The Beginning of the Last Day
Nineteen years ago today...
The Beginning of the Last Day
The beginning of the last day December 23, 2001
Ten years from the word terminal, a crazy 10 years full of doctors bad and good, full of being on autopilot. That’s how I know for sure, that you absolutely do what you have to do in this life. Now every year at holiday time, it’s another lesson of self-renewal and remembering the lessons from all the time before and the times before that. Remembering the me I left behind.
December 23rd, 2001, Rita was with me, we were observing, one of us on each side of the railing. It wasn’t a sad thing, more like watching in anticipation of what was the next step. And since it was all peaceful, so were we. “Could you guys do me a favor”? Came loud and clear through the gravel voice where the life support tubes had been. Rita and I looked at each other – He wasn’t talking to us, was he?… Uh No… “I don’t want to go just yet, it’s not time”. It would be at least another 15-18 hours….After so many hours, weeks, months in the hospitals – it was a familiar setting. But this time things were quiet. No doctors, no nurses, no interns. Just peace, just one focus. Later that week, Judith, who is a master Astrologer, said he was waiting for a definite, specific alignment of the planets.
Euphoric – lots of speaking to people who were clearly not visible to us in that room. Lots of joy, and one single moment of clarity with a look to the left right at me, in an ecstatic comment, “I really love you”. I heard that loud and clear. I asked, “Is it time to go”? “Almost”. Then sometime after midnight, December 24th, “I think I have to go now”… “OK, I’ll be here”. No more words, just the process remained. It was not sad. No sadness was portrayed or projected. Only a state of euphoria, peace and calm.
5:15AM December 24th, 2001:
One last breath, then after was one final movement. The reach of the left arm as if to take someone’s hand. Not something random, a definite movement. The body had not been able to move limbs for so many days due to fluid, heavy fluid. It was simply a voluntary gesture to take the hand of another as if being led. This movement was in the same second after the last breath. Almost simultaneously.
The end of 44 years of music, genius, energy, brilliance, talent, self-indulgence, self-destruction, gentleness, and creativity. The final 10 of those years, filled with hope, sadness, searching, hopelessness, experimentation, torture, finding a lost civilization, looking for a self that could not be found, inviting the demons in to stay, pain, suffering, forgiving others, forgiving self, euphoria and finally peace.
December 24th 6:30AM:
Making phone calls from the phone in the room because there was only me. It was deemed sort of “uncomfortable”, or “disrespectful” for anyone else in his family to be there. It was as if it was really happening if they didn’t see it. But what they don’t know, what they never saw, what they will never realize, is that it was not about them and their comfort. It was a final understanding of why, what, how, and an enlightenment. It was a process, and I was the one with the privileges to witness the event from beginning to end. The longest part were the years prior to 2001. That December was the month of peace and joy and complete release. I saw it and heard it, but how do you put that into words?
Christmas Eve light snow, then leaving the hospital and almost forgetting that I didn’t have to return later as had been the daily routine for so long. Getting into the car. A strange wall of calm, lying down to sleep for a couple of hours before heading to make arrangements. Janet Jackson’s “Shining Down on Me” was on the radio in the car. The Calling, “Wherever You May Go” was on the radio at home. The phone rang at 10:30AM, I hesitated to answer, but I did, and static was all I could hear. I laughed because I knew who it was, I still know.
The wooden Monk casket, the steel casing – engraved with a Martin guitar. The smoke marble headstone, all planned in a single morning with the family, as if this entire 10 years had an unexpected ending. I knew and will forever know something they will never know or see. On the headstone are these words: “most of us go to our grave with our music still inside of us”. Because the music doesn’t die just because the body of the musician does.
I know what unconditional love is, not just what the book definition says. I know what it feels like to give and get and I know that it’s really the only kind I understand. We’re all in this together, we breathe the same air. You don’t love everyone, of course. But I do know, even if you try, it all comes back to each of us, better than before.
Memorial Service, December 27th, 2001 to upwards of 250 musicians from all over the U.S., friends and family. I made a CD with songs he had requested and songs I wanted him to have. “Imagine” and “Canon in D” were his requests. “Angel” was mine because of our life on the road for so many years – over 16 years of life in hotel rooms. The service was recorded as a microphone went around the room and tales of the live musician were told. Funny stories, feelings, emotions, and it was the celebration of a life.
Living and learning, thanks for everything you taught me, things I needed to know to carry on with this life and who I am in this life. Stories never really end. There’s a long story with many chapters lived before this one that started in 1979.
THEN THE DREAMS BEGAN.
Vivid dreams full of sound and color.
I heard my name many times in a high pitched almost pleading voice. The dreams were visions. Visions of getting lost. Visions of Bruce alive, but trying to find the right room, the room where his bicycle was supposed to be. Visions of him being carried off on a gurney, but not he did not realize he was gone. He was motionless on the gurney, but his head dropped to one side and his eyes were fixed on mine – confused as to where they were taking him and why. Asking me, “Shannon, where am I?”
Dreams of trying to set up the band equipment, but not being able to get on or off the right elevators. Not being able to completely set up because a keyboard was missing, or cables, or microphones. Something always in the way of completing the set up. Recurring.
All the rooms in all the dream hotels and living conditions had 8’s on the doors – 88, 888, etc. 8’s are numbers of success. I always remember to write down numbers from dreams and look them up then save them.
In dreams, it is said that dogs are protection and numbers are meaningful.
A dream of a lush, green country side, one majestic tree, and nothing but tall green thick, shiny grass and a fence … seeds thrown into the air by an older woman (someone’s mother) and the seeds turned into birds. The dog along the fence in this dream was named Mikey. Dogs were, and still are, in every dream. Following behind me was Bruce with another man talking to him about me and how to take care of my needs, what I was like, and how it would be soon.
Then a dream of being inside a high rise apartment or hotel, looking safely out of the window and ice, floods, trucks and cars being swallowed up into flooding and holes in the earth. But I was safe from the chaos.
Dreams of the big flying dog from “The Neverending Story”. He was protecting me, standing over me. When his head turned, it was Bruce’s face and voice. He told me something important…I wish I would have written it down.
Dreams of living in a house where monsters were living -either up the dark stairs in a room, or under a floor cabinet. I always went up the stairs to see what and why. There was always one bright flashlight beam. In the other house, I tried to never open the cabinet, I knew what was in there, but still I was cautious about everything in the house. Afraid of going in and out of that house. Recurring.
Dreams of villages and towns and people I didn’t know, but I knew that I had been there and it was all too familiar. Warm Southwestern feel. Recurring dreams. The details of these dreams are still there – in my mind’s eye.
Pay attention to your people, no matter what is happening to them. Be there. Pay attention to your vivid dreams. Write down colors, numbers, names.
And never lose sight of yourself even if it seems like it’s happening and you can’t find your way back. It took me about 3 years to be who I was. Only better. There’s always more to the story…both mine and yours.
