Originally published on HuffingtonPost.com

My brother was murdered — bludgeoned to death as he lay sleeping in his bed — three years ago this summer. The murder (like most murders) was not a random event. My brother knew his killer. The perpetrator was a young man, Max, who had been kicked out of his family home, and to whom my brother had given shelter.

Max was a Russian adoptee, who, post-adoption — from the age of five — was raised with every advantage that should have (could have) helped him to develop into a stalwart member of society. Yet, this did not happen. Continued

August 1, 2014 is the 4th day in the month of Av. This is the date according to the Jewish calendar that David died. Thus, this is his authentic yahrzeit, beginning July 31 at sundown and ending August 1 sundown.
This is a day to do things in his merit, special, for his soul to be enabled, to be elevated to higher places in the heavenly world.

I never know what is going to happen when I go to sleep. Since David’s death, my dream life has become as vivid as my waking life. They are bizarre, imaginative dreams. Some redeeming; some disturbing. The last dream I had was about Max. Doctors had discovered that there was something wrong with him and that an operation would correct the problem. After the surgery, presumably, he wouldn’t continue to be violent. Continued

One space left in family plot, on left of David’s (not visible in pic). My parents had bought the family plot when all were alive, and the fourth plot was for Lenny, David’s long-term partner, whom my parents accepted as part of our family. David and Lenny separated, and I suppose the 4th plot is now mine, awaiting my final visitation.

Yesterday, moments after the deal seemed to be effected, it was already off the table. After turning down an already accepted plea bargain of 30 years, the judge decided that even the newly agreed upon 40 years was not sufficient for the crimes committed by Maxim Hoppens. She, thusly, attached another five years per additional crimes related to the murder: two counts of forgery and one for the use of a stolen credit card (called “access device fraud”). She is imposing the sentence for these crimes as consecutive, adding an additional fifteen years to the prison term: 55 years in total. Continued

Jane’s and David’s beautiful mother in Cuba.

Meyer Goldberg, Jane’s and David’s father, on his Harley. He rode from Georgia to Louisiana circa 1935.

David Goldberg, Lee Goldberg, Mommie, and Jane with her cousin in her papa’s arms.

David, around 13 years of age.

David in high school.

David as the King of the Mardi Gras Ball, circa 1970.

David Goldberg in his 40s.

Therapist to patient: “What stage of grief are you in?”

Patient: “Writing. Is that a stage?”

Said by Sally Wade upon the publication of her memoir about her long-term love relationship with George Carlin.

Last picture taken of David M. Goldberg, at Niagara Falls – a vacation trip where he met for the first time Yang, a Chinese man he had been communicating with every day for five years via the internet. (See previous post The Letters, to read Yang’s response to the news of David’s death.)

Continued

These are the letters that came to me after David’s death:

I always thought I would be a catatonic. I was sure that if a major trauma came my way, and I ended up having a nervous break-down, it would be the silent treatment that I would revert back to. Essentially I had to learn to talk as an adult. Growing up, I had lots of thoughts, lots of ideas – lots going on in my brain – that I never shared. Sharing my thoughts and feelings seemed a bit superfluous. So – catatonia was my mental illness of choice. Continued

How is it that I, a 66-year-old successful professional woman living in New York City, have come to have acquaintance with a young man who has lived his 18 years in New Orleans, daring to be difficult, provoking those in authority positions to institutionalize him for his misdeeds, thievery and disturbed behaviors, and living out his plan, as he himself said of “ruining (his) life”? It is only through unforeseen circumstances of the most morbid kind that this young man, Max Hoppens, has arrived in my life, destined to stay for a good long time. Continued