The Last Day In The Life

When John and I were making “Double Fantasy,” we decided on a photo of us kissing for the cover. The record company said, “It would be better if it’s just John, looking like he’s a bachelor and available.” So I reported that to John. I said, “What are you going to do?” He said, “Are you kidding? From now on, we’re not going to release any photo without the two of us in it–and, in fact, without the two of us looking at each other. Not a one!” I just had to laugh a little. But, of course, that never happened. It was a different time after John died.

The day John died, we were in the studio, working on “Walking on Thin Ice.” We were waiting for the engineers to change the tape or whatever they do, and John said something very nice to me that I’ve always remembered. I’m not going to repeat it. I tried to look like I wasn’t impressed. I said, “Oh, really?” I just looked away. But I was impressed. I was touched. I thought, Here I am over 40 and my husband is still saying these nice things. Later, when we were getting into the car, I said, “Shall we go to a restaurant or something? Shall we get a bite before we go home?” John said, “No. I want to see Sean before he goes to sleep.” And he never saw Sean.

The first thing I did when I got back from the hospital was to ask my assistant to call Paul and Julian and John’s Aunt Mimi. I thought that they should know. I’m sure that that remark is not going to make George and Ringo happy, but that was the first instinct I had. Mimi’s phone was just totally busy, and we couldn’t get through to the others either. Each time we tried to get through to somebody it reminded me that, when John and I had gotten together, we’d burnt bridges behind us.

In hindsight, that time period–it was like when a natural disaster happens, and you have to just crawl out of it. Somebody says, “Well, how did you crawl out?” But you don’t remember. You did your very best every second. I felt like I was in the bottom of the ocean or something, trying to quickly come up and get air. I don’t know how I moved my body. When John and I separated for a while in 1973, I started shivering–my body actually shivered for the first two weeks. I didn’t tell John because I didn’t want us to get back together for the wrong reason. I endured it. And eventually my body stopped shivering. In 1980, I started shivering again, but this time he was not coming back.

The night John died, there were so many people outside the Dakota. They were singing and playing John’s songs. Later, I got very concerned about John’s fans, about their welfare. I heard about two girls who killed themselves, and so I asked for a vigil. I thought it was important that the whole world meditate together and share their silence–and we created a kind of ring around the world. We became sisters and brothers loving John and his memory. But the night he died, hearing his songs in the street was very difficult for me. I was sitting alone in our bedroom, which was on the 72nd Street side, and John was singing all night.

title: “The Last Day In The Life” ShowToc: true date: “2023-01-23” author: “Wilma Whitley”

The day John died, we were in the studio, working on “Walking on Thin Ice.” We were waiting for the engineers to change the tape or whatever they do, and John said something very nice to me that I’ve always remembered. I’m not going to repeat it. I tried to look like I wasn’t impressed. I said, “Oh, really?” I just looked away. But I was impressed. I was touched. I thought, Here I am over 40 and my husband is still saying these nice things. Later, when we were getting into the car, I said, “Shall we go to a restaurant or something? Shall we get a bite before we go home?” John said, “No. I want to see Sean before he goes to sleep.” And he never saw Sean.

The first thing I did when I got back from the hospital was to ask my assistant to call Paul and Julian and John’s Aunt Mimi. I thought that they should know. I’m sure that that remark is not going to make George and Ringo happy, but that was the first instinct I had. Mimi’s phone was just totally busy, and we couldn’t get through to the others either. Each time we tried to get through to somebody it reminded me that, when John and I had gotten together, we’d burnt bridges behind us.

In hindsight, that time period–it was like when a natural disaster happens, and you have to just crawl out of it. Somebody says, “Well, how did you crawl out?” But you don’t remember. You did your very best every second. I felt like I was in the bottom of the ocean or something, trying to quickly come up and get air. I don’t know how I moved my body. When John and I separated for a while in 1973, I started shivering–my body actually shivered for the first two weeks. I didn’t tell John because I didn’t want us to get back together for the wrong reason. I endured it. And eventually my body stopped shivering. In 1980, I started shivering again, but this time he was not coming back.

The night John died, there were so many people outside the Dakota. They were singing and playing John’s songs. Later, I got very concerned about John’s fans, about their welfare. I heard about two girls who killed themselves, and so I asked for a vigil. I thought it was important that the whole world meditate together and share their silence–and we created a kind of ring around the world. We became sisters and brothers loving John and his memory. But the night he died, hearing his songs in the street was very difficult for me. I was sitting alone in our bedroom, which was on the 72nd Street side, and John was singing all night.