was incredible and inspiring to witness.
Before Julian died, in his ultimate act of love, and with the help of their incredible cousins, Paul and Barbara, he made certain that Sylvia would be taken care of, both physically and emotionally. By hiring the most incredible helpers a person could ever hope for—Isabel, Marjorie, Glenda, Christina, Joan and Yolanda—none of her family or friends ever had to worry that Sylvia might not be getting the best care possible. These women went above and beyond, not just doing normal home health aide work, but cooking meals she loved and singing to her, even when singing might not be their strong suit.
Like all of us, I’m gutted by Sylvia’s death, but knowing she died peacefully and painlessly, secure in the knowledge that so many people loved her so much, should be a huge comfort to us all. And I say this eulogy is incomplete because she was all of this, but so much more than I can write down in a couple paragraphs.