This past July, I traveled north of Seattle to Orcas Island – part of the American San Juan Islands, just south of Vancouver – to visit a dear friend. Weeks before I learned that Bill was not well. Over the past year he gradually had lost all strength and dexterity in his hands.
Bill’s wife left the morning I arrived, traveling several hundred miles south to be with her sister who was taking care of her husband, suffering from dementia.
Decades before, I lived in Seattle and Bill and I were going through profound challenges in our lives, seemingly at the same time. I left my performing career In NYC which was just beginning to flourish and moved to Seattle with the rest of our family – my wife, her daughter from another marriage, and our daughter – to try and keep our family together. From Carnegie Hall, I was now selling welding supplies, beginning my Music Magic program for young children and practicing my clarinet when I had the time and energy. Bill had a most tragic event happen with his immediate family which I won’t go into here.
We took trips to Orcas together with our very young daughters and at the time our walks and sharing our lives made us both stronger. Bill always had a sense of humor. I remember when my wife and I realized we were not going to be together. She moved out and the traumatic sharing custody of Laura, our daughter, had begun. My family was breaking into pieces.
One morning I opened the front door to get the mail and almost broke my neck tripping over the most unlikely, outrageously heavy, large, immovable object that I could imagine; a full-sized bowling ball was on my front porch. How did it get there?? WHY was it there? Laura and I, through all the sadness and uncertainty of our lives were suddenly shaken out of our doldrums. We could not stop laughing at how absurd it was to find this bowling ball on our front porch. It had to be Bill.
Fast forward to a few weeks ago when I arrived at Eastsound Airport on Orcas. I saw Bill. We exchanged warm hugs as was always our custom and I didn’t notice anything different about him until he asked me to drive. Opening the driver’s door, I noticed a wrench in the front seat right by the steering wheel. Was this another one of his jokes? Bill explained the wrench was to help him turn the key in the ignition. In the five days we spent together Bill got himself dressed, and only a few times asked me for a little help straightening his collar.
Thank goodness he definitely knew what he was doing in the kitchen, directing me precisely how he wanted each piece of garlic crushed, onion sliced, red pepper flattened and thinly cut, how much and when to begin heating the extra virgin Spanish olive oil. I was proud to be Bill’s prep cook, cutting, slicing, dicing, pouring one potion into another to make the most flavorful, delectable sauces. Mostly Indian and Italian dishes that week. Evenings we spent dining and drinking local ale on his porch looking out on the most serene setting of the Strait of Juan de Fuca framed by centuries old Douglas firs.
Over the past few months, while searching for doctors, healers, the internet for different, perhaps less traditional modalities of treatment, Bill has learned that his diagnosis is ALS. He told me about what might happen to him in the months to come.
You would think that anyone else would just fall apart, but not Bill.
In the five days we spent together I didn’t sense any self-pity or depression. My dear friend, Bill, is such an inspiration, always in the moment paying attention to each task before him. Without realizing it at the time I learned about compassion and patience from him.
When we were together Bill was interested in me, in my life. Still with a sense of humor, I believe that he did more for my sense of well-being than I did for him. What a gift, a life lesson, a relief really to get out of myself, my self-interest and learn from my dear friend, my brother from another mother.
David Singer, Grammy Award-Winning Professional Musician for 55 years
Author of “From Cab Driver to Carnegie Hall“
www.singerclarinet.com
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