The Days After

It has been two weeks since Billy left his body, surrounded by people he loved deeply, in a well worn room with fire dancing in the stove while he watched snowflakes swaying down through the sky, blanketing the ground outside the rippled window. He saw these things, and he saw us doing our best to send him off, with love cutting in line ahead of grief. He left us with the grace he exemplified for as long as we each had known him, which for many of us was well over thirty years. We opened that window after his last breath and the breeze, surprisingly warm for December, curved into the room and washed over him. I was lying pressed against his back with my arm around him, and I can say that that breeze was made of something I knew a thousand years back and had since forgotten, but I will never forget again.

I have been deeply moved by so many peoples’ descriptions of what Billy means to them, the common thread weaving the stories together is his ability to make people feel comfortable expressing themselves in their own best way. He was as selfless a person as I have known and he found commonality in nearly every interaction. I watched him ask every medical professional he met over the span of his 3 years of treatment, “Are you a native of (insert the town treatment was happening in)?” which began a conversation that he would remember the next time he saw each nurse, doctor, lab tech, social worker, cleaning person. So many of them whispered to us that Billy was loved by the staff, an unusual thing for them to share- they aren’t supposed to have favorites but were quietly happy to admit that he was theirs. His oncologist (folks that are known for unemotional dealings with their patients, which is understandable) broke down in tears at our last meeting (it was the day he broke up with us because all efforts had stopped working) and said through sobs: “You are an extraordinary human.”

You might have seen, listened to, or read accounts of his athleticism, which was otherworldly and enviable, but he never played with machismo- he loved the beauty of sport being played, and didn’t understand malice in a game. He holds records at both his high school and Yale for the least amount of time in the penalty box in addition to the more expected ones- most goals, most assists, etc.. It is so Billy to search for community in competition. Watching him skate felt the same as watching him play music, it was the flow and the heartbeat of something bigger than us being channeled through a human body that understood exactly what it was doing, it was showing those who wanted to know that joy can be deep and dark and perfectly imperfect when manifested with other like-hearted humans. His joy, especially in these two forms of expression, was infectious.

Billy and I were together just over 34 years (in this lifetime, physically, I expect it to blast on into the next go round) How lucky I am. Like most partners we had hard times, neither of us is saintly, but we worked through to the part where love was the only thing that mattered, and ours feels immeasurable. He supported all of my impulsive>obsessive>expensive>emotional>artistic>animal>short term>long term passions and knee jerk reactions to things that added to my wonky spin. He was not always effervescent about my choices but he ALWAYS had my back. He eventually loved and facilitated (or at least lived with) every live animal acquisition/self-developed photograph/beginner donkey painting/ stockdog competition/just to scratch the surface, and was my biggest music fan. He was a generous co-writer (meaning he gave me any piece of music he wrote if I wanted it, and handed it over without condition- I could change it to suit my song and he never winced), he made me believe I could go it alone after decades of being in bands (occasionally with somewhat aggressive mates who seriously challenged my confidence) by saying this: “It’s all about your voice and the songs. You can play one note underneath, and it will be great. You can do it,” and I did, and I am glad for it. That being said, there is no one I like to play music with more than Billy. If I turned to make eye contact with him during a song, he would send beams of connection, applause, and ‘we got this’ through his steely blues and his wildly open mouth, making the song and the unmapped parts of the universe mesh. For me there is nothing like having the person who has always been behind you behind you.

I have so much more to say but I am in the deep end of the pool with a concrete block tied to my ankle, voluntarily. I believe that in order to get to the surface and become light-infused again I have to look grief in the eye, and I can do that better down here. I will be fine. I recommend watching “Grief Walker”, which opened a parachute on my emotional free fall, and in the days to come I wish for you the feeling that these things offer, in what ever form they appear for you:

• Every morning you wake up to someone saying, “Good Morning. You are SO beautiful” even if you don’t feel that way, have wooly teeth, and are sleeping in your barn clothes.

• Every evening someone says the dinner you made is ‘uptown’, even if it is a hastily thrown together pivot.

• You hold hands while falling asleep. For decades. Despite broken bones, cancer, vertigo, or a fight over something that seemed insurmountable until you held hands.

• You know you are loved unconditionally and that you have made someone feel the same.

I am thankful down to my core for the people who have steadied me through this experience. Much love to each of you, near and far. 

-Laurie