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His older brother, Adam, is gravely ill, in the advanced stages of brain cancer. With little fanfare and without a word’s mention from David, Adam traveled from his home in Terre Haute, Ind., to Hollywood to attend last Tuesday’s broadcast of “Idol.”
After his song was done and the judges had bathed him in praise, David cried a little. The next night Ryan Seacrest gave him the chance to talk about what had happened the night before, but David declined. I admire his need for privacy, but I suspect that even if he wanted to, he probably can’t talk about it publicly without breaking down or, like he did Tuesday night, softly weeping.
This is heavy stuff, heavier, I think, than a lot of people realize. It’s hard to imagine how hard it is until you go through it.
For Cook, a native of Blue Springs, this is all compounded by the show: Amid the most exciting and public moment of his life, he is also feeling profound sadness. I bet it’s on his mind most of the time. It probably wakes him up in the middle of the night.
At some point in our lives, we all go through it: Someone we love suffers a major illness. Or dies. Usually it starts with grandparents, then elderly parents, aunts and uncles. Sometimes it doesn’t. When it’s a child — well, that has to be the worst. But when it’s a sibling, it can be nearly as tragic and sad.
Brotherhood and sisterhood are unique relationships, bonds that begin at birth. Our siblings are wired to us in ways no one else is or can be. They see us at our lowest, our weakest. They know things about us no one else knows, not our parents, spouses or closest friends.
It’s a deep, durable bond, too. It survives feuds, sometimes bitter feuds — the kinds that kill friendships. And it survives separations — sometimes long estrangements. I found this line in a Dylan Thomas story that made me smile: “I made a snowman and my brother knocked it down and I knocked my brother down and then we had tea.”
That’s how my brother and I went through childhood: Punch each other bloody in the morning, play army in the tree fort that afternoon.
Since I was 8 years old, there were eight of us. Five years ago, one of my younger sisters died. Like Adam Cook, she had young kids, too. When she became gravely ill, her life consumed ours. Now there’s a vacancy. And past tenses: “We had eight kids … I had six sisters …” And her siblings feel the loss, all the way back to our early childhoods.
In a perfect world Adam Cook gets better and raises his children into adulthood. And David remains his kid brother for many years. Let’s hope.
In the real world, crueler things happen. When I wondered aloud to someone whether David Cook might not finish this season, she said slightly incredulously, “Why?”
Why? Because maybe the grief will be too heavy to bear, because maybe he decides his brother and his family are more important than a singing contest.
“Idol” is classified as a reality show, I guess, but it’s really an unscripted serial drama. Each week is a new chapter, with a new conflict and resolution. Viewers pick their protagonists based on personality as much as talent and hope he or she survives till the finish. And along the way, they root against their antagonists, hoping for another’s failure.
Reality has crept into this season, a storyline more profound than someone’s job at a strip club, someone’s so-called stage parent or someone’s former recording contract.
David Cook genuinely doesn’t want his story to affect the outcome of the show, which makes him seem even more decent as a person. He doesn’t want our sympathy, but he deserves our respect. And if you have any idea of what he’s going through, give him your empathy, too. Right now, winning “American Idol” must be a distant second on his list of wishes.
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