Andrew Gold, the singer and songwriter is dead, and I feel just a bit poorer this morning than I did yesterday.
Gold helped heal me one hot evening in July 1977. I had just returned from the hospital where my wife was awaiting a therapeutic D&C the morning following an unexpected miscarriage–a ghastly event–that occurred in the middle of a supermarket. She had no appetite. She was in tears and an understandable rage. So was I–or simply in in the midst of a great sadness. This was to be our first child after nine years of marriage; and the child had just disappeared. Just like that. So I went home, ate something, and proceeded drink about a pint of something destructive–probably Scotch, which I did not like except for the effect. And on the radio was Andrew Gold singing “Oh What a Lonely Boy.” I broke down. I spent the evening in tears, surely feeling sorry for myself but also for that child I would never see, for my wife and her family, for a world of hurt that I felt belonged to me and (that night) me alone, even though I knew better.
In the morning I sat in my wife’s room while they had her up in surgery removing the last vestiges of the pregnancy that wasn’t supposed to finish itself.
A year later our first child was born. Now formally engaged, he is getting married next June 2. He had been and remains one of the wonders of my life. His younger brother Ben came along in April 1981. He gave us a monumental scare but that’s a story for another time.
This morning I read that Andrew Gold is dead: son of Ernest Gold and the singer Marni Nixon. According to the New York Times he died of a heart attack. I shall miss him. He got me through one of the worst nights of my life and you do not repay someone with forgetfulness and ingratitude. Rest easy, Mr. Gold. We all die, but you went too soon.