Lee Wallace

Lee Wallace became my hero the night of Joe Garrigan's Cover Band Explosion- a biannual charity event in which local musicians become their favorite rock stars. Lee was the guitarist in a Bauhaus cover band which also featured my pal and fellow dj, Chuck Carroll as vocalist Peter Murphy. I was excited to see Chuck's rendition of this Goth Lord and watched the band set up with eager anticipation.

I noticed the guitarist earlier in the evening. He had striking features and a particular presence that suggested depths of experience. I asked a friend standing beside me if she knew him. "Oh that's Lee," she said. "Lee Wallace." I did not know of Lee Wallace, I told her and she seemed surprised. He's been a constant presence in the local music scene for years. Until he got sick.

"He has some terrible lung disease. Pulmonary something.....pulmonary fibrosis, I think. He's been really sick for a while. "

When I hear of a person struggling with some bizarre health issue, I suddenly become largely fascinated with this person - probably because of my own struggle with a bizarre health issue. How is their day-to-day life affected by this condition? How do they cope? After being poked and prodded and tested by doctors, after hearing bad news, after taking treatment after prescribed treatment, how do they push forward? How do they maintain positivity? How do they continue to live?

The Bauhaus cover band played a brilliantly spirited set. My attention was partially focused on the sheer wonderfulness of the overall vibe. But part of me studied Lee Wallace, this person who had somehow escaped my local music radar until this moment. I watched the intent with which he focused on playing. I observed the ease with which he maneuvered the guitar. And periodically, he would giggle uncontrollably. It was the juxtaposition of his intense focus and immense giddiness that made me adore him.

After their set, I rushed over to Chuck Carroll and gave him an enthusiastic high five. I spotted Lee sitting on a piece of equipment low to the ground. I approached him, extended my hand and introduced myself. I gushed some sort of starry-eyed garbledy gook. And he graciously smiled as he struggled to catch his breath.

He could not speak to me. He was bent over, sweating profusely, trying to breathe.

Lee Wallace has pulmonary fibrosis: a disease which impedes the lungs' proper functioning by replacing healthy working parts with scar tissue. This diminishes the lungs' capacity to distribute oxygen to the body. The act of breathing - which most of us take for granted - requires a lot of effort for him. Exerting himself on stage, as he did at the Cover Band Explosion, taxes his body and literally takes his breath away. Lee Wallace rocked out with sheer abandon that night, even though this is the case. This is how he became my hero.

About a month after the Cover Band Explosion, Lee played a solo set at The Green Bean. He was seated with an acoustic guitar. The songs he played were quieter, more deliberately paced than those I'd previously experienced him playing. A 17th century English traditional, a Richard Thompson cover, an early Emerson, Lake and Palmer piece that blew my mind. As an aside, I have to tell this tale:

All week I'd been collecting songs for my radio show on WQFS. The theme was: songs to play for a friend at the end of her rope. I'd asked for suggestions from lots of people and was in the midst of tracking down songs. On the Friday before my show, I randomly thought of Emerson, Lake and Palmer's "From the Beginning." I thought, "Hmm. That could work. I wonder whatever became of my Trilogy album." And then the thought passed.

That night at the Green Bean, I was watching Lee Wallace perform. In the middle of his set, he paused to dedicate a song to a friend of his who was present. A barely noticeable tremor of a giggle rippled through his body as he launched into the instrumental introduction of "From the Beginning." He proceeded to give a fabulous rendition of the song. And I was catapulted back to a year during a tumultuous teenage summer when I listened to Emerson, Lake and Palmer a great deal. And every thought, every feeling and every insanity-provoking crush I ever experienced when I listened to that song in particular flooded my psyche. It was then that I realized Lee Wallace is my psychic sibling.

After his set, he gave me a copy of his cd, The Sea, The Sea, which I took home with me and listened to right away. The clean lines of melody embellished by Lee's technical prowess transmitted an honest and direct beauty. But a tension built inside of me from song to song. And by the time "Clair de Lune," the final instrumental piece, played, I was weeping. I didn't know why.

I lived with this cd in my car and home stereo for weeks. I felt there was an important meaning in it. I would only garner this meaning after listening to Lee's cd repeatedly. I'm quite sure I drove my lovely boyfriend crazy. One afternoon, I was listening to The Sea, The Sea with my headphones on and I heard something I hadn't noticed before. In "Clair de Lune," Lee's sharp, labored breathing is audible in the background. I understood why I'd cried the first time I listened to this cd. I was subliminally aware of the fact that Lee's love of music pushed him to play guitar, violin and sing despite his body not having adequate breath to fully support him in these endeavors.

I'd been wanting to converse with Lee about all manner of things for a while. I finally invited him over for some quality front porch time at the local 504. To my amazement, he graciously accepted. I was waiting on the porch when he arrived. He slowly crossed the street, climbed the few front steps and lowered himself onto the comfy vinyl couch which we proudly use as outdoor furniture.

I immediately became aware of Lee's quick and shallow breaths. His entire upper torso seemed to be violently contracting and expanding in an attempt to provide his lungs with oxygen. I wondered if there was anything I could do to help him. I asked if I could bring him a beer or glass of water. If I couldn't help fix his physical ailment, at least I could be a proper host. Lee politely declined. He needed to simply sit and stabilize.

Pulmonary fibrosis, or IPF, and the condition I have - ITP - have a lot in common. The predominate commonalities are: no one knows the cause of or the cure for either one. The major difference between them is that pulmonary fibrosis is fatal while mine is only potentially fatal. Lee Wallace, my new hero, will die from pulmonary fibrosis or from complications related to it.

Lee and I sat on the front porch watching my housemates come and go while we talked about our respective conditions and our corresponding tendency towards morbidity. We talked a lot about music. I introduced Lee to my guitar. I really didn't need to coax him into playing it. Lee draped his body around it and commenced to making magic. It makes my guitar happy to be played by people who actually know what they're doing.

I wanted to know how it feels to perform music when you have pulmonary fibrosis. I could think of no way to adequately yet diplomatically formulate the question. So I just asked him. He told me about the cover band show in which he played guitar and sang as part of Echo and the Bunnymen. He told me that it was too tiring to stand up, play guitar and sing. It took days for him to recover. In the Bauhaus project, he played guitar only. That was still tiring but much more manageable than standing, playing guitar and singing. At his solo shows at The Green Bean, he sits and plays guitar, which allows him to sing. Lee told me that when it becomes impossible to do this, he will be ready to go.

Lee underwent an extensive application process in order to become a candidate for a lung transplant. This is a risky operation but it is the only way to potentially extend the life of a person with pulmonary fibrosis. It is incredibly difficult to qualify for the procedure. And if you do qualify, you have to find a way to pay for it. There are lots of obstacles in the medical establishment that make this difficult disease even more difficult. Lee and his wife Leslie are in the midst of negotiating all these obstacles.

I suggested that Lee and Leslie move to a more civilized region of the world where health care is a priority. Paris. Geneva. Havana. For God's sake.

Lee said the typical life expectancy of people with pulmonary fibrosis is three years from the time of diagnosis. He was diagnosed two years ago. The doctors tell him that he probably had it for a year before he was diagnosed.

Lee finally had a beer. An Old Chub that I borrowed from one of my housemates. He delighted me with his musical musings via my guitar. Then he shoved the guitar my way and had me play something. Terrified, I played one of my silly songs for him. He politely listened and didn't throw anything at me when I finished.

It was a delightful evening. And I would like to think that there is an unlimited supply of front porch time with Lee. But the reality of the situation is: there is not. Lee will leave the planet much sooner than those of us who know and love him would like unless he receives a lung transplant. But Lee is at the mercy of circumstances beyond his control: an incurable lung disease and the medical establishment.

For the time being, Lee continues to do what he does best: make beautiful music, share it with the people close to him and love his incredible wife Leslie and beautiful dog Stella. The folks at the Duke clinic say that Lee gets around remarkably well for someone with his particular variety of IPF. They do not understand why this is the case. His doctor, who Lee says "is pretty awesome," attributes it to a combination of his "relatively young age, general good health habits, and smart ass attiitude."

Long live Lee Wallace, The Smart Ass!