By: Kate Lyon Osher
On Monday, August 11, 2014, I was sitting
with my kids outside playing. They were in a wagon singing “So Long, Farewell”
and pretending they were sailing to Ireland to pick up trash on their next
expedition. A text from a dear friend came in. And then another and then a news
alert. And it was absolutely heartbreaking and unbelievable news. Robin Williams was dead.
Before the sideline commentary starts about
this being just another Hollywood star with a list of addictions who couldn’t
get his shit together, let me share a little story I haven’t told anyone — not
my husband, not my best friend, not my parents, not my sister, not anyone.
Because it is too precious to me. But now is the time. Now is the place.
After my first husband Greg died by suicide,
I went on a travel quest of sorts, scattering his ashes where he requested and
trying to piece my life and my soul back together as best I could. I spent
quite a bit of time flying between Los Angeles (LAX) and Oakland, as I was
living in West Hollywood but contemplating a move to San Francisco or Marin and
visiting my best friend monthly at a minimum. Post 9/11 it wasn’t always easy
to get a Tupperware of your late husband’s ashes through TSA security, and at
LAX one afternoon I found myself on the receiving end of an agent with a power
trip like no other. After several threats telling me I was going to have to
toss the ashes and me going ballistic and falling into hysterics and finally
having a real cop come in and look at the death certificate I always carried
with me, I made it to the airport bar still crying and clutching my little
container. I sat in a corner table facing the wall so no one could see how
hysterical I was, with my whiskey on the rocks providing support, and I felt a
hand on my shoulder. A soft voice stated, “Miss, I just want to be sure you are
OK. I see you are traveling alone, and I saw what happened, and I just really
want to be sure you are OK.” Through my tears I could place the voice but
couldn’t actually believe Robin Williams was just casually strolling through
LAX and would actually take the time to stop to see if I was OK.
I was still crying that ugly cry where you
are trying to catch your breath, and I gave him the Cliff Notes version of
circumstances. His eyes got a little glossy. His voice got softer. And he said
to me, “Addiction is a real bitch. Mental illness and depression are the mother
of all bitches. I am so sorry for all the pain your husband was in. I’m so
sorry for the pain you are in now. But it sounds like you have family and
friends and love. And that tips the scale a bit, right?” And he walked me to
the gate, as we were on the same commercial flight.
He was a gentle soul. He made us laugh, and
he made us cry. He made us feel with his craft. He was honest about his demons.
He was open about his mistakes and his faults. He was obviously in pain.
Mental illness and severe depression are the
mother of all bitches. Damn straight.
He was always there for our veterans, always
there for our service men, children in hospitals, his own friends and family in
need, and even a hysterical stranger in the airport. And what I haven’t yet
shared was that during our walk to the gate he got me laughing. Impersonating
people we passed by. Making fun of the TSA agents, especially the one who gave
me such a hard time. In a playful way though. Not insulting (even though the
guy totally deserved to be insulted). He told me I had a wonderful laugh. A
beautiful smile. And when we parted ways, he hugged me. With his famously hairy
arms, he gave me a huge, warm, bear hug, and it sustained me. It was a moment I
think about all the time. That moment saved me. And sustained me. He sustained
me during one of the most difficult moments of my life.
He was as kind as he was funny.
His death is so terribly, terribly tragic.
That someone who brought so much light and joy to others felt so much darkness inside.
Rest in peace, Mr. Williams. May you find the
peace that eluded you here and may you keep the angels laughing.
Thanks for being there that day for me. You
were the angel I needed. And I know you spoke from experience, and I
appreciated that.
It was tough news for me to hear that Monday. It continues to be tough
news for me to process.
