We were filled with hope.
Surgeons who perform therapeutic endoscopies don’t just look at the esophagus, they also treat what they find, by freezing, cutting, or burning. Mike eventually was treated with all three options. The fourth procedure was clear.
But the PET scan he had the following spring wasn’t. And this feast turned out to be his last Thanksgiving.
Their thoughtfulness and generosity overwhelmed him. The quilt has hung in our home since the gift was given.
Mike spent time in two different rooms toward the end of his life. I moved the quilt each time to hang behind his bed. He didn’t want to risk damaging it by using it … but he wanted it nearby, to remember the love and care his friends put into the project.
We met in AA. He was nine years sober; I was three. After several months of dating, our sponsors blessed the relationship, and we stumbled our way through learning to love each other.
Alcoholics aren’t easy to love. But we worked it out, spending nearly 30 years ‘trudging the road of happy destiny.’
Yesterday marked 33 years sober for me. His recovery helped me, as I hope mine helped him.
Cheers to you, love.
It's been a year.
Mike died on the Day of the Dead, when the veil between the living and the departed is thinnest.
I learned everything I know about Day of the Dead from watching Coco. Mike didn’t care for animated films, but I love them.
He’s gone, but is always with me. Anticipating November 2 was harder than getting through it. Friends and family reached out. I had a Market Burger – his favorite – for dinner.
The day concluded with a Taizé service, this one honoring those we’ve lost this past year. Too many are missing.
But they were there.
