Ant and G
The world’s biggest Knicks fan, Anthony Donahue, tells the story of Gianna: his younger sister and best friend. Anthony helped raise Gianna until she lost her battle to cancer at the age of twenty-one. Their story is one of the greatest examples of sibling love and loyalty that I have ever encountered.
1.
I wasn’t going to do a half-ass ceremony. You know: drive-by, no hugging, ten feet apart kinda thing. Not for my sister. Even if that meant waiting until this COVID bullshit was solid. I chose the anniversary of her death: August 29th. There had been so much love on the internet back when it happened— but I wanted to feel that love in real life. I thrive off love. And attention. I’ll admit it, I need a lot of attention. G always needed that too. So yeah, I was hoping a lot of people would show up, for both of us. We held it at the Bronx Brewery. I kept it toned down with The Knicks stuff. The team sent a framed jersey with Gianna’s name on it. And Allan Houston did the opening prayer over video. But there weren’t any orange and blue balloons or anything. That’s gonna be my funeral, not hers. I modeled the whole thing off Kobe Bryant’s ceremony. Except there were about 18,000 less people in attendance, and no Beyonce. But we did have my friend Alecia singing ‘Time after Time.’ All of the speeches were extremely structured. And everything was going perfectly; we were down to our last speaker. When suddenly I see my mom stand up from the front row and start walking toward the mic. She’s moving 1 mph. She’s holding onto my aunt’s arm. And people are looking at me to see if I’m going to tackle her. I’m thinking 100 percent this is about to be a Kanye moment from the 2009 Grammys. Everyone was nervous. The whole state of New York was nervous. She could say anything. Absolutely anything. My aunt spoke first, then handed off the mic. My mom opens by saying how much she loved G, which was nice. So far, so good. But then she starts talking about how much she hated that G called me ‘Ant,’ instead of Anthony. And I’m thinking: ‘Oh God, pull the plug.’ But then she looked right at me, and said: ‘Thanks for all you did, Anthony. I’m sorry I wasn’t there.’ I couldn’t fucking believe it. I just started bawling. For her to stand up there in front of 200 people, and say that-- it took marbles. And look, it didn’t fix everything. All of it still happened. The thing still happened. But I needed to hear her say that. I didn’t know I needed it, but I needed it.
2.
I still have the stub for the first Knicks game I ever went to. I was ten years old. We blew out the Miami Heat that night, and I was hooked. I decided then that I was going to be the biggest Knicks fan in the entire world. Not the second biggest. The biggest. Every Monday morning in my 5th Grade class we did something called class news. Kids would stand up and talk about their weekend, but not me. I always gave The Knicks Report. I loved everything about the team: the uniform, the Garden, the announcer. But I especially loved John Starks. I had his poster on my wall. I wore a wristband just like him. I pounded my chest like him every time I hit a three. I wanted to be John Starks. He was the closest thing I had to a hero. And he was raised by his grandparents-- just like me. I never knew my dad. Didn’t even know his name—the birth certificate was blank. And my mom was living in the city, wilding out on drugs. My grandparents loved the shit out of me, I will say that. They did a phenomenal job of shielding me from what was really going on. When my mom wouldn’t pick up the fucking phone, they’d cover for her. They’d say: ‘Don’t worry Anthony, you have us.’ It wasn’t until I was fourteen that I really saw it up close. One day my mom invited me into the city to go shopping with her. Holy shit, I was excited. There weren’t any cell phones back then, so I just showed up at her apartment: knock, knock, knock. After a minute my mom opens the door. She’s slurring her words. She can barely stand up. She looks me right in the eye and says: ‘Who are you?’ I say: ‘Mom, it’s me. Your son. Anthony.’ Then she says: ‘I don’t know you.’ And closes the fucking door. Oh my God, it destroyed me. That day broke my heart. But here’s the thing—that was right around the time Gianna was conceived. It was a miracle if you think about it. My mom is almost 40 years old. She’s doing heroin ten times a day. It should never have happened. But she calls me four months later, out of the blue. She says: ‘Guess what? You’re going to have a little sister.’ I knew right then. Before I even met G, I knew. I was going to be the best big brother in the world. Not the second best. The best.
3.
Gianna was born August 16th, 1999. My mom sobered up and moved into an apartment down the street. Oh My God, it was incredible. She’s coming to my basketball games and cross country meets. My friends thought she was so cool. Most of their parents went to Baptist Church and didn’t say fuck. But my mom is like 39 or 40-- from the city. She likes sports and music. She’s buying us beer. I was so happy that I flat out forgave her for 16 years of trash. My grandparents couldn’t understand it, but I just loved having her around. And the whole time Gianna --- G is right fucking there. She’s just a baby. She can’t even say my name. She’s calling me ‘Ant.’ But I couldn’t get enough. I remember at our homecoming dance my senior year. They let all the families in for the last song. And there I was—slow dancing with Baby G. I don’t know how to describe it. She was mine. I just knew she was my mine. After graduation our whole squad moved into the city. For a while all three of us were living together, and it was great. The Garden was just a subway ride away. I’m going to a Knicks game like every other week. My mom is super irresponsible, so I’m the one having to make sure that G is always good: taking her to school, picking her up. But I didn’t mind. It felt kinda cool to be driving this little human to her kindergarten Halloween party. Sometimes I’d take G with me to the basketball courts and she would cheer me on like I was a pro. I was trash. Well, not trash—but you know what I mean. But G would be cheering for me like I’m freaking John Starks. After six months in the city my mom started getting wild. Real wild. She’s coming home at 3 AM. She loses her job. I found needles in the room she’s sharing with G. It was a shit show. G was never going to yell at Mommy, so I had to be her voice. I had to be like: ‘Yo, what the fuck? You have a daughter.’ One day I found my mom passed out on the floor, and I was done. I called the cops on her. I told them: ‘My mom is on dope. Come get her.’ And that was it. From that day on it was just G and Ant. Ant and G. A remixed version of Forrest Gump, but with more twists and turns. And there’s two of us. Not just Forrest.
4.
There was a two year stretch where we didn’t even see our mom. Of course it hurt. But we just kept on livin’. There was always something to look forward to: when’s the next Knicks game, when’s the draft, when’s free agency. For G it was when’s the next dinner. For me too, actually. If there’s three things I love in life, it’s: ‘Italian Food, The Knicks, and my little sister. G came with me everywhere. My barber told me she was the only girl who always came in for a cut. Every single time. It’d be a bunch of guys arguing about sports and hip hop, and there’s G. But nobody ever questioned it. That’s just how it was. I brought her to her first Knicks game when she was four. I can’t say it was love at first sight. G was more into the hotdogs than anything. But she loved watching me cheer. She loved seeing me happy. I wanted her to be a bball player so bad, I will say that. I’d get her into these camps. Got her some Jordans. Dope Nikes. She liked to pass. She’d pass me the ball. But she did not like to play. That’s the funniest thing about me and G-- we had almost nothing in common. G was a grandmother. She knitted. She loved drag queens and Harry Potter. It was mainly hip hop for me, but G listened to 70’s and 80’s music. Her favorite was Cindi Lauper. We had none of the same interests. But it didn’t matter. We were peanut butter and jelly. Ant and G. G and Ant. No mom, no dad, but even with all this madness around us-- we just kept livin’. One night when G was ten years old, I heard her throwing up in the bathroom. At first I wasn’t too concerned. Because we ate a ton of pizza and pasta, and I’m thinking it’s the pizza and pasta. But it just wouldn’t stop. For days and days she keeps throwing up. Eventually I brought her to the emergency room, and the doctors think it’s dehydration. Which made sense—because it’s summer. But it just kept happening. They ran all kinds of tests. Everything’s coming back negative: negative, negative, negative. Finally they’re like: ‘we need to test her brain.’ It made no sense to me. Because Dr. Anthony is still thinking it’s the pizza and pasta. But what the fuck do I know? So I’m like: ‘Sure, whatever, do the brain test.’
5.
That was the day my life changed forever. They did the brain test. And it came back brain cancer. Fucking brain cancer. My ten-year old sister. It didn’t seem real. Nothing seemed real. Suddenly my life became the worst movie ever. They checked G into the hospital immediately, and for the next year I had three homes: ‘home’ home, Madison Square Garden, and New York Presbyterian Hospital. I will say that in the children’s ward they treat the parents like kings and queens. I had my own bed. My own shower. I slept there every single night. In the beginning G was really scared. There was a lot of crying. She hated needles. She’d freak out every time they drew blood, which was like every day. But one night we were lying there, in her room. Lights are off. And she says: ‘Ant, I have a question.’ So I’m like: ‘What’s up G?’ And she says: Why me?’ Whoa boy. I just let it hang for awhile. I’m thinking: ‘Holy shit, what the fuck do I say here.’ But I’m the adult. I’m supposed to be the one who knows stuff. So I said: ‘I dunno, G. Why any of these kids?’ She didn’t even answer. But she must have been thinking about it. Because let me tell you -- after that night, this kid took on cancer like nobody ever has. Ask any of them. Any of the people at the hospital. They’ll tell you: Gianna came in there as the scaredest kid ever, but she turned into the toughest kid there. It was a grind. A ton of chemo. Brain surgery. But two years— on February 13th-- this kid beats it. Cancer free. And that day became our holiday, every year. We’d always do a little something different every year. Normally it involved pizza and pasta. But one year we visited the set of Law and Order SVU. Another year she got to be a ball girl for the Knicks, which had always been a dream of mine. There’s a picture on my fridge of that night. She’s standing next to the players before the game. She loved that part. That was the pinnacle of her ball girl career. Because five later she got hit in the head with the ball, and she retired. I’ve still got a text from two years ago: ‘Hey Ant, what are we doing for our holiday this year? Please, no ball girl.’
6.
One night before she got sick I took G to see the Jonas Brothers at The Garden. We had last row seats. But it didn’t matter. I was going to every single Knicks game by then, so I had mad connections. We ended up watching the whole show by the stage. Next to us there was a young mother, the same age as me. And she totally thought I was G’s dad. When I told her I was the older brother, she said: ‘I’ve never seen this before.’ And that’s something I’d keep hearing for the rest of G’s life. It was just different. Siblings, 15 years apart. Doing life on their own. Our mom got clean not long after G beat cancer. But she never tried to get custody. She barely helped out. It’s like: ‘C’mon, I’m doing everything by myself. Give me $100, or something.’ There were times we’d be in her neighborhood, and she couldn’t even meet us for lunch. I was always madder about it than G. G loved her Mommy, no matter what. She tended to gravitate toward older women. At school she’d hang out in the office with the secretaries. Whenever I had a female friend over, it would be: ‘Ant, scram for a few hours. We need to have girl time.’ And I understood. There’s a lot of stuff you can’t talk to your big brother about. I’m pretty sure she only got her period once a year because of the cancer treatments. Her breasts didn’t develop. She never grew another inch. Puberty was super awkward. In high school she started liking boys. And oh God, I hated it. I hated it. I’d have to drive her to their houses. But I will say this-- if somebody had plans with her, and I asked her to do something, that somebody was getting cancelled on. Every single time. It was the same way with me too. I didn’t date a ton. I did meet a girl in 2012, who I really liked. We were together for a few months. We never fought. But one night we were sitting in front of her house, in the car, in the rain. And she tells me she doesn’t want to be with me anymore. When I asked her why, she told me two things that will stand out forever. The first was: ‘I’m not sure about this whole Knicks thing.’ Ouch, but fair enough. But then she said: ‘And you have too much responsibility for your sister. What if she gets sick again?’
7.
Every morning G and I played ‘Time after Time’ while she cooked us breakfast. That was our song. I have the lyrics tattooed on my arm. Because that’s what G and I did-- we caught each other, time after time. She did the cooking and laundry. I drove uber ten hours a day. Sometimes we’d fall behind on rent, but I’d always get it paid. Whenever the Knicks had a road game I’d organize these viewing parties. We’d get prizes from the team and sell raffle tickets. G was the queen of raffle tickets. I’d tell her—G, we gotta make $400 tonight or we’re gonna lose the apartment. And she’d always hit it. We always made it work. It looked simple but it wasn’t simple: G and Ant. Ant and G. We just kept livin.’ Of course we were living on borrowed time, but we had no way of knowing that. One night in 2019 we were watching a Yankees playoff game on TV. G was sitting in my Knicks chair. And I was dead-ass tired, so I knocked out on the couch. At some point G must have gone to bed. Because two hours later I wake up to my cell phone ringing. It’s G calling me from her bedroom. It’s completely dark. I’m confused as fuck, but I get up and run to her room. G’s lying there in bed. She’s saying: ‘Ant, Ant, I can’t get up!’ She’s slurring her words. She looks just like my grandmother when she was having a stroke. But G’s twenty years old, so that can’t be it. I’m like: ‘G—get up, get up.’ But she just keeps saying: ‘I can’t, I can’t.’ I call 911 and an ambulance comes to bring her to the hospital. As soon as we arrive like 100 doctors swarm around her. They’re telling me it’s a massive stroke. They’re saying she needs emergency brain surgery. I’m like ‘next week?’ And they’re like: ‘Now.’ At this point I start to lose it. This older Hispanic lady comes out of nowhere and just wraps her arms around me. She’s holding me like a baby. She’s saying: ‘It’s going to be OK, it’s going to be OK.’ It was like the worst dream ever. Three hours earlier G and I had been watching TV. Now the nurses are handing me these papers to sign. They want me to sign a DNR. I don’t want to sign a fucking DNR. I’m like: ‘Do whatever it takes. Whatever the fuck you have to do. Just keep her alive.’
8.
A few days after the surgery G started talking. The whole left side of her body was paralyzed, but she was talking. And I’m pretty sure that’s the first time I ever cried in front of her. The doctors did an MRI on her brain to see if the cancer was back. When they showed me the results, the first thing I said was: ‘Don’t tell G. Let me be there when you tell her.’ We scheduled a meeting for 10:30 the next morning. I woke up early and went to the gym. I knew that if we were going to do this all over again, I was gonna have to be juiced. More juiced than her. I spent an hour on the elliptical. I listened to some 90’s hip hop. And I’m actually feeling pretty good. We beat cancer ten years ago, we can do it one more time. G can’t walk anymore, so that’s going to suck. But we got this. G and Ant. Ant and G. I walked into the meeting with a smile on my face. But the doctors weren’t smiling back. Their faces were different. And I knew right away that something was up. There was a new doctor in the room that I’d never seen before, and he speaks first. This guy sounds exactly like Christopher Walken. That’s how slow he’s talking. The first thing he says is: ‘We’ve discovered a very rare form of brain cancer.’ Then he pauses. At this point my heart is racing a million miles per hour, but Christopher Walken is taking his time. Then he says the one line I’ll never forget: ‘It’s very, very serious.’ G says: ‘How serious? Has anybody ever beat it?’ And he says no. That’s when I realized this wasn’t going to be like ten years ago. I ran out of the room. I’m crying my eyes out. I said: ‘What’s the life expectancy?’ And they told me nine months. That’s when I punched the wall. I’m not much of a wall puncher, but I punched the wall. The nurses were trying to hold me up. Then our main doctor came out. She’d been with us forever. She said: “What are you doing Anthony?’ Get back in there. Get back in there and be with her. So I did. I ran back in the room. I’m hysterical. I’m crying like a baby. I’m like: ‘Don’t worry G, we got this.’ And G is just chillin’. She’s like: ‘Ant, go get me lunch.’ I’m like: ‘G, I’ll never leave your side.’ And she’s like: ‘Ant, please. Lunch.’
9.
Our mother came to the hospital maybe twice. I was getting on her, hard. I’d say: ‘You need to fucking be with her. I’ll pay for the uber. Just go.’ But she had no clue. She kept saying: ‘Calm down, Anthony. She’s going to be fine.’ It’s like: ‘No she’s fucking not.’ At one point G was doing chemo, physical therapy, and radiation. She was exhausted all the time. But she never complained, not once. We made it to two Knicks games. And a Cher concert. Then in March they let her come home for a few months, and that’s when the pandemic hit. This fucking virus. My sister’s life is dwindling down, and we couldn’t even leave the apartment. My friends were too scared to come over, which I get. But I’m sitting in this fucking box watching my sister die. It was super depressing, but every day we found something to laugh about. G was the ultimate troll. She had something to say every time I dressed up for a selfie. Every time I did a ‘live.’ There was a lot Netflix. And a lot of snacks. We never talked about death, not once. I told myself: ‘If she brings it up,’ we’ll talk about it.’ But she never did. It was always about winning with us. G was never going to say: ‘I might lose, Anthony.’ Never. Never. One time G was on the phone with her college counselor. She’s sitting right next to me, and she says: ‘I’m coming back to school next spring. Worst case scenario—I’ll be in a wheelchair.” By that time she couldn’t even use the bathroom by herself. She’s swollen from all the steroids. Don’t get me wrong: the hope was real, but c’mon. She knew she wasn’t ever going back to school. That was for me. She was saying that for me. Sometime in May things got too tough at home, and we had to bring her back to the hospital. Then on June 18th the doctors brought me into a room. They were crying, I was crying. Everyone was hysterical. ‘We recommend stopping chemo,’ they said. They told me that she probably wouldn’t make it another week after that. G’s 21st birthday was still two months away—on August 19th. So I made a deal with her. I said: ‘Hey G, for your birthday I’m going to take you to a pub. And we’re going to drink a beer together.’ And she’s like: ‘OK, Ant. Bet.’
10.
We made it until her birthday. And that was a big deal. G never said it, but getting there was a big deal. This kid had looked death in the eye at the age of ten. She should have been gone. But she became an adult. And maybe that was our gift. Maybe the whole time, that was our gift. Her birthday wasn’t exactly how we planned. She was too sick to leave the hospital. But I brought a beer to her room. I’m not going to say she drank the whole thing, but we had a ‘cheers.’ And she loved that. The next day she took a really big drop. On Friday I wrote my final update on social media. I said: ‘There’s still zero quit in her, I know it.’ Afterwards one of my best friend’s mom sent me a message. She said: ‘I love you baby boy, but let her go.’ I didn’t take that too well. I was like: ‘What the fuck does that mean?’ But at 8 pm that night I got a call from the doctors, and they said: ‘You should probably come now.’ When I got there G’s eyes were wide open. I leaned over her bed, and said: ‘G, you need to rest. It’s time to stop fighting.’ And she kinda nodded. That night five of my friends came to the hospital to be with me. We sat around G’s bed until 1:30 in the morning, just talking. G wasn’t saying anything. But her eyes were open. So I started to think: ‘Fuck it. She’s going to make it another week.’ Because that’s what G does. She doesn’t quit. I left the room for a minute. Just a minute, to go downstairs and get a little air. But when I came back her room was filled up with doctors and nurses. My friend Elgin grabbed me and said: ‘I’m so sorry.’ And I’m like sorry for what? Sorry for what? Sorry for what? It wasn’t how it was supposed to happen. I was supposed to be there. I was gonna hold her hand. I was gonna tell her ‘I love you. We always said ‘I love you.’ Every night before bed, every drop off, every time we hung up the phone. Always. And I was supposed to say it one last time, but I didn’t. It really fucked me up. Bad, for a long time. But my therapist told me that G would have never died in front of me. She said: ‘That night you gave each other your two greatest acts of love. You told her to stop fighting. And she kept fighting until you left the room.
11.
She’s in my dreams six nights a week. Usually we’re just chilling: in the car, or watching tv on the couch. I’ll be like: ‘What’s up G?’ And she’ll be like: ‘What’s up Ant?’ Afterwards I’ll wake up, and lie in bed for a bit. Not believing that I just woke up. Then I’ll play ‘Time after Time,’ and that’s when the tears come out hard. The place is a little cleaner now, I will say that. That’s the only thing we ever bickered about. I’m not saying G was dirty—if she’s listening. But messy. She was messy. So the place is cleaner now. But I’m struggling man. I’m struggling. I still have The Knicks. And I’ve got great friends, but they’ve all got wives and kids. I will say that things have been much better with my mom lately. But most of the time it’s just me in the crib. I don’t know what to do with myself. Sometimes I’ll drive to the hospital and just sit in the parking lot. That was my identity: G and Ant. Ant and G. That’s all gone now. It was real man, this was real. I’ve never had kids, so I don’t know what that feels like. But I think I kinda do, you know? I’ll never have another love like G, ever. And that’s OK. I’m OK with that. On my last birthday G was super sick, but she organized a party at the hospital. It was supposed to be a surprise, but she accidentally added me to the Facebook invite. All day Iong I was getting notifications: the cake just arrived, the balloons just arrived. It was hilarious. But I never told her I knew. When I walked in the room-- I acted completely surprised. All my friends were there. There was a Knicks cake. Knicks decorations. And there was G—with the biggest smile on her face. She was holding a ‘Happy Birthday Anthony’ sign that she’d made in the hospital art program. She was so freaking proud of herself. For so much of our lives I’d been doing everything, but this was something she put together. This was all her. And she was so freaking happy. That day she gave me my final birthday card. I’ve got it hanging on the fridge right now. It’s half-orange, half-blue. On the top she wrote: ‘You saved my life so many times. I can’t thank you enough.’ Then at the bottom, she signed it: ‘Love always. Your biggest fan, Gianna.
