Journalist Lisa Suhay’s brother, Adam Goldenthal, was mentally ill, homeless and living on the streets of New York when he died in early November. Suhay wrote to The Post to thank the city for its patience and compassion.
Around the holidays the news tends to focus on the homeless, but not from the perspective of the families who have lost them to the streets, as I lost my younger brother who died there this month.
My brother Adam Goldenthal’s life ended at age 45 in a cold subway stairwell in Union Square where he fell asleep for the last time. He was found on “a nest of flattened cardboard boxes,” according to the city officials with whom I spoke. It’s likely his heart just gave out from years of smoking, alcohol abuse and living rough.
“Mostly, I want to let every person who ever dropped change into a homeless person’s hand or bought them a cup of coffee know that they did something valuable.”
It sounds so peaceful for the nightmare stereotype come true that I had always prayed wouldn’t be the way he died — alone and cold on cardboard in a subway. I hoped for at least a hospital bed or shelter. I dreamed of him being well, able to be with family here in Virginia or New Jersey with our mom.
If the homeless are called the “invisible people” their families are called nothing at all, if we’re lucky and by those who think we abandoned our loved ones. They think we turned our backs and don’t care. It may be true for some, but not for any I’ve ever met.
Adam was bipolar, alcoholic, and had lived on the streets for the better part of the past six years, when not jailed for minor crimes.
There were many different iterations of Adam.
To many he was that funny homeless guy who played gorgeous classical and jazz guitar while puffing an unfiltered Camel cigarette outside the Starbucks locations around Times Square, or Barnes and Noble in Union Square.
To police, EMTs, ER security guards, social workers, shelter staff and transit police he was that often witty homeless guy who went off at the drop of a hat, spewing obscenities and spinning wild, paranoid delusional tales as he went down swinging at the world he couldn’t fit into.
To my 85-year-old mother and me he was someone we loved too much to walk away from, but who frequently took aim at us both physically and spiritually during manic episodes. Then he was terribly sorry.
People said he was here to try our patience, but I think he was here to test our humanity. New Yorkers passed.
I am thankful for every person who ever cooked a meal at a shelter, set up the cots and cleaned up the messes.
Every police operator, dispatcher, ER workers, shelter staff and jail personnel who ever took time to call me with updates has my undying gratitude for giving me and my mother even a moment of knowing he was alive.
Because I am a journalist Adam gravitated to those in my professions, particularly at the New York Post where he once found a sympathetic ear from a young reporter named Kate. While his manic ramblings were not something she could print, she listened and treated him with respect, for which he was thankful.
Mostly, I want to let every person who ever dropped change into a homeless person’s hand or bought them a cup of coffee know that they did something valuable.
You, the givers, are my inspiration. I have always freely handed money, food and time to every homeless person who crossed my path because I knew you were there crossing his. He told me about every random act of kindness.
Know that every time we give, both the homeless person and their family members are uplifted. While giving to my brother couldn’t save him it gave longevity to our humanity, our sanity and our hopes, which is a big thing for a little spare change, some understanding and a cup of Joe to be able to do in this world.
While our family is smaller this holiday season it’s bigger with all of you as honorary members. God bless you every one.
In lieu of flowers please send donations to the BRC Homeless Shelter, 131 West 25th Street, 12th Floor, New York, NY 10001.