I just fucking loved her.
Enough to be a Twitter creeper following the various Twitter handles she had, including @OhSineady. Enough to be moved to write about her one month before her passing, which feels eerie now. Enough to be angry at myself for not knowing she was mini-touring the West Coast in early 2020. Enough to plan a trip to Chicago to see her in the summer of 2020.
I paid exorbitant ticket prices for a show at City Winery and made plane reservations. I was to be seated at a table less than 100 feet from the stage. And part of me wondered if she’d look right past the expensive seats to reach the rest of the crowd. I didn’t care. I was finally going to see her. Music is my church. And I imagined that simply being in her presence would move me in the way some people are enraptured during a church revival.
Then there was a pandemic. So that show got rescheduled, then again, then again. And during this time she announced she would not tour anymore. But the venue hadn’t canceled the show yet. They just kept moving the date. Then she retracted. At some point I realized that the show would not happen and requested a refund, which was allowed because the venue had rescheduled the performance yet again.
I can only imagine what it would be like to have Sinéad in your family or friend circle. You’d love her but she’d do something crazy that would challenge you. She must have known this herself. There she goes again. Oh, Sineady. I loved that Twitter handle. At 5:00 in the morning I’d wake up early and check on her. I’d check on her before Wordle, and that was during the prime of Wordle. That’s how much she meant to me.
In January 2022 her son Shane went missing. I followed it real time on Twitter. Had she posted again? Had Shane been found? I had a sick feeling in my stomach. And then we learned he died. She was angry and accusatory toward the public health system that failed Shane. Then she’d apologize. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said that. I am with cops now on way to hospital."
I wondered if she’d be able to survive this. I couldn’t allow myself to imagine myself in her situation. Could I survive the loss of my son if, God forbid, something like that happened? If he were gone? If he had taken his life in the height of mental health trauma? I like to think I’d survive it. With a lot of help and support. But I couldn’t even go to a place to carry that thought forward. So I prayed. My prayer was something like, “Oh, Sineady, I love you. I’m ever so fond of you. You are tender. Your name is a whisper.” I didn’t invent those words. Those were her song lyrics from “John, I Love You,” which had always sounded to me like prayer.
For a few weeks I prayed for her every day. Then it faded a little, but she remained in my waking thoughts on many days. One morning, many months later on a weekend, I woke up and teared up thinking about her losing her son. I wanted to reach out. I opened my email, looked for a link to her management and wrote a short message.
I left Twitter when Musk happened. When I deleted my account, I thought, “What did I use this for anyway? Just Sinéad, and she has been silent for quite awhile.” Without Twitter, I simply Googled her frequently. I was aware of her appearance in March this year at the Irish Times Music Awards. I became hopeful. I thought, “Maybe she’s going to make it.”
The past few months have been very busy for me, including a job change. I hadn’t looked for a new Twitter handle and hadn’t seen her recent reappearance and cries of grief. On Wednesday, I was driving home from work to meet my son for lunch. My friend Terri texted me. I felt the shock through my body. My son could see something was wrong. I told him the news and he hugged me. He said, “Is it okay if we don’t go to lunch?” I hugged him. I sat down to follow the news. I lit a candle.
Two candles, actually, because I happened to have two in a jar. I could say now it was for Sinéad and Shane, but that notion came later. I searched for some vinyl so I could send the photo of the candles to my friend Terri. But Sinéad rose to fame in the CD era, so the only vinyl I had was her collaboration with MC Lyte. That vinyl had hung on a wall in my living room, though it had been replaced by another. (I like to rotate the vinyls displayed in the music room.)
I had to take my son to work and I didn’t want to sit alone with this. I needed a long drive. So I drove to my friend Karen’s house 25 miles away and cranked the album “I Do Not Want What I Haven’t Got” all the way and, later, all the way back. I felt better. (If you are reading this and are Sinéad-curious, I recommend that album and also “Universal Mother” as stunning musical contributions.)
I received texts all day. They were all of the variety, “Have you heard? I thought of you immediately.” My friend Jeanne shared an article from her NYT subscription so I wouldn’t have to pay for it.
I received such tender messages from many. During an exchange with my friend Sarah, these words came to me. “Her wounds were bound up with her gifts.”
These exchanges were comforting. And as I shared my feelings with others, I realized how Sinéad was linked to me in death in a new way. I’ve written about the loss of my brother. He, too, was found “unresponsive.” The coroner’s report would take months, as it likely will with Sinéad. And I suspect there will be no definitive answers. With my brother, we could still only assume how such high doses of medicine entered his body. When someone you love is at peace, it almost doesn’t matter.
I will need a very long time to chew on the idea of how I am reacting to Sinéad compared to the loss of my brother. There is something about living with persistent mental health crises that can numb you or even build a wall around you. Am I grieving more for the loss of Sinéad than my brother? Is it easier to love a troubled person from afar? I suspect the answer is yes.
The musical loss is real. But there is something more to be learned.
Sinéad’s planned next album was to be titled, “No Veteran Dies Alone.” She had said it would be her last. She planned to spend her post-stardom days tending to veterans. Sitting with them. I loved that about her. But it was not to be. Losing Shane was too much.
I hope and pray the family releases the album. Her producer stated today it might have been her best ever.
This loss will stay with me for a very long time. As I process it, I decided an appropriate gesture for me was to donate in her name at No Veteran Dies Alone (which will take you to hospice.org). I did so in the absence of any family request. Perhaps Sinéad would appreciate the gesture. But she might also publicly say, “Who are you to speak on the appropriate condolences for me? Go fuck yourself.” It doesn’t matter to me. I am doing what feels right for me and she’d definitely support that.
I’ve written more than intended. I leave you with her own words.
And if there ever is gonna be healing
There has to be remembering
And then grieving
So that there then can be forgiving
There has to be knowledge and understanding
- Sinéad O’Connor, “Famine.”
A beautiful tribute, written by one beautiful soul for another.