Every Cell I Have

Five years ago, today, I kissed Pete on the cheek for the last time. When I say it seems like yesterday, I’m aware of how cliché that sounds. But it does seem like yesterday because without effort I can summon every feeling that I felt in that moment when we had to remove all of his life support systems, including the V.A.D. (heart pump) which had extended his vigorous and full life by four-and-a-half years. I can feel the panic, the stillness, and the confidence of the decision, in every cell I have, even now.

In fact, everything seems like yesterday. All memories remain fresh in my mind, and not just from the day he died, although that will forever hold an unparalleled place of indescribable existential grief in my life. It seems like only yesterday we met in Aspen. We worked together from that moment on, nearly eighteen years. It was just yesterday he played Carnegie Hall for the first time – a huge feather in both of our caps. Only moments ago, he played “Erin’s Waltz” as I walked down the aisle. Then he set aside his guitar and we exchanged vows. In the blink of an eye, we worked together, loved together, raised children together, made music together, and healed together.

I miss him terribly and that never changes. Sean and James miss him as well. I continue the work we started, even though he is not here to take part. The mission has not changed. There are so many who have not heard his beautiful compositions, or his spectacular musicianship, but I’m still here to remedy that. Pete was a hugely resilient human in the face of insurmountable odds, and he loved encouraging others to be resilient and to thrive. I’m still here to share those lessons to anyone who wants or needs to hear them—to pass on Pete’s message of “Don’t Just Live, Live Well.” A message I have to remind myself of every day.

Thank you to every one of you who has helped me and my family move through these last five years.