The First Day Without Bill

[Written the day after William B. Foster of Fairport, NY passed away]

I woke up today for the first time in a world without Bill Foster. 

Bill married my grandmother the year after my parents married. 

He’s been in our family since well before I was born. Bill insisted that he be called “Bill.” He didn’t want to be grandpa or any other title.

Eventually, we settled on GrandBill. And for those great grandkids that had trouble with their B’s, GrandPill - which I think was his personal favorite.

He was such a sweet man who had lived a colored and interesting life. A life that was hellbent on his own personal destruction. For the first half anyway.

Bill was an alcoholic and if he had maintained his lifestyle there’s no doubt in my mind he would have been gone before age sixty. Probably before age fifty. At age 42 (?) he took his last drink.

He gave it up. And he gave it up for something beautiful. He gave it up to God. He gave it up for himself. And he gave it up for the woman he wanted to marry.

In his final weeks I asked Bill what made his relationship with my grandma last. A marriage of over forty years is a tremendous achievement, especially when it was a second marriage for both of them.

He said there are two things. The first is that “we love each other very much.” And the second is that we’re “kinda old fashioned.”

I choked up a bit as he explained the simplicity of true love, and doing things in a traditional way.

It was interesting to hear this perspective because Bill is a rebel at heart. He has no problem being contrarian and he has a dry sense of humor that will go unmentioned if you missed it.

He had a way of talking at the same time as a conversation was going on. They say the human brain can only focus on up to three simultaneous conversations before it hits a focus limit. During dinner in a busy house, it was almost impossible to pay attention to two conversations, let alone three. During dinner there was the conversation on the forefront that most people engaged with, and the conversation Bill was having out loud, knowing that it was mostly to himself. 

But every once in awhile, whatever Bill was saying would flip to the forefront of my mind and what he said was patently absurd. Whether it was a bizarre analogy, a human insight worthy of it’s own standup routine, or an exaggeration of a well known idea, Bill would send a targeted missile straight to my funny bone. When I or anyone else got wise to the second conversation going on, he’d break out into a big smile. And if no one heard it, he moved on like nothing had happened.

He was the king of the peanut gallery, content to throw his shells in at his own leisure. Knowing that his conversational discards contained gold for those who could break focus and listen in.

And now there is no more listening in. 

There will no longer be the side comments at Thanksgiving.

Or the political tirade full of bluster and machismo that fell to the wayside at the first bout of laughter.

Bill fell ill and went to the hospital less than two months ago. The news he was given was dire, and his decision high stakes. Risky surgery or quick decline. 

My heart wanted him to get the surgery. I wanted Bill in my life for a long time to come. 

But Bill had other plans. I think he wanted good closure, and in the time of Covid, closure doesn’t happen at the hospital. 

So he came home. To the house he shared with his wife for over forty years. 

The first week back he seemed to be regaining strength and he made an attempt at playing the bass ukulele. As long as I’ve known Bill (my whole life) he has never spent much time apart from a bass guitar. A master of improv playing, Bill couldn’t read sheet music. But he knew exactly the gaps to fill to play his part in any band that would have him. 

Seated in his fancy new reclining chair he said he felt like a beginner. And I could see how much it pained him to feel the loss of something he had spent his whole life becoming a seasoned expert at. To my knowledge that was the last time he picked up a guitar. 

In that moment lies a deeply sad and profound nugget of truth that I will cling to.

Eventually, if we’re lucky, we’ll all get to be beginners again. As our bodies and minds fail we get an opportunity to be like a child. For us, it typically feels like something being taken. The loss of control feels embarrassing and frustrating.

But there is a gift in becoming like a child. A child must rely on his parents.  As we transition out of this world we have the ultimate father waiting for us. Our heavenly Father, who will be whispering to us “Well done, my good and faithful servant.” And with the naivete of a child, there are no words more beautiful to hear. 

In his final moment, my mother read him a couple of verses from 2 Timothy:

“For I am now ready to be offered, and the time of my departure is at hand. 

I have fought a good fight, I have finished my course, I have kept the faith:

Henceforth there is laid up for me a crown of righteousness, which the Lord, the righteous judge, shall give me at that day: and not to me only, but unto all them also that love his appearing.” - 2 Timothy 4:6-8 KJV

Bill, you fought the good fight.

You finished the race.

You kept the faith.

And I miss you already.

-Andrew