The lyrics to the song came to me as soon as I opened the door to the loft, inspiration in an instant. The first was, “Billy!” then, “ No!” then, “Oh, God!” It was my song, those roller coaster off-the-rails screams, that woke up our neighbors.
The second I opened that door, I knew. I found myself on my knees at the couch, rocking him. He was cold, a mannequin moving back and forth in my arms, while I sang that fucking song at the top of my lungs. And white, impossibly white, with a dark purple bottom layer. I grabbed the phone, dialed 911. I sang for the woman who answered. She asked if I tried CPR. What a stupid woman. “It’s too late! It won’t help! Please! No! Oh, God! Billy!”
Bob Slobbers heard me, too, plodded upstairs and jumped on his daddy’s legs. Billy moved as one unit. “Get off!” I threw the phone on the floor, ran back to Billy, got Bob off of him.
I heard heavy footfalls on the stairs, uniforms rushed in, one told me to leave. I sang him my song while holding Billy. Another one grabbed my arm and gave me no choice. The downstairs front door was open. People started to stream in, some I recognized as our friends. I remember asking for a pack of cigarettes. At some point, I breathed into a paper bag.
All of that happened when I woke up, reached over, and Billy wasn’t beside me at half past eight on Monday morning, January 21st, Martin Luther King Day. That was fifteen years ago.
It’s still impossible to write about this though I’ve tried a hundred times. But remembering it? Damed if I can’t access every detail faster than my new MacBook Pro with retina clarity, especially if I’m trying to fall asleep.
Fifteen years later, my life with Billy is treasured, curated, frozen in amber, but I have this other life now, rich with friends and career and dogs. During the darkest years of this, I saw some of my best friends back away, while new ones came in to make me laugh and love, things I’d written off.
It took a decade to stop blaming myself for not paying attention to the warning signs or the impossible wish that I could take back certain things I’d said over the course of our ten years together or in the darkest part of the night, bargaining for that one more chance to just tell Billy that I loved him.
I cringe every time I hear someone passed away surrounded by friends and family. Billy didn’t have that. He was alone, scared, his heart exploding in his chest. Now I mourn most for what he’s missed, all of those hopes and dreams he told me, sometimes whispered for fear those dreams were ever too big to come true. And he never got to have an iPhone.
There is no getting over losing Billy or moving past it or any of that other bullshit I’ve heard for years, usually by people who’ve never woken to their worst nightmare. And no, everything doesn’t happen for a reason, a tired phrase said with empty assurance.
Thank you to Mickey and Scott, who propped me up, sometimes in the most brutal and blunt way. Then my old friend Jamie Grossman Young hired me into the her Discovery family (Gretchen, Tara, Jim, Michelina, Todd). Those new teammates led me to purpose, something I’d lost.
I found LiveJournal. I started to keep Billy alive by telling his story. It was there that I met my great friend Joe, who came into my life prematurely, but never left no matter how much I pushed him away. Sean and Matt, still! The Tuesday Night gang of David and Jason‘s! And Vance, who guided me with great care and compassion. There were so many others, all of whom I love and appreciate. The best therapist I’ve ever met, Robyn, listened and shared the burden of my grief, giving me tips all along the way.
And Billy’s family, who took me in as their own.
This is all starting to sound like an awards speech. I’m getting played off. I am a humbly grateful, lucky man. Thank you for listening.
WRITTEN 01/21/2017