Tab Baker died on Tuesday night. He was found in his apartment. He had a heart attack. He was 51. He had been battling Trigeminal Neuralgia for five years. Trigeminal Neuralgia is a nerve disease that causes tremendous, though short-lasting pain in the face, usually only one side where the nerve is affected. The pain, Tab told me two years ago—the last time I saw him—was excruciating, and often brought him to his knees. It is called “The Suicide Disease,” because many people who suffer from it decide they would rather die than be in such pain.

Tab didn’t commit suicide. Not exactly, anyway. The only thing he could find that would dull the pain was Vodka. And so he took his medicine. Daily. That “treatment” made surgery a tough call, according to his long-time friend, actress Wandachristine. Doctors had to wait for a window in which Tab stopped drinking long enough to mitigate the risk. Finally, in 2009, Tab did have surgery. And according to both Wandachristine and his sister, Jacinta Latimore, it worked, at first. The problem, said Wandachristine, is that “because he had been anesthetizing himself with the vodka, the vodka eventually had taken over.”

Those who knew Tab Baker in the last few years knew a man who was wasting away. “If he weighed 100 pounds, that would be a lot,” said Wandachristine. He simply stopped eating. He would frequently show up to places, and then disappear, looking for a place to lie down, because the pain was coming back. Often, he wouldn’t show up at all…to teach a class at Columbia College or Act One Studios, to an audition. His feet were swollen, leading Latimore to think that perhaps he had tripped and hit his head when he died.

The police weren’t sure how Tab had died, either, at first. According to Latimore, they roped his apartment off as a possible crime scene, perhaps because the house was a mess, until the coroner came back with a ruling of heart attack.

“I was surprised I didn’t get the call before now,” said Wandachristine.

She and other friends tried last year to intervene, to check Tab in to a rehab clinic. But, even though Tab had enough money, he stopped paying his insurance premiums, and it was canceled. He’d stopped paying his mortgage, too. And his taxes. He had given up.

“Here’s the thing that gives me and some of the others some solace,” said Wandachristine. “Tab was tortured. He was tortured because of the alcohol. He was tortured because of the disease.

“He is at peace. He is truly at peace right now, and that’s the part we all have to have comfort in.”

What is so heartbreaking about this death, about this man whose pain was so debilitating that he let his life waste away, is that the Tab Baker we all knew before the surgery was incredibly alive and vibrant. When I met him, in 1992, I described him in an article on black theatre as a nerd. His trade, at that time, was as a tech computer guy. He was incredibly interested in detail. And very smart. He even had black, plastic glasses.

He also radiated a kid’s energy—bouncing around when an idea hit him as if his body just couldn’t hold it back, then smiling that dazzling, but shy, self-deprecating smile. He was intense. And he was playful. And an immensely talented actor. And completely full of life. It didn’t surprise me to learn that he had gotten his Equity card doing a national tour of Sesame Street Live. And yet, the man could do Shakespeare. And he worked in most films and TV shows that shot here in the ’90s—which was a pretty hot filming decade in Chicago. In the last few years—even with the pain and the alcohol—he still landed voice-over jobs.

“He was a marvelous actor,” said his long-time agent, Linda Jack. “He was classically trained, he was a great dancer. He couldn’t sing, though.” Tab would help Grossman Jack Talent with their computers. And he was there for Jack when her husband and business partner, Mike Jablonski, died of cancer. Jack could hardly speak when I spoke to her on Wednesday.

I was devastated when I got the call that Tab Baker had died. I, like many of you who knew him, had let the friendship slide over the last decade or so. I saw him once, about two years ago, then never again.

But I have good memories of Terrence Alonzo Baker. And I know a lot of you do, too. Please post them below. Or send them to me at This e-mail address is being protected from spambots. You need JavaScript enabled to view it and I will post them.

All who knew him can also come celebrate his life this Tuesday for the viewing, from 3 to 9 p.m. and Wednesday for the visitation, from 1 to 2 p.m., and funeral, from 2 to 3 p.m. It will all be at AA Rayner Funeral Home, 318 E. 71st St. (near Calumet). There will be a theatre celebration in his honor, too. Details to come later.