A man who shied away from cheap sentiments left a gift for others: life

This is the first Christmas without Brendan Costello sitting there, sipping a bourbon or a beer and musing on holiday rituals while embodying the spirit of goodwill. But now he is gone, his absence is like a decorated tree that is missing its shining star.

That’s one way of looking at Brendan’s death, and while it’s not wrong, it’s perhaps incomplete. The man may not drink bourbon anymore, but thanks to a unique moment of grace, he’s still here.

Thanks to Brendan, a psychiatrist he never met, he continues to help hundreds of others navigate the difficult depths of life. His sister and only sibling finally follow his encouragement to write; already two pieces. And his family felt the power of every word of the Tom Waits song “Time” as they sang it to their absent Bren on Thanksgiving:

And it’s time, time, time
And it’s time, time, time
And it’s time, time, time
That you love
And it’s time, time, time

Brendan was a New York writer and teacher, jazz lover and disability rights activist who happened to use a wheelchair after a disastrous encounter with an D train. But he refused help or pity. He was a force.

In January, Brendan suffered cardiac arrest and fell into a coma, a tragic culmination of months of surgery and rehabilitation to stabilize his injured spine. Informed that her 55-year-old brother would never regain consciousness, Darlene Costello made the heartbreaking decision to have him taken off his ventilator – only to learn seconds before the time came that Brendan was a registered organ donor.

After Ms. Costello calmed down – why wasn’t this known earlier? – She accepted the news of her brother’s last selfless act with joy. She also knew someone who desperately needed a kidney. Calls were made, tests were carried out, and overwhelming obstacles were overcome.

A few days later, dozens of relatives, friends and co-workers formed an honor guard on the seventh floor of Mount Sinai Morningside Hospital as a bed on wheels carried Brendan to the operating room to fulfill his final wish.

His lung went to a woman in Tennessee, his right kidney to a man in Pennsylvania. And his left kidney was replaced by Ms. Costello’s mentor and employer, Dr. Sylvio Burcescu, 62, whose ability to run his Westchester County clinic was hampered by a rare kidney disease that required dialysis.

Almost a year later, life remains both sad and beautiful.

“It’s about going through the first trials without him,” said his cousin Maryanne Canavan. The first St. Patrick’s Day, the first Thanksgiving, the first Bastille Day – July 14th, his birthday.

Ms. Costello continues to miss the only person who truly touched her: who shared her difficult childhood and understood her dark, absurd humor. But through her grief she found her writer’s voice. Two of her short plays – “Woke Pope” and “Sundowners” – were recently performed at the Newburgh Fringe Festival in New York.

“It becomes distracted from actual life through grief,” Ms. Costello said. “There is something about the creative use of the brain that truly enhances life.”

And then there is Dr. Burcescu. Aside from taking medication to suppress his immune system, he is back to normal, eating, drinking, exercising and treating hundreds of patients at his clinic.

“Day and night,” he said.

He struggles with the reality that he will never be able to thank the person who gave him such a life-changing gift. But he finds solace in imagining how much Brendan would appreciate the hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people who will receive his care: people struggling with substance abuse, alcoholism and suicidal thoughts.

Dr. Burcescu has also found a deep connection with Brendan’s relatives, especially his sister. “In a way I feel connected to her,” he said.

The Romanian-born doctor jokes that he feels somewhat Irish now. Photos of Brendan are displayed in his house. A few months ago he invited Ms. Costello and other relatives of Brendan’s to dinner where they talked about – who else? A man who, among other things, would cringe at the idea of ​​Christmas miracles.