Billy Claude, you are missed
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October 2, 2008, 11:50 pm
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Billy Claude, Esophageal cancer, family, Grief, Life, love, Poetry, Yonkers
Filed under: Uncategorized | Tags: Billy Claude, Esophageal cancer, family, Grief, Life, love, Poetry, Yonkers
Billy Dying
My brother is going out the same way he lived his life – on his own,
needing no one.
Fiercely private and battling to stay that way.
While the cancer eats him up inside, outside he is raging.
Billy dying, alone and pissed off.
_________________________________________________________________________
My brother would have me show how I tough I was at five, by having me
kick trees.
From him I learned you could survive a heart stopping sleigh ride from the highest hill in Trevor Park down to the marina, and that Indian burns hurt.
A whole lot, damn it.
Billy, tough guy, smirk at the ready.
_________________________________________________________
My brother has an infinity for fire.
He loved to grill, ( burn) the chicken.
And you don’t bonfire Christmas wrap on a beach on a windy holiday,
unless you are prepared to run like hell back to the house when you hear
sirens.
Billy was always a good runner.
___________________________________________________________
My brother climbed mountains and trail blazed.
I saw a lot of his back when we were younger, always off somewhere, while I stayed behind.
This time he’s leaving for good.
My brother is dying, too soon, too young, while there are mountains left to climb and flames still flickering
Billy, fighting for time,for life, and losing the battle.
William J. Claude, 1952-2006
This post is as haunted as I am. I mean that quite literally, since I have had to go back and fix the spacing dozens of times. I have never had this problem before, and I believe that my brother is looking down at me and snickering right at this moment. At least I hope he is. I wrote this poem for him while he was dying, but he never saw it. He most likely would have made some wiseass comment, or have rolled his eyes.
My brother died of esophageal cancer back in April, 2006. I had seen him the November before that, and he nervously told me about having trouble swallowing, in a hoarse voice. I attributed it to a choking episode he had prior to the visit. He died five months later.
Esophageal cancer is very insidious. It is unfortunately usually diagnosed in the end stages. My brothers had spread very rapidly, and within four months he was emaciated, unable to speak and could hardly walk. It was devastating to see – my brother was such an active, vibrant person. I had asked him at the beginning of his treatment if he was sure he wanted to go through the intense radiation/chemotherapy course his Dr had decided on. It was brutal. He had every hope that he would recover, and I couldn’t take that away by telling him he never would. I did tell my mother before she left on her long planned cruise, and she became very angry at me, but left anyway. Denial doesn’t stop death though, and she barely stepped off the ship when she was called to NY, but that’s another story, one I may never be able to tell.
When my brother did realize he was dying, I was there. He was so very angry. I had taken him home from the hospital after flying to NY from Atlanta on my own. It was a very heart wrenching visit, and the last time I saw my brother. I had asked him to return with me so many times, but he wanted to stay in his home, a dismal bachelors basement apartment, where the smell of mold competed with the gasoline fumes from the garage. I sat there for hours with him on that last day, made all the sadder by the surroundings he would not leave. Our goodbye was painful.
Soon after, Billy fell and shattered his hip, and laid undiscovered on a cold floor for many hours overnight, unable to call out or move. He was vented against his DNR (do not resuscitate) instructions, and died a terrible death in the hospital. I was in Kentucky awaiting the birth of my stepdaughters third child, while watching the other two because her husband was shipping out to Iraq. This was the case where the living took precedence over the dead. I was held in judgement by other family members for not going to his riverside memorial at the Hudson Marina in Yonkers, where they scattered his ashes. The truth is, even if I wasn’t so tied up, I couldn’t say goodbye again. This was another loss of many in my life, one I could not endure.
There isn’t a day that goes by that I’m not incredibly saddened by his loss and by the tragic circumstances of his death. He made me look at my own mortality for the first time, and think about what I wanted from life.
I took a risk I might never have taken as a result, and found the courage to raise my little girl, despite my age. Billy, I love you, and miss you more than I can say. May God wrap you in his arms and grant you peace.
This time he’s leaving for good.
to climb and flames still flickering.
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How wonderful that you write your way through the stages of grief. I too had to do that recently. You might find some of the tips I blog about will help you on your life journey. See me at http://www.sherrieh.wordpress.com to help change the energy that is around you. Angel blessings!
Comment by sherrieh October 4, 2008 @ 7:53 pmOhhh, I am so sorry about your brother. I will be praying for you. Comfort to you, lynn
Comment by Lynn C. October 6, 2008 @ 10:00 pmOh dear, what a sad story. But you did what was possible and offered your help. It is terrible,when you cannot say goodbye right after someone has passed away. This would have given you peace. But he did not want you to be around, so there is no guilt left. And your love to him is real, one can feel it between the lines and made me cry, too, over the beloved that I’ve lost.
Comment by Paula October 8, 2008 @ 12:25 pmP.
Thank you so much for your support. I am still struggling with his passing. I know he had to do things his way, but it doesn’t make what happened any easier. He had refused hospice and would only let an old girlfriend in to help him. He shut everyone else out. I would call and talk on his answering machine – by that time he could no longer talk, so I would have long one sided conversations. I miss him.
Comment by needsleep259 October 13, 2008 @ 9:08 pm