This is by my brother, Sam.

I arrived to Arizona late Saturday, after learning that my brother has only a few days left before cancer ends him. Jake’s wife, Bess, confessed that she had neither the willpower or the energy to take care of the post-death rituals—in this case, cremation, followed by a celebration of life at some point in the future. Likely at a memorial bench at Stuyvesant Park in New York City, where he and Bess built their life together, met their core group of friends, and made their fondest memories.

I do a lot of research, and finding a funeral home for my brother’s remains was and is quite a bit different than looking for, say, a great sushi restaurant. What should I look for out of a funeral home? Do they have five stars on Yelp? Do they seem “nice?”

Several funeral homes that had good reviews online. The folks on the other end of the line seemed nice. They said the right things, which makes sense because they’ve got a sales funnel. And then they asked for a credit card. I get that funeral homes are businesses that need to make money, just as most of us do. It still feels callous and transactional. Send me an agreement, or something. I’ll DocuSign it. You’ll get your money. I’m barely functional at the moment—sleepwalking through my days as if I will somehow wake from this nightmare, watching my brother and his wonderful wife fall into despair.

Prior to his illness, Jake and I had been at odds for many years. I didn’t understand him, and neither did he. Both of us lacked the emotional maturity to form deep, meaningful relationships with other people. In my case, this manifested in self-destructive behaviors like drinking, partying, womanizing, and things of that nature. For Jake, he withdrew from most of society, finding more comfort from the pages of a novel or the many works he himself has written. He eventually found meaning in teaching, and focused on his relationship with Bess.

In turn, I eventually found a partner and a wife who made me a better person. Somehow, both of us found our way to psychedelics as a way of dealing with reality and exploring the deeper, more esoteric corners of the world. Over the last two years, Jake and I have talked extensively about our experiences with these substances. Therapy has never worked for me. As Terrence McKenna once said, “The real truth, that dare not speak itself, is that no one is in control. Absolutely no one.”

This is not meant to disparage therapists, advocates, or grief counselors. Each person must find their own way to deal with the reality that we perceive: what works for one may not work for others. Changing your life is difficult. It requires hard work. But your life may depend on it, so stop procrastinating and find something that works.

Besides psychedelics, Jake and I have discovered over the past year that we share a love of cooking, particularly using modern gadgets like Instant Pots, sous vide, and interesting spices. Jake loves his plug-in induction stovetop, and thinks it worthwhile despite its cost. At one point I was supposed to go to the final auditions for a show called MasterChef, which pits amateur cooks against each other behind the gentle coaching of Gordon Ramsay. I foolishly accepted a job offer instead, but perhaps I’ll try again someday in honor of my brother.

Which brings me to the title of this essay. When I arrived at their home yesterday, I observed Jake in the worst condition I’ve ever seen: emaciated, with obvious tumors rampaging throughout his neck and jaw. Bess is seven months pregnant, worrying about the impending death of her soulmate, clinging to what seems like an irrational hope of a miracle turnaround.

I noticed an extremely uncharacteristic lack of food in their home—usually, when I walk in, Jake offers something to eat even when he knows I just ate—so I immediately went to the store to at least ensure that Bess had some food. Jake can scarcely take a sip of water, but says that “normal” food feels more wholesome going through his PEG tube than the brown, yet nutritious, Liquid Hope that gives him most of his daily calories.

Jake still has a larder of dried goods, spices, and gadgets that would be the envy of even a professional chef. Fenugreek sourced directly from Egypt. Fermented locust beans from Nigeria. More forms of masala and curry than most Indian restaurants. I had ambitions to use these spices for what Jake labeled as “possibly his final real meal,”¹ only to realize that antibiotics have ruined his gastrointestinal system to the point that making anything exotic might bug his stomach.

So I opted for something simple: a shakshuka. Tomatoes, vegetables, sauce, and mild flavorings, topped with feta cheese, eggs, and basil. I reached for the salt, and found the bottle empty. I’m not sure why, but I started weeping. No salt. No salt means that he’s not cooking. He’ll never cook again. Salt is the most basic ingredient. Food is (was, I guess) so important to him. He cooked for Bess throughout the summer of 2023, when he couldn’t eat anything except by PEG tube.

I’ll go over to their house again later today, and make sure I cook enough food at least for Bess to be able to eat, and hopefully for Jake to eat via the tube. I’ll stop for more salt on my way.

If the salt is gone, then Jake is too.

1. Jake’s wonderful friend Tracey Dempsey also dropped off a plethora of baked goods. Everything she makes is incredible, but I’m partial to the cheesecake. ↩︎