“…..You can take my body.
You can
take my bones. You can take my blood, but not my soul….”
Rhiannon Giddons: “Birmingham Sunday,”
Freedom Highway
William Henry Thompson III no longer walks the planet - no longer dons his
binoculars and heads to spot birds around his house or lead birders on
treks to exotic spots around the globe. He no longer sits with his guitar
on his leg, playing incredible riffs while his band and
friends sing his favorite songs, and he no longer graces the world with
his humor and love. It's been a tough one - a reality hard to fathom:
Bill Thompson, III, aka BT3, is gone, the victim of an unforgiving,
rapid-paced, nasty pancreatic cancer that ultimately consumed
his body and ended his life. As he always did, Bill lived his final
days largely and lovingly until he exhaled for the final time on Monday
evening, March 25, 2019, at 10:44 PM. I was fortunate to be with him earlier that day.
I am still stunned by this reality, and I vacillate between gratitude for
his life and intense sorrow at his death. I grapple with disbelief at his
absence, with celebration of a life fully-lived versus the heartbreaking, stark
reality that he’s gone, gone forever. It’s going to take a while longer – much
longer than the two months that have passed since those gathered shoveled
dislodged ground back into his grave - to not experience daily waves of
memories and grief unlike I’ve ever known, except with the passage of my
parents.
I met Bill in 1980 when he was a freshman in the West College at Miami
University. That year was my first year in the Marietta (OH) School System
where I taught Spanish at the Junior High School. Laura Thompson, Bill's
sister, was one of my students, and I suppose she mentioned me to Bill. I
really don't know what inspired Bill to come by school to meet me, but he did,
and from that initial conversation in my dilapidated room at MJHS, our
friendship began. I looked forward to Bill's regular visits, dancing with him
at parties, hearing about his next adventure and his passion for and love of
birds. Over time, Bill would play music at my house with members of his band,
setting up sessions down in the silo by the barn more than once. As his life
unfolded after college, we stayed in contact, and he kept me abreast of his
life - from time in London to work in New York, from meeting his future wife,
Julie Zickefoose, to his return to Marietta, from the birth of his children to
their high school years (during which Phoebe, his daughter, was my student),
from his travels across the globe to his newly defined relationship with
Wendy Clark, and ultimately from his diagnosis to his last day on Earth.
On his last birding trip in October, 2018, we were in close contact as he
traveled through Colombia because he was going to be in areas where I had been
a year earlier.
After his diagnosis, I mailed a letter to Bill once a week. I knew many
folks were vying for visits with him, and I certainly didn’t want to intrude on
time he needed to process his situation, get his affairs in order, and rest. Once
he felt a bit better, he responded to my notes.
On February 11, 2018, he wrote the following:
“Dear Tanya-
I’ve finally gotten around to writing a few notes of thanks and the
very
first one is to you. Your many card and notes have been so uplifting and
full of love – it makes me grateful to have you as my dear friend.
Not at all sure what’s ahead out there in the future, but then again, when
has that
ever been true? But I’m feeling better each day and am hoping
for a good long run. There are so many friends to hug, songs to play, birds to
see….
Love you, B.
PS: Would love to see you if we can make that happen.”
Later in February, Bill invited me out to have pizza with him and Wendy, but
I couldn’t make it. Mac, my corgi, was desperately ill with pancreatitis, and I
was afraid to leave him, so we planned for another time. Shortly thereafter,
Bill invited me out to the “Pink Palace” for his birthday celebration of
“making music with some of my far-flung pals. We’ll have good food, too.”
That day, March 3, 2019, is one I’ll never forget – watching Bill play
“Summertime” while Elsa sang; standing beside him as he played while Julie,
Wendy, and Mimi Hart sang, and holding his hand when he stretched out on the bed
and took a break. Most of all, I remember his face and smile when I walked in
the door and the hug he gave me at that moment. Very few people I’ve known could
share an embrace with a powerful zap of love like Bill Thompson. His hugs always reminded me of the warmth I once felt from my happy days with Sam, my children's dad.
After the birthday event and knowing that Bill was slipping, we began
texting back and forth, especially during the last week of his illness. I
had gone to NC to celebrate a remembrance of my parents at Appalachian State
University, and on Sunday, March 24th, I got a final text from Bill asking me
to come to him.
“Tanya, you best hurry…I’m pretty bad today, and it’ll only get worse. I
don’t want to miss seeing you. Please come.”
My response:
“On my way home from NC.
Heading out now. Hang on if you can…and if not, take flight with my arms
wrapped around you, beloved Bill. You are with me every second now…you’ll be
with me every second for eternity…every time I see a bird…every time I hear
music, you’ll be there.”
Bill: “Thanks love. Didn’t want to miss seeing you.”
Me: “It’ll be late when I get home tonight, but I’ll be there tomorrow, I
promise.”
Bill: “ Don’t rush love.”
Me:
“Headed home. We’ve got a date.”
Bill: “Oh yay!”
And so, on Sunday afternoon (3/24/2019), I packed up and headed home
immediately, texted Wendy, and made plans to go out for a visit on the next
day, March 25
th, in the afternoon.
Now, I need to back track just a bit. Two years earlier on that same
day (3/25/2016), my mom took flight. To say I miss her more and more as time
goes on is a bittersweet admission. I long to hear her voice; I still am
inclined to call her when I’m on the road; and I so wish she were here to enjoy
Samuel and Eliza as they begin to think about building the foundations of their
own families. And especially during Bill's illness, I sorely missed her
guidance and wisdom. I relied on what I "sensed" she was
sharing with me. After she passed, I asked her to come to me in my dreams, and
she did, in vivid, bizarre, unsettling ones that made me retract that request.
Seeing and hearing her in very awkward, surrealistic dream space then was way
too much for me, so I hadn’t asked her to come back until I was driving home
from North Carolina.
My memories of that drive home from Boone through the WV mountains that
afternoon are vague. I know I talked to Bill at length in my thoughts, and I
talked to my mother, asking her to send me a dose of the strength and wisdom I
had so frequently observed in her as she went to be with friends in their final
moments.
I recall many of those who were
dying waited on her to be with them so they could take flight surrounded by her
peace and calming nature, and I know she considered those moments to be her
most special, cherished memories of her 70+ years as a nurse.
When I arrived at the Pink Palace on Monday afternoon, Bill was outdoors
with Andy and Wendy, and I could see he was trying to walk back in the house without their assistance. Andy left when they
got him back in bed, and I moved over beside him to talk softly and hold his
hand. He drifted in and out of sleep / consciousness, for he was exhausted from
events of the morning and his “walk” outside. What was readily obvious was that
Bill was near death – cold feet, purple coloring underneath his toe and fingernails,
and a sporatic heartbeat -two short beats followed by a “thud” of a beat and
then several seconds until the next two short beats. I couldn’t find his pulse
in his wrist and was able to barely detect it in his neck. Wendy asked me if I
thought he was leaving us, and I told her I thought it was best to call Julie,
who came over immediately and was shocked at seeing his decline since the
morning when she was last with him.
The hospice nurse, Kim, also arrived and confirmed our feeling that Bill was
in his final hours. Her wisdom consoled and kept us in the moment; her
attentiveness to Bill’s comfort and her professional skill was of great
assistance.
Kim left after a bit, and from then on, my recollections are vivid though
I’m not sure of the time element involved in the remainder of my stay. Wendy
called Bill’s family to tell them to come, and shortly thereafter Laura and
Bill Dauber arrived. Everyone who was there focused on Bill, for his breathing
became more sporadic with extended pauses between inhales.
For me, the next few minutes were pretty much out of body. I held Bill’s
hand, and he grasped me firmly. (I can see his hand in mind as clearly as if I
had a photo of it.) Suddenly he opened his eyes and stared out beyond the bed
into the next room. (Julie was at the foot of the bed with her phone, Wendy was
in the kitchen, and Laura and Bill were on the sofa on the other side of the
bed from where I was seated.) Bill seemed a bit perplexed as he looked into the
other room, and he asked if Laura was there. And then he asked her, “Is that
Gigi?”
When Bill questioned Laura about Gigi a second time, I turned and looked
past Julie. I damn near cried out loud, for what I saw was my mother standing
just inside the room beyond his bed – an “as-real-as-they –get” vision of my
mom – in her nurse’s uniform, white hose, clunky white shoes she always wore to
work, and with her cap on (which she never wore when she was in her office on
campus). As Bill was staring intently in her direction, she opened her arms and
motioned for him to come with her. And in that split second, I watched her
drift, maybe float, through the door to the porch and disappear. Mom was
healthy-looking, radiant in her uniform and surrounded by a pale shimmering,
peach-colored aura that highlighted her smile and open arms. As quickly as I
realized what I was seeing, she disappeared out the door. I couldn’t begin to
verbalize what I had just witnessed. I just remember feeling great joy at her presence;
I sensed a mili-second exhilaration similar to that which I remember when my
children left my body at birth….that’s the best I can describe what I saw and
felt.
Did Bill see Petie? Was he seeing her when he questioned if Gigi was there?
I’ll never know. For me, her apparition was
real. I just know what I “saw.” Mom had come and was there in spirit, light,
love –whatever or however one would describe such a seeing / vision. Instantly,
I knew it was time for me to take leave, that Bill was awaiting his family and
his leap into spirit before long.
I walked to the car, and wept – sweet tears of awe, of sadness, of
surrender, of gratitude, of every emotion I can begin to fathom, yet I was
comforted, for I had been in the presence of spirit unlike only one or two
other times in my life.
I don’t remember driving out the driveway or turning left onto Dalzell Road.
The next thing I do recall is turning left out a ways onto Stanleyville Road.
There was a squirrel in the middle of the turn, so I stopped and watched it
scurry away. Apparently I had inserted a CD at some point, and when I became
aware of the music, Rhiannon Giddons was singing – hauntingly, powerfully….
“….you can take my body,
you can take my bones. You can take my blood, but not my soul…”
Cancer might have taken Bill’s body, but never his soul.
And so, I headed home, accompanied by Rhiannon’s music and my random
thoughts. At the bottom of the hill along Goss Fork, a great blue heron flew
from the creek on the right and continued directly in front of me to the
intersection below Sherm's and Caroline’s old house where I needed to turn right.
Surprisingly, it seemed to be guiding me, as I was very much in another world
myself. The bird didn’t ascend above the trees, but rather stayed about 15 feet
above my car all the way out to the turn in the road. It followed every curve
along the way and only ascended once I turned to go out State Route 26. ( I
have a special connection with herons, for when I found out I was unexpectedly
pregnant with Eliza, one came to me to let me know there was a little girl
waiting to come through my body. I had been distraught with the idea of a
pregnancy at 40 years old. The heron set me straight into acceptance and joy.)
Likewise, the following day, as I headed out the driveway, a red-tail hawk
lit
from its perch on the lines out the
way and flew, just as the heron had, just above the car to the end of the
driveway. It was so close that I feared I would hit it if I didn’t slow down
even more.
I can’t help but think those two birds were sent by Bill of the Birds as a sign he was
there, guiding me along the way.
Since
that time, more than just once or twice, I’ve sensed him around the farm and in
North Carolina at my grandmother’s house. Like the butterfly that encircled Samuel, Eliza, Harrison, and me the afternoon of Mom's memorial service (in the middle of March), I know those birds were BT3's assurance to me that he was flying freely and guiding all of us along the way.
I think of Bill daily, and I worry 80% less and try to love 80% more, as per his advice.
