One uncomplicated relationship was with his cousin Vickie. Mike made a point of being available to Vickie for advice and support after her dad died. They spoke “book.”
She was a true friend to him, before and after he became ill, and especially in his last year. She drove from Georgia to visit, sent gifts, called often, and was much more than a first cousin once removed.
I couldn’t be more grateful for all she did for him.
Mike and I weren’t on the same schedule. I’ve always followed Ben Franklin’s advice: early to bed, early to rise. Mike was a night owl, staying up to catch the late news. Or to watch The Godfather again.
At some point in our life together he started leaving me a morning note, recapping the breaking news from the previous night. He kept them in a dresser drawer after I read them.
They’re all gone. I can’t find them anywhere. Except for the one pictured, from last summer, which I’d tucked away.
I must have known there wouldn’t be many more.
To get from our house to Ronceverte, you have to drive through Alderson, home of one of the most popular Independence Day celebrations in the state. We hadn’t thought of the possible delay-by-parade when we set out.
We made the best of it. (We didn’t always make the best of things.) We listened to patriotic marches. We told jokes and shared memories.
It was a good day.
New York Times headline: The Agony of Putting Your Life on Hold to Care for Your Parents.
Mike was an only child. His mother had good genes. Their relationship was difficult. He dutifully, seriously, responsibly cared for her.
When she had a stroke at 95, he made some tough calls. Assisted living. Selling her home. Almost daily visits.
Caring for her was his new career at the age of 73.
He got cancer the year she died.
He missed so much. We missed so much. But what were our choices?
He was an only child. The lesson? Go. Do. Be.
