Missing William

The call came at about 7:00 a.m. on a Sunday morning in October. I was awake, but not out of bed yet. I could tell from my mother’s tone that it wasn’t a social call, and then she was off the phone and coming down the hall to my room. The next 48 hours hold some of the most painful memories of my life; and twenty-five years later the wound is just as tender, the pain is just as real.

You see, my dad had lung cancer at this time, and his health was failing rapidly. So, early morning or late night calls definitely got my attention. I knew that it was just a matter of time before “the call” would come.

My best friend at the time was also my cousin, William. Even though he was only 10 months older than me, William seemed so much wiser and knowledgeable. He was good-looking and popular. I was thrilled to call his friends my own. Our mothers were first cousins, and our fathers were best friends. My father considered William to be the son he never had; and that was fine with me, because I loved him like a brother.

We went to the same elementary school. He was a grade ahead of me, so he would help me with my homework—when he felt like it. I thought that was cool. I felt so smart at school when William had helped me with the answers. I had no doubt that they were always right.

I remember the day we were riding home on the bus and we saw a dead dog on the side of the road near our stop. At first, I thought it was a mean dog from the neighborhood, so I didn’t care; but then I realized it was my dog, Tuffy. (I know Tuffy is a stupid name, but, heck, I was in third grade; what do you expect?) I waited beside the road (actually, a busy highway) so that no one else would run over Tuffy (again) while William went home and got a shovel, and we buried him. I cried like a girl. William tried not to cry, but I think he did.

To earn money one summer, we started a “bee killing business” where we would go to neighbor’s homes and dispose of bee, hornet, or wasp nests. Our fee was $1 per nest, and our only tools included a broom and some bug spray. That was a tough summer.

In 7th grade we had our first official school dance where everyone had to dress up. The guys had to wear suits and the girls had to wear dresses. Well, I was quite the tomboy and didn’t appreciate that rule. But I went to the dance anyway--at William's urging--(with some guy whose name escapes me) and I remember William convincing me to actually “dance” at the dance, in spite of the dress. Before the night was over, I was having such a good time that I had forgotten all about that stupid dress. William did that for me.

By high school William and I had started a neighborhood band. We even wrote some of our own songs. Oh, and they were awful! I remember one night we played a few of our songs for William’s dad, and he was quite diplomatic about our “enthusiasm.” William banged on the drums, and I plucked at a guitar, and we knew we were going to be famous. It wasn’t meant to be, though, and I haven’t picked up a guitar for about 25 years.

William and I involuntarily parted ways in high school. William’s parents divorced; and shortly thereafter, so did mine. We all moved to new homes and had to endure weekend visitations. By this time, we were both working and doing our best to get out of high school and out of our one-horse town. William stayed with his dad a lot—about 50 miles away—and I just didn’t get to see him as much. But, he was the master of surprises, and he would just show up sometimes on the doorstep. He didn’t own a car, so his only means of transportation was borrowing a car (which didn’t happen much), walking, or hitch-hiking.

The last time I saw him he had hitch-hiked from his dad’s to visit his mom, who was in the hospital. The doorbell rang, and there he was on my doorstep. He had come by the house to get a ride to the hospital, and it was just so good to see him. We talked about everything from work to music to life to girlfriends and boyfriends. Later, I dropped him off at the hospital and we promised to see each other again soon.

That was three months or so before the phone rang in October. The events of this Sunday morning would prohibit us from keeping our last promise to one another. William’s dad called to tell us that William had been killed in a car accident. His dad has just returned from the hospital where he had to identify his son’s body. Now, though, he needed someone to go tell William’s mother. I don’t remember getting dressed. I don’t remember speaking a word. But, within minutes, mom and I were on our way to Aunt Sallie’s house. When we got there, she was all alone, slumped down beside her bed, with the phone still in her hand, groaning and moaning like a wounded animal. (It was the most awful sound I have ever heard.) Someone from the sheriff’s office had accidentally called--in spite of William’s dad saying he would take care of it--and told her that her son was dead.

I was 19 years old that day—two days short of my 20th birthday—and I had never thought that someone my age could die. Old people die. Sick people die. My dad would die. But not me. Not William. Not at 19 or 20.

The next 48 hours were the most painful of my life. I had to tell a mother that her only son was dead. I had to call my dad and tell him that the boy he loved like a son was dead. And I had to bury my best friend on my 20th birthday.

You know sometimes I will see him in a crowd. Sometimes I have even caught myself looking for him. I have thought I caught a glimpse of him and almost called his name. Sometimes I will hear a song on one of the oldies stations that our “band” used to play and my world just stops spinning; and, for a moment, I am 15, strumming a six-string, and my best friend is singing and keeping the beat. But, the best of times, is when he hitchhikes into one of my dreams, and we just hang out like it's a Sunday afternoon and we've got nothing but time and a full tank of gas. Those moments are short-lived though; the dream ends or the present jerks me back into reality where 25 years later feels more like 25 minutes, and my heart is crushed all over again. If time heals all wounds, perhaps I need to be a bit more patient and give this one another 25 years. Thus far, it is just as tender and painful as that Sunday morning in 1982.

So, once again, it's October, and I am missing William. Wherever you are, my dear friend, I hope you are at peace. And if at all possible, I hope you know that you are still dearly loved and truly missed. I am certain that you miss us as well; and it's almost amusing to think of you doing your best to borrow a car or hitch a ride home. What a pleasant surprise it would be to find you on my doorstep tomorrow morning. Until then, I am missing you.

My Best Friend

William Howard Hansberry

December 5, 1961 - October 24, 1982

Warning: Very depressing! Read at your own risk!

Here’s the weekend so far….

I am slowly recuperating from a wicked head cold. It literally kept me in bed all of last weekend, and it has sapped me of all energy this week. When I wasn’t in class, I was at home sleeping—or trying to sleep between the coughing and sneezing.

The good news is the head cold is almost gone. The bad news is that it has now migrated to my chest. So, this weekend is round two of battling an annoying, pesky sickness. It’s just bad enough that it keeps me from reading, concentrating, or exercising. Oh, I haven’t been able to exercise in over a week, so my weight loss has come to a halt. And I feel like I am losing all of the muscle tone that I had worked so hard on. When I try to exercise, it only makes me cough so hard I think I’m going to break a rib. So when I’m lying in bed I can just feel myself turning into a tub of lard again.

Another repercussion from this sickness is that I have missed my first law review deadline. And, by “missed,” I mean that I had to request an extension of time. The editor was most gracious in allowing the extension, but just asking for it made me feel like a failure. I do not request extensions. It is not part of my composition. If I am given a realistic deadline, I will kill myself to meet that deadline, but I will not ask for an extension; well, until now. Better yet, I am 24 hours away from the extension’s deadline, and I haven’t written one word. And, just to ensure that I fail on multiple levels, I also have not prepared for Monday’s classes. On the bright side, though, my blog is up to date.

My one bright spot this weekend was supposed to be the college’s live theatre production, where my daughter is part of the production staff for the show. Every year I buy two season tickets so that my daughter and I can spend some time together and enjoy a show. But, when she’s working a show (like this one), I typically ask a friend to come along, which is what I did for Saturday night’s show. But, the friend I asked is a flake. I know that, and I knew that when I asked her. And, being the flake that she is, she canceled on me late Saturday afternoon “because [she] had wasted the whole day and needed to study.” First, I fail to see why that (i.e., she had wasted the whole day and needed to study) is my fault; but, the bottom line is, some lessons are better learned. And that is the lesson that I have to take away from this experience. The definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting a different result. While I always want to believe that people will do the right thing, I must accept that they will not; and the place where I have the most control is avoiding setting myself up for disappointment. My ego will recover and, hopefully, it has learned this lesson for the last time. That didn’t make Saturday night’s experience any less painful, though. I paid for two seats and only got the benefit of one. And I went to the show alone. Not fun.

Speaking of the bruised ego, I am still waiting to hear about the summer associate position of my dreams. As per the recruiter, decisions were to be made during the third week of October. So far I have not received a rejection letter, which is good; but I also have not received an offer (i.e., not good). This probably means that I am on “hold,” at best. So, here’s my status: I have placed all of my eggs in this one basket. I have not applied for any other summer associate positions. Why? Because I want this one. I am now trying to prepare myself for the fact that I may not receive the offer and what to do then. I am also reminding myself of my mortal frailties and limitations and the fact that I have ultimately entrusted my entire life and livelihood to the Heavenly Father, who is in complete control of the future. I have already told Him, as I’m telling you, that I will be disappointed—very disappointed—should I not receive an offer to the firm of my dreams, but I will try to temper that with the knowledge that He knows what is best and in His grand design there is something bigger and better for me. I will probably need to re-read these words out loud when the rejection letter arrives.

Finally, my weekend has been consumed with thoughts of my kids. I miss them dearly. And, for some reason, I missed them very much this weekend. I miss being a mom. I miss being a part of their everyday lives. I do not like getting the 30-second capsule summary of their lives. I miss staying up late with them and just talking. I miss the days when we would all crowd onto my bed and read our favorite books—or at least a chapter or two before we would start gabbing and talk into the night. I miss the banter, and the jokes, and the crazy things we did together that would make us laugh uncontrollably. I miss giving them random hugs. I miss watching them sleep. And I feel like I am missing so much of their lives.

So, that’s my weekend so far. It hasn’t been fun or productive. And, to be honest, I’ll be happy to see Monday morning and put these dreadful days behind me.

Counting the cost over a cup of jo

This weekend was spent in North Carolina visiting family. It was a planned trip that seemed like a good idea in the planning stages. While driving to Virginia Sunday afternoon, I had plenty of time to reconsider that assessment.

The family just does not understand what I mean when I say, “I am busy.” They have nothing to compare it to. I know their lives. I understand their definition of “busy,” and it pales in comparison. I could enlighten them. I could go into great detail about the hours I spend on a nightly basis preparing for one class; but, what’s the point? They are busy. I am busy. We all have busy lives. And I have never been one to glory in my status. For instance, if I had pneumonia, I would say, “I am sick.” For those who don’t know that I am in law school, I say, “I go to college.” I do not gain any self-worth or satisfaction by convincing all family and friends that my schedule is much more atrocious than theirs—to the tenth degree—even though it is. So, instead of reciting the painful details of the five hours per night spent preparing for the next day’s classes, I simply say, “I am busy.”

Perhaps the blame is mine. Perhaps the family cannot ascertain the stress of my schedule because I speak of it in such generic terms—and even plan weekend trips to visit. So the primary lesson learned from this weekend’s trip is that I must be a better communicator.

Chester (my cat) is curled up in my open suitcase. The half unpacked suitcase seems to be a metaphor for my life. I am half way through this curriculum; too late to quit, too soon to finish. So much is in limbo. Am I packing? Or unpacking? If I had the time, could I find the energy to finish doing either? This evening, that is doubtful. Instead, there’s a pot of coffee brewing. It will be my partner in the long night ahead. I will read, outline, study; and, when my mind wonders, I will reminisce about the weekend in North Carolina, calculate its cost, remember its lesson, and hope I can recover....or find someplace else for that suitcase to take me.