On earth as it is in heaven

I received Holy Communion today for the first time in about 20 years. According to Catholic protocol I should have gone to confession first. But since the Church already condemns me for being a homosexual, I figured, oh hell, let lightning strike me. Besides, Andrea was receiving communion, and she hadn't done it in years either. Actually, that's not a fair comparison, because, by pure definition Andrea is a saint.

Last Friday, the day after Richie died, Andrea asked me to be her backup eulogist at his funeral. Yesterday at the wake she told me she was going to be fine. But I sat beside her at Mass anyway. "You OK?" I asked. "I can do it," she said. "I've rehearsed it a million times, so, don't worry, I'll be fine."

I held her hand during the service. I wasn't sure I would be able to keep my own composure if I had to read. But she was indeed fine and delivered a beautiful, touching eulogy that at times even had people laughing. Before Mass, while waiting for the funeral procession to make their way into the church after maneuvering their way through a film set on 31st Street, the priest remarked to the pall bearers, "Where else but in New York can you have a movie set on one side of the street and a funeral on the other?" One of the men replied, "And Richie would have loved that." He was right. Richie was as bookwise as he was wisecracking.

Andrea had stayed at Richie's last Wednesday night. They watched Black Adder together, and Richie fell asleep in his wheelchair, which over the past few weeks he'd been finding more comfortable. The next morning, his Polish aide discovered that some time during the night Richie had slipped away, quietly, mercifully.

Richie's younger, rougher days were child's play compared with the vicious and cruel beating he took from ALS. Last year he went on a feeding tube, this year a respirator. By spring, he could no longer speak, making communication between him and Andrea virtually impossible. But inside Richie was still Richie. It was always in his eyes. One of his friends at the wake last night called him the most stubborn person he'd ever known. That stubbornness helped him stay alive as long as he did. ALS patients generally die within 2 to 5 years of diagnosis--Richie lasted 8.

Andrea always stood by Richie, especially when things started getting harder. She'd frequently get calls in the middle of the night. Richie fell and couldn't get up. He couldn't use the bathroom by himself. No matter the hour, Andrea would make her way from Brooklyn to Manhattan. Then, one by one, his abilities, the things that most of us take for granted, fell away: writing, standing, feeding himself, typing, rolling over in bed, dialing a phone, eating, breathing, speaking.

At every turn, Andrea adapted unfailingly to the changing Richie. She recruited health aides from the Polish newspaper, many of them unemployed health professionals in their own country. She stayed at Richie's often, foregoing countless hours of sleep to make sure Richie was comfortable and attended to. How she got up at 3:30 a.m. every morning to get ready for her 2-hour commute to her job in White Plains every day I'll never know. Andrea became an unwavering caregiver. I don't know one other person who can touch her generosity, selflessness, and spirit.

Many of us who knew Richie and know Andrea are relieved--for them both--that the suffering is over. The priest at the funeral summed it up best: "Richie was tired, and he decided it was time to go home." Now it's Andrea's turn to go home and get some sorely needed rest, having devoted so much of her life to someone she loved so truly and deeply. But for as long as I've known her--about 25 years--she has always been indomitable, inspirational, indefatigable, and stubborn, just like the man she loved. And for that I will always love her.