My band leader was in his seventies, but he had been coming to practice regularly. He’d missed one, but was there that night, and told us he wasn’t sure he’d make the next rehearsal. He was feeling sick and he didn’t know if he’d be alive. We all thought he was being dramatic and assured him he would be ok. Of course, he knew.
The next morning at 5 am, I got a call from his wife, asking me to take her to the hospital. He was in bad shape and if we wanted to see him, we needed to get there right away. So I quickly pulled on my clothes and picked her up and we got to the hospital in half an hour. We went to his room, but they told us we should come into a conference room.
I knew what that meant, but I didn’t want to believe it. A doctor came in, and told us, and asked us if we wanted to see the body. It is so strange seeing the body of someone you love without any life in him. They arranged the body with his arms at his sides, so stiffly.
They thought he might have had Leukemia, but there was no autopsy. He didn’t have health insurance, so he never went to the doctor. I’m sure he was eligible for Medicaid since he lived in section 8 housing. He has played with the greats—Ellington, Coleman, Gillespie and on and on. He was donating his talent for the kids of the neighborhood. And no money and no health insurance and no social security.
So it was weird—him trying to tell us what was happening and us not believing it. He knew. I guess he was ready to give up. I was pissed. We weren’t done. But death is kind of hard to argue with.