Nick Cordero and the Profound Loss of Hope....

I, like many people, have been surfing on a flood of emotions. I’m a salad of sadness, despair, hope and motivation: not in that order, but on constant replay. Yesterday was like every weekend since this COVID nightmare began: cleaning, a feeble attempt at exercise, cheat snacks and subsequent broken vows for wellness and cleansing, angry kids with a proclivity for electronics to drown out the inner screams of childhoods lost from living life in hiding, a farm to feed, and then the proverbial countdown until the week starts all over again. This is Samsara. This is the endless cycle of birth, life, death, and rebirth. It’s monotonous. It’s the endless pursuit of nirvana that never comes. What is this nirvana? The only Nirvana I’ve ever known ended with a Pollock painting worth of splattered matter on a wall that bred a shitload of incomparable spin-off's. I wonder if Kurt ever reached his own Nirvana.

We have been working so hard on our music. We are in our tenth year as a band and before COVID, our schedule was filled to the brim for months ahead. We finally "made it." Even the venues that we worked at for years finally gave us a fair shake and booked us monthly 'til the end of the year. (That venue tanked.) When crowds thinned and budgets cut, we felt fortunate to hold a steady spot at a local watering hole where we could entertain whomever was brave enough to come out. We swam the ever changing tides of stage shifts and budget restraints to keep our chops lubricated. Yesterday, we found out that a fabulous duo took over our steady spot. It wasn’t unlike how we started there: the owner telling the other guy that he was “trying out a new act” and that it didn’t mean he was “gone forever”… but ultimately, that’s exactly what it meant. We waited for our own hammer to fall for a while. We did right by the owner and took less scratch to keep our spot. The very moment we got complacent and felt we were solid, the carpet came out. It felt like rejection, but then I imagined the other duo (who is fabulous, unfortunately) and the excitement they must have felt knowing they would have another steady opportunity to play their show. My feelings of rejection were quickly replaced by excitement for them and I clung to the hope that this would open up the road for new opportunities for us. The owner's “just for this week” was advertised by our replacements as  “our new steady gig.” Today, I feel some anger and betrayal, but it is all in check. Nothing is forever.

Shortly after this news, I texted with a friend who I have quietly parted ways from. We rehashed the demise while working out the holes left from a lengthy friendship that went awry (due to discourse with a mutual friend)… Man, whatever happened to hoes before bro’s? I held space for her and grieved while working hard to maintain my boundaries and commitment to my personal health. The pangs in my heart from her absence mixed with the guilt that I didn’t make more of the weekend with the kids or do more in the house and now this musical rejection piled up in me. I felt anxiety and told myself it was pre-week jitters. I took a moment to graze FaceBook and mind numb. I saw another prominent performer who lost his steady gig at a venue I had been aching to perform at. He vented loudly and masked his absolutely shattered heart with comedy. He riled up his fans about the next show at an even better venue, while updating the world on his sick wife who would have life-changing surgery to save her life. I guess we are all going through it in some way.  I offered consolation and empathy because we shared a similar agony in musical rejection. Maybe we would have a shot to play at the venue that sacked him? Maybe his termination would open him up to a bigger venue? I clung to the hope of what would come and put faith that the universe was making changes for betterment in ways I didn’t fully understand yet.

“Complacency breeds contempt”, I told myself. Pains of constriction may result in loss, vulnerability and new growth. I fed myself the mentally manifested mineral shots of emotional maturity and swallowed it down like a pint of wheatgrass- nourishing to the soul and torrid to the tongue; with gritted teeth and squinted eyes. I patted myself for this emotional evolution and how I didn’t lash out and self-destruct as per usual. I collected my wounds and added them to my vest filled with merit badges for all the pain I’ve endured lately. "Look who's growing?" I said to myself like a six year old who only just learned to poop on the potty after years of training.

Then, my fingers swept up to close Face Book and opened Instagram.

I saw it. His picture. She’s posted his head shot a million times with words about Day 28, Day 80, Missing him…

This time, it was the news that would slap me harder than I could ever have imagined:

Nick Cordero had passed away.

I read the words maybe six times. It couldn’t be true. I felt this overwhelming sadness and the need to stifle it. Silas was talking about a documentary with triplets that was some social experiment with some scandalous nonsense that would typically pique my interests....and I could not even hear him. Peanuts-esque droned murmurs filled the space his voice held. All the air rushed out of my lungs. I turned off my night light, rolled over and sobbed a sob that came from the inner most bowels of my being that paralyzed me in ways I haven’t felt in years. I had rationalized, compartmentalized and replaced anger and guardedness from this shit day with hope and calm; and yet, in this moment, every wall I painted with flowers and glitter around me fell and collected like damp, mushy cardboard and poured out of me until I couldn’t catch my breath. I felt like I was going to throw up or lose an eye... or at the very least, seethe all of the snacks that salved my sadness that was now searing my very soul. I held my breath and buried my face in my pillow to drown out the howls that I didn’t realize were trapped inside of me.

Nick….

That was my first crush’s name when I was 10 years old. She was as blonde and blue-eyed and fit as I envisioned I would be in my next life as a reward for enduring this life as a stocky brunette. He was a Disney prince with an edge and a little goofiness that made their pairing so perfect. Their house was a dream. Their baby was the perfect combination of both.

He was 41. He was the voice of a character from a musical I listened to far too often on my way to work without even knowing who he was. When COVID came through town, he became the face of the illness for me. I guess he was for a lot of people. I don’t recall how I stumbled across his Instagram, but I found his wife Amanda Kloots and she would document his journey for the next 90 days.   I would refresh her page and wait for each update as though it were for my own family. When I spoke of COVID and warned against this disease, I found myself citing Nick as an example in every diatribe. A perfectly healthy, gorgeous man with no pre-existing conditions. He was a singer, dancer, actor, newly wed to a beautiful fitness model who just bought his first house and had his first baby. Every day, this woman (his wife, Amanda) would jump rope and show us how to use movement and exercise to stave off grief. She welcomed us into her home and introduced us to her family. She told us when Nick had to be admitted for COVID-related symptoms. She taught us to pray and sing his song (aptly called “Live Your Life.”). The community grew and Nick was the face of COVID. Maybe before we could say we like really knew someone with COVID, we all knew Nick Cordero. Each day, new challenges: intubation (which is scary for a singer), sepsis, ECMO (which either means life or death in most cases), pacemaker, blood clots that would cause a leg amputation (which is pretty fricken' devastating for a dancer)… With each new challenge, Amanda would update us and give us new things to pray for. The community grew with new prayer warriors every day. First we wanted Nick to “wake up” after sedation. He did! Then we wanted him “off the vent.” Some days we would pray for his blood pressure meds to be reduced or for lower CO2 levels. Celebrities were in the same prayer circle as the rest of us and we waited each day for news. I’m not religious. I don’t quote Bible verses and don’t ascribe hidden meaning in that Book to real-world stuff; but when Amanda had faith, so did I. We all did. I think for a minute I felt like if "He" made this guy pull through, I would have to seriously reevaluate my own faith. Real believers don't ask G-d to do magic tricks to test faith, but if this was pulled off, I maybe needed a new temple...

We celebrated when their baby “Elvis” took his first steps and had his first birthday party; all while mourning the milestones Nick missed. We rejoiced when her brother could stay the weekend to help out. We adored her baby sister “Anna” and came to know her dreams to get over her ex-husband, to live a life in France, and have her own kids someday. We cried the day Anna had to leave and we knew Amanda would be alone. We DM’d and submitted articles for alternative treatments. We mourned when she described Nick's lungs to that of a 90-year old chain smoker with the amount of fibrosis and holes in them. We wished for the double lung transplant he would need to recover and the strength for his body to pull through enough to even be considered for listing. We watched videos of other COVID-prolonged hospitalizations that resulted in victories and prayed for ‘our’ victorious day when Nick would walk out of there. I imagined the day he poured through her pictures and updates and well-wishes from strangers.  We all awaited the day he would take his first steps with his new prosthetic leg and learn to dance again. We cried when she cried about the ICU tango (two steps forward and twelve steps back). We slept better the night she finally got to visit him after 75 long days apart. The picture of them holding hands became our flag of hope. Nick was the poster child of hope.

All these days without work, without music and companionship, with kids isolated and the world upside down while we all conspiracy theorized or hid in fear- all hope was somehow on the shoulders of Nick’s recovery. Nick defying this beast meant that we were going to be ok. I’d tell Silas “he’s probably going to die” but I didn’t really believe it. I've never wanted to be this wrong before.

I wasn’t prepared. A few days ago, Amanda said she wasn’t certain whether or not he would live or die. It was the first time she wasn’t certain. She'd always been certain he would be coming home.

I took inventory: Old friends, gone. Steady gig, gone. Music... Normal life and laughter, gone. Silas with a broken back and wounded soul. The kids depressed and hopeless. Now, Nick…

No, not Nick...

The news lit up shortly thereafter. Suddenly the world knew. It felt intrusive. The world wasn't on our crusade, but now they got to weigh in on it and sum it all up in an article. And if they didn’t know him, now they did. To most, it’s another statistic. “Some Broadway dude” to add among the list of aged celebrities taken already this year or other artists who quickly succumbed to this illness. 90 days in ICU. 90 days of ups and downs and hope and it’s over. Will she love again? Will she stay in her house? What now? Is it good that she got time to process it while his earthy body was still here? She got to formulate a routine around him not being there, so maybe it hurts less? OMG, what now?

I mourn today. This isn’t the first time I have mourned someone I did not know. In 2012, I watched a story unfold about a nanny who murdered two young children in her care. Her mother came home with the middle child to discover the scene. It was in NY. I was a New Yorker, a nanny, had young kids; it all resonated with me. Pictures were taken of the mother’s face as she sped away in the back of the ambulance. I cried that day, too. I poured over police reports and courtroom statements. I wrote a song about it that will debut on my first album, someday. I felt connected to this mother's pain. Deep wounds exist in me that only the worst traumas can compare to. It's biological. Tragedy is my greatest source of empathy. It's the only thing that feels normal to me.

Two months later, Sandy Hook happened. We played at Shooters that day- back when it was carpeted and our duo was inside. I watched the TV above the bar and froze up. I could barely get another note out. I imagined those kids (the ages of my own children) being harmed in this way. It hurt to my core. Some people rush home to cuddle their kids. I think I developed some emotional separation that day. It was some protective gear that assembled without me knowing. I was preparing for the worst. I've always had a shield on.

Today was different. Today wasn’t just a reminder that there are sick people in the world. Today sort of squashed my hope that things could get better. I don’t know why Nick was the only ray of hope for me, but he was the guidepost. If he pulled through, I just knew we were all going to be ok. More gigs would come. Healthier friendships would arise. I wouldn't be constantly defending myself from toxic gossip-spreading pacifists. The world could open up again in health and harmony and we would somehow be ok.

I just don’t know that I believe in hope, in miracles, or good outcomes anymore. The world is at war. My faith is being tested. I don't feel strong enough these days to fight so hard.

But, I will.