“The Raindancer: Finding Joy in the Storm” Excerpt

Life isn’t about avoiding the storms, it’s about learning how to dance in the rain

Clay Rivers
Jul 23 · 13 min read

The Raindancer: Finding Joy in the Storm takes a 360-degree look at one man’s use of unwavering faith, a positive attitude, and an indomitable sense of humor in the face of cancer; and how he changed the lives of everyone with whom he came in contact. This book presents the world in a new light and will give you the courage to dance in the midst of life’s storms.


Foreword

Rich Willis and I first met in the 1980s while working as performers in the Walt Disney World Magic Kingdom Entertainment Division. We only worked together for roughly four years, but over the following six years we ran into one another on numerous occasions around the Disney property despite our divergent career paths.

Fifteen years later, I returned to Orlando after a decade-long stint in Los Angeles. My homecoming very much resembled that of the Prodigal Son, but with no fancy robe, ring for my finger, or fatted calf roasting on a spit in my honor. I kept a low profile and told friends of my return only when I ran into them at social gatherings. I learned of Rich’s illness at one such get-together.

In May 2006, while making a hurried exit from a coworker’s wedding reception, a friend and I saw a man and a woman off in the distance. The woman waved at me, but I didn’t recognize her.

“Who is that?” I asked my friend.

“That’s Connie Willis,” my friend said.

“Hey, Connie,” I yelled and returned her wave in kind.

The guy with her waved at me as well, but I couldn’t place him as his posture seemed a bit stooped which led me to believe that he was several years older than Connie and someone other than Rich. My friend and I waved back, got into the car to escape the heat, and drove off.

“Who’s that old guy with Connie?” I asked.

“Rich.”

Rich Willis?

“It’s not official, but we think he has cancer.”

The speculation about Rich’s health saddened me. I wished I had stayed at the reception a little longer. Rich and I weren’t best friends, but we worked together several years and discussed our immediate post-Entertainment career plans (mine graphic design, his photography). On the way home, I couldn’t shake the fact that I missed the opportunity to reconnect with an old friend.


June 25, 2009.

I walked out of the movie theater steeped in that cheery feeling I get from watching romantic-comedies. The state of my union: sunshine and lemonade from sea to shining sea.

A CNN tweet appeared on my cell phone and ended my rose-colored disposition.

Michael Jackson is dead.

I trudged across the parking lot and sat stunned in my sun-baked car. I didn’t know Jackson personally, but I knew his music very well. Who didn’t? My own mortality came to the front of my mind. The King of Pop was only two years older than me.

My phone vibrated as it lay on the passenger’s seat. The message —

Rich Willis was sent home from the hospital with hospice care.

Hospice? I knew what that meant.

My car shielded me from a passerby’s gaze and freed me of any inhibition to sob from the depths of my soul. I didn’t care who saw me grieving over the inevitable loss of my friend.

Two weeks earlier, Rich and I sat in his living room and chatted. Sure, he seemed a little tired, anyone would with all he endured over the last three years; but he was fully engaged in our conversation. Yes, I was surprised only a few days later when he rolled into a Cracker Barrel restaurant on a newly-acquired motorized wheelchair — with an oxygen tank strapped to the back of it — and Connie at his side to have breakfast with a cadre of old friends, which included me. I remembered thinking how much older he looked since the last time we got together, but he still had that unmistakable twinkle in his eyes.

It all made sense. The disease had progressed further than he let on or than I noticed. And nothing made sense.

Why? What was God thinking? No good could come of this.

No one deserved to die of cancer, least of all Rich. He was a husband to Connie, and a father to two kids. I imagined what lay ahead for them. The news about Rich sliced open the emotional wound of losing my own father fifteen years ago and I found myself awash with abject grief. Every thought pounded the tears from my eyes.

Within two days, Rich died.


Three years later . . .

We, former Disney performers — or anyone in the entertainment industry, for that matter — have never needed a reason to get together. For as long as I can remember, a mere mumbling of the words, “Let’s go to,” motivated people to gather en masse. So a special occasion like a dear friend’s surprise fiftieth birthday party gave everyone ample cause to schlep over to Daytona Beach from Orlando to see one another.

I reached the waterfront bar-and-grill long before the guest of honor arrived and found the party well underway.

Amidst the chit-chat, clatter, and middle-aged bodies, I scanned the room to see who made the guest list and spied John Beck, a former coworker, across the room. I winced, an appropriate reaction given our history, but before I turned away, he spotted me.

Busted!

I smiled, nodded, and raised my glass in acknowledgment in his general direction, then spun on my heels and dove headlong into the nearest conversation.

“Sailor Jerry?” I asked. “No, I don’t think I’ve heard of that rum before. Is it any good?”

“Have a sip,” Dawn, an old friend and former coworker, said.

I took a swig of her Sailor Jerry and Coke. It felt like the rum ate away the lining of my esophagus as it went down.

“Oh, that’s smooth,” I coughed. “You can barely taste the Coke.”

Carl, Dawn’s husband, flagged down a waitress. “Excuse me, Miss. Could you get my friend here a Sailor Jerry and Coke?”

“Easy on the Jerry, heavy on the Coke,” I added.

Before the waitress could respond, John had bolted across the room and elbowed his way into our group, knocking her off balance.

“John!” Dawn said, scolding him.

“Excuse me, hon,” John said.

“Not a problem,” the waitress said and left, very much annoyed.

“Clay Rivers,” John said.

“John, good to see you,” I said, wondering if he could tell I was flat out lying. It didn’t matter to him because he went on to tell me about all the new developments in his life; namely his new marriage and new job. I noticed a change in him. Nothing as obvious as a new haircut, but something in the core of his demeanor came across as different. And disarming. Sort of.

“You ready to start on that book about Rich?” he asked.

I felt like I walked in on the middle of a movie. “I’m not working on a book about Rich.”

“I know. That’s why you need to start. Last I heard, Rich’s friend in North Carolina was working on it,” he said. The veins in his neck started to plump up. “She’s had it for a couple of years and nothing’s happened. You need to talk to Connie about writing it.”

“No, I don’t,” I said. “I’m not talking to Connie about writing a book.”

“She’s around here somewhere,” John said. “You’ve already written one book and from what I hear people like it a lot. You know her. You and Rich were friends — ”

“John, I’m not asking Connie anything.”

There had been no change in John at all. My optimism about his transformation downgraded itself to wishful thinking.

His eyes darted around the room in search of Connie. He found her, a few tables away.

“Connie, Clay’s here,” he called out.

She turned and gave an enthusiastic wave. I shrugged my shoulders and cocked my head to the side as if to say, that John, this is why we love him. No bigger lie had ever been pantomimed in the history of man. I wanted to crawl into a hole, but not before I pushed John off the nearest pier. I ran for the men’s room.

I dreaded the inevitable interaction with Connie the close surroundings would bring. We crossed paths only a couple of times since Rich’s memorial service three years prior. As far as I could remember, I hadn’t openly expressed my condolences about Rich’s passing. Grief was a messy emotion for me. I didn’t know what to say to her, let alone how to approach her even if I wanted to write about her husband, which I didn’t.

I ran our inevitable exchange in my head —

“Hi, Connie.”

“Hi, Clay. John says there’s something you want to speak with me about.”

“No, I don’t … well, yes. John says I should speak with you about writing a book about your deceased husband.”

Connie breaks down into tears. The world stops spinning on its axis. The party jolts to a stop and all eyes bore holes into me. My words are all wrong. The time is all wrong. It’s too soon.

On my way back to the party, I decided that scene would never play out.

The waitress returned with my Sailor Jerry and Coke. I felt the burn.

Soon after, the guest of honor, Fog — an apt nickname for a six-foot-five-inch–tall guy with a booming voice who regaled stories much like the boisterous Warner Bros. cartoon rooster, Foghorn Leghorn— made his entrance with his wife, daughter, and son.

“Surprise!” Everyone said.

For the first time, at least as far as I could remember, Fog was speechless. I relished seeing someone else at a loss for words.

After taking a few sips of my Sailor Jerry and Coke, my apprehensions relaxed their choke hold on me about speaking to Connie. We went through a few uninterrupted rounds of What’s New in Your Corner of the World. She updated me about her work and her kids — Aimee and Trek — now twenty-one and sixteen years old. I mentioned publishing my first book and all that the process entailed. All the while, John stalked us a few feet away, ready to elbow his way into the conversation if the need arose.

I took control of the situation.

“I guess you know John wants me to ask you how Michelle is coming with the book about Rich,” I said.

“I don’t really know where she is with it,” Connie said. “I haven’t heard anything.”

“John seems to think that Michelle hasn’t done anything with it and that I should ask you about writing it.”

There. I said it. I shot John a look of ‘mission accomplished’ and moved my thoughts on to placing an order for Buffalo wings.

“That sounds like a good idea to me,” Connie said.

Wait! Say what now?

Connie continued. “I’ll check with her and see what’s going on. If there’s been no movement on her end, you’re more than welcome to write it.”

“Really?” I asked.

“Sure. Why not?”

“I — I — ”

“What?” Connie said.

“I wasn’t expecting that response.”

“What would you need to get started?”

“I’d guess I’d need to re-read all of Rich’s blog posts.”

“Okay.”

John approached. “That wasn’t that hard, was it?”

“No,” I said. “Not at all. Thanks to Sailor Jerry.”


The week after Fog’s surprise birthday party, Connie reached out to Michelle. As it turned out, Michelle had her hands full with a recent relocation, not to mention caring for an ill parent. Between the two, she had no time to even think about working on a book. Connie checked links for Rich’s blog only to find the bookmarks inoperative. Her daughter’s search for back-up copies of her father’s writings proved fruitless. In short, there were no copies of Rich’s writings to be found.

Then it hit me. I knew exactly what happened to Rich’s online posts. And it wasn’t good.

I spoke with Connie and told her that Rich hosted his blog on Apple servers. I hosted a photoblog there, too, and remembered that for the past six months Apple sent copious notifications to service subscribers to back-up or find alternate hosting for blogs and websites as they were discontinuing their web-hosting services at the end of June 2012. All data left on their servers at the end of the following month would be erased. And chances were no one else in Rich’s family knew of those notifications.

My heart sank. If we had only started this process a month earlier, we’d have had access to copies of Rich’s writings.

The next day, during a conversation with Connie, Michelle revealed that not too long after Rich’s passing, Aimee forwarded her all of Rich’s blog posts compiled into a single Word document. Michelle gladly forwarded them to Connie who in turn forwarded them to me.

If not for Michelle, Rich’s writings might have been lost.


A Woman on the Upswing

THE DAY I MET WITH Connie the temperature hovered in the low 80s. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky or an expectation in my head about how the meeting with her would go. First and foremost, I wanted her to understand that I intended to handle Rich’s story and whatever she disclosed with dignity and respect. Second, I hoped I wouldn’t ask anything that would cause her to burst into tears.

Three years had passed since my last visit to the Willis household. Connie told me that the kids, Aimee and Trek, now twenty-three and seventeen years old, would be out of the house, but that her sister would be present. Other than that, I didn’t know what to expect during the interview.

I grew up on TV and watched some of my favorite interviewers — Phil (Donahue, not Dr.), Barbara Walters, Oprah Winfrey, James Lipton, and a host of correspondents and reporters — interview the rich and famous. I gleaned that the best interviewers elevated a casual chat to a revealing interview by carefully choosing their questions in advance and arranging them in such a way that they guided and coaxed their subjects to reveal aspects about themselves that they otherwise might not.

As I approached Connie’s front door, armed with my notebook, an ultra fine point Sharpie, three Starbucks drinks, half a dozen questions, and eight homemade sweet potato scones, I knew I was heading into a potential mine field.

Dali (as in Salvador), the family dog, announced my arrival. Connie welcomed me inside and introduced me to her elder sister, who came from Virginia to assist her during her recuperation from surgery. I knew better than to ask a woman details about any type of surgery. So I didn’t.

Once her sister served the coffee and pastries, I took out my pen and notebook, and the interview began. Right from the start, Connie expressed two thoughts:

She was onboard with the idea of my writing a book on how Rich impacted people’s lives and vice versa, and I could ask her anything.

Connie gave a sweeping overview of her last three years with Rich. I jotted down snippets of phrases to jog my memory later when I transcribed my notes. She offered access to her kids, as well as the names of people who were close to him.

Then she shocked me.

“You know who was my rock throughout Rich’s cancer?” Connie said.

“No,” I said between a sip of coffee and a bite of a scone.

“John.”

“John who?”

“John Beck.”

The only things that kept the food from falling out of my mouth were flashbacks of the impromptu post-memorial-service gathering of me and about eighteen Entertainment cohorts at Johnny’s Fillin’ Station where we celebrated our friend Rich over burgers and brews. Laughter and overlapping tales about Rich comprised the soundtrack, and the most memorable line of the night: John Beck was there for Connie the whole time. Murmurs of disbelief arose because twenty-five years ago, a little bit of John went a long way. Apparently, someone was in the know even then.

“You’re kidding me,” I said.

“Nope,” Connie said without hesitation or shame. The broad smile on her face signaled she enjoyed my failed attempt at concealing my surprise.

I realized in that moment John must have experienced a serious paradigm shift for Connie to say that with such certainty.

Then she shocked me again.

Connie told me she had been diagnosed with breast cancer, had several surgeries in September and October, underwent chemotherapy from November through February, and was currently in the middle of two months of radiation treatment.

At that point, I noticed that I hadn’t written anything down. I couldn’t. Getting struck by lightning would have left me less stunned than I felt in that moment. Her revelation explained why she seemed a little fatigued, yet genuinely happy, even bubbly, and ready to talk. Connie personified a woman on the upswing.


I PUT OFF LOOKING AT my sketchy notes from my interview with Connie for at least a day. Despite Connie’s disposition, the gravity of what I had heard overwhelmed me. When I went back to my notes, the few snippets I wrote down during the interview weren’t enough to make a short story. I couldn’t recall most of what she said, but its impact stayed with me for months.

From that moment on, I added another instrument to my interview toolbox — my iPhone and its Voice Memo app.


Saturday, January 27, 2007
Update 1: Are You Still Here?

HELLOOO, EVERYBODY!

Sorry not to have posted, but I been just waiting, and if I gotta wait, then you gotta wait.

My surgery schedule finally came in. I have my “butt-ectomy” scheduled for two weeks from today (February 7th) at around 2:30 in the afternoon at Celebration Hospital near Disney. I will expect everyone to pause for a moment and reflect.

I, on the other hand, intend to sleep right through the whole thing.
No word yet on how long the hospital recovery will be as yet. My motivation presumes that the sooner I get out, the less hospital food there is for me to eat.

In my spare time, I’ve been working on a design for my “fight butt cancer” ribbon campaign. So far brown as a ribbon color has gotten all thumbs down. Please pass along any pertinent ideas. In the mean time, I expect all of you to practice your “silly walks.” I’ll be working on mine right after we get through with surgery.

Thanks for keeping me in mind. Don’t forget my family, and please use this as an opportunity to pray for those you may know who are going through things a lot worse than I am.

All the best . . .
–Rich


Available in print and digital versions at Books2Read.com.

Clay Rivers

Writing from the intersection of race, faith, and equality. Join the conversation, but you have to bring your own espresso.

Clay Rivers

Written by

Author, art director, actor, and optimist. I write about equality, faith, and racism. Let’s chat over espresso. Books: https://books2read.com/b/walkingtall

Clay Rivers

Writing from the intersection of race, faith, and equality. Join the conversation, but you have to bring your own espresso.

Welcome to a place where words matter. On Medium, smart voices and original ideas take center stage - with no ads in sight. Watch
Follow all the topics you care about, and we’ll deliver the best stories for you to your homepage and inbox. Explore
Get unlimited access to the best stories on Medium — and support writers while you’re at it. Just $5/month. Upgrade