August 24, 2022

“Fairness is a human delusion,” writes Anders Nilsen in his heartbreaking graphic memoir Don’t Go Where I Can’t Follow, in which he chronicles the experience of losing his fiancee, Cheryl, to Cancer. I’ve been repeating this line to myself as we grapple with feelings of injustice since Nick’s death — of the unfairness of it all.

It’s been two months since Nick Nemeroff — our baby brother, the light of our family — died suddenly in his sleep. We still don’t have any clarity as to the cause of his death. The coroner’s office tells us it can take months to issue a report; we’re still waiting. In the meantime they say the working hypothesis is that he suffered a sudden heart attack; what brought it on, we don’t know. Most people who ask me about this assume I am frustrated or upset with the snail’s pace and lack of clarity. I want to know as much as possible, of course — there may be ramifications for my children, after all — but I am not impatiently waiting for conclusions. Knowing what happened doesn’t change the fact that he’s gone, and my expectation is that the final report won’t be definitive regardless.

(Sidenote: it’s been fascinating watching the anti-vax contingent — it really does feel like one weird concerted effort — mobilize online to pepper social media with opinions on Nick’s death. I spent a few sleepless nights, shortly after he passed, infuriatingly blocking and reporting every comment I could find, until Helena changed my perspective completely about this with one quick quip: Nick would have loved this. It’s true; now I laugh.)

I was talking to Clare, one of Nick’s friends, recently, and she told me she’d be traveling to Toronto later this Summer, and that she was looking forward to commiserating with Nick’s other friends there. “I hope people are still sad then,” she said. I laughed; I was thinking the same thing. I don’t want to get through the grieving process. I want to stay stuck in it. I want to think about Nick, to listen to his comedy, to find old videos, to talk about him with his friends, to reminisce with Tracy, with Davida, with my parents. To be sad. Right now, two months after his death, that’s still what feels right.

On that note, I am so thankful to have been able to spend some time with Nick’s close friends over the past couple of months. It has allowed us to sort of round out the picture we have of him. With his family, Nick was laden with the baggage of being the baby (he was eleven years younger than me, and eight years younger than Davida), so our dynamic always reflected this: In a house of Nemeroffs, he was the quiet one. With his friends, he was confident, opinionated, sometimes biting, always funny (obviously). He had this amazing experience of being in his element and flourishing. I am so happy he got to live that.

In the eulogy he wrote for Nick’s funeral, Chris Locke described the comedy industry as, “feeble.” True as that may be, Nick was surrounded by some absolutely wonderful people in comedy. There have been so many heartwarming/breaking posts people have written about Nick — about how special he was, what he meant to them, stories about times he went out of his way to be kind or to listen. Chris went on to say, “[Nick’s] influence of humour and humility will live on in the scene forever like a legend.” Sara Hennessy wrote, “everybody has a very special connection, of all different shapes and sizes, with our beloved, beautiful, hilarious pal Nick.” Gavin Pounds wrote, “When he told me he wanted to work with me I felt like the luckiest person in the world.” Clare Belford wrote, about Nick’s commitment to his comedic style, “I have since grown to understand and appreciate the fortitude it takes to be so uncompromising.” Jake Nordwind wrote, about the first time he saw Nick perform, “I was in love. I stayed back after the show and basically picked him up. He was special.” Salma Hindy, in addition to the incredible tribute at her Just for Laughs gala appearance, wrote, “My love language was telling my friends to come to shows that Nick was on so that they could experience him too.” Natalie Norman wrote, “Nick was one of the few people that everyone loved in comedy.” Ben Stager wrote, in an epic piece I will re-read hundreds of times, “He truly just came out and supported whatever thing his friends were doing, and he would truly just hype us up to other people.” There are so many other examples and I am grateful for them all. Thank you, friends.

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Ten years ago, a best friend of mine died. Denis had Cancer, and his body deteriorated over ten years, and we knew it was coming. (His mind was as sharp as ever — probably the sharpest guy I will ever know.) It still sucked, and we were still sad, and it, too, felt tremendously unfair. Well, we blinked, ten years passed, and now Nick is gone. So yes, this is a reminder that we will all die and we don’t get to pick when. Blink once more and we’re all gone too. Writing that reminds me of the time Michelle Thaller, the NASA scientist, said to me, “You have this one tiny little chance to have the universe look through your eyes — and what are you going to do with that chance?” Nick harnessed that brevity, that urgency. For that lesson, I will always be grateful. When you’re the older sibling, you think about what you can teach your kid brother, not what you can learn. But I’ve learned so much from Nick, while he was living and since his death. He followed his heart in the resolute way true artists do. Davida, who I have also learned a great deal from, likely showed him the way here.

(Sidenote: Nick actually expounded on death when he was interviewed by Teresa Lee on her podcast, You Can Tell Me Anything, in 2020. After talking about how he had achieved his dream of doing a set on Conan, he said, “when I think about imminent death, […] you know, I did what a lot of people don’t get to do, so I feel very at peace in that way.” He also goes into detail about his fear of death, seemingly irrational at the time — it’s surreal to listen to, and I am so thankful Teresa went in this direction and got him to talk about it.)

An old Rugby coach of mine used to say, “having potential just means you haven’t done anything yet.” It’s a good line, and a decent motivator for overly confident teenagers, but it’s not true. Nick had accomplished so much, and had incredible potential. He had lived his dream and was on his way to more astounding feats.

Davida has astutely maintained that we’re mourning two losses at once: the loss of our brother Nick, and the loss of his art — of the cultural impact his art would have had. For this reason, we feel compelled to keep his work alive, to mine what we can find and spread it far and wide. She is motivated to release his album on vinyl, which Nick would have loved. Jake has suggested making some kind of thing out of his tweets. Maybe we’ll piece together a second album or compilation out of all the stuff we’re collecting. A number of people have sent over pictures and videos they have of Nick; some have written out their favourite memories. If you have clips, photos or thoughts you’d like to share with Nick’s family, you can upload them here or send them to me by email at [email protected].

Writing about Nick right now is mostly for me, I guess. He can’t read it. Posting it online and letting people know that I posted it online is also for me. (I am reminded of Jezelnik’s joke about thoughts and prayers — a bit I know Nick loved.) If I lived, at times, vicariously through Nick before, then this is just the current manifestation of the same thing, I assume.

I feel so lucky to have known Nick. To have hugged him, to have watched him grow, to have witnessed his comedic mind at work, to have heard my kids call him Uncle. If you knew him, if you got to feel his warmth or got to laugh at his jokes, my heart goes out to you, too, and I am deeply sorry for your loss.

We love you Nick, always.

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Below is the eulogy I wrote (and stumbled through at the funeral) — I could have listed hundreds of examples in it, of course, but Rabbi Grushcow gave us the sage advice to resist trying to say it all. After all, we’ll be mourning Nick for the rest of our lives; there’s time.