“No one dies with dignity.” - Jason Isbell, “Elephant,” Southeastern, 2013.

Mike’s life was much more than his death. I’ve shared his life this year. His death is what I’m left with.

He wanted to live. His doctors offered more treatment, and he accepted. He was a patient and a doctor. He didn’t question his doctors.

That’s where death without dignity happens.

Inoperable esophageal cancer is incurable. He stopped treatment on Halloween, 2022, and died two days later.

I got stronger as Mike weakened. My heart grew – his faded. He died peacefully, finally. 

He suffers no more. For that, I’m grateful.

He didn’t only have that orange bucket hat. This blue one had a wider brim that offered more sun protection. But as you’ve seen over the last year, he much preferred the orange one.

This photo was taken on a bridge over Indian Creek Road in Monroe County – a favorite place we often walked together. I sprinkled some of his ashes into the creek from that bridge last year.

And I haven’t been back to walk there since.

After a year …

most of the time, I’m fine. 

most of the time, I’m good.

most of the time, I miss him.

Here we are – Hilton Head, 2018.

Before.

I use two ‘befores’ now. 

“Before he got sick” is any time prior to June 14, 2019 – the day we learned Mike had cancer.

The other, of course, is the day he died, and means the period between June 14, 2019, and November 2, 2022. 

He’s wearing a jacket, the ever-present orange hat, and his little half-smile. He didn’t love the beach [first]before, but came to love it [second] before.

He was willing – for me, the beach lover – to see the beach with new eyes. I’m grateful for beach memories with him.

When Mike took up a cause, he rarely abandoned it, and that was especially true for Physicians for a National Health Program. He fully supported PNHP with his money, his participation, and his voice.

We went to rallies throughout WV and also traveled to Washington, DC, to meet with our federal representatives about Medicare for All. 

As a doctor, Mike saw the flaws in America’s health care system on a personal level. He watched insurance companies charge more and cover less.

PNHP amplified his voice. You don’t have to be a physician to be a member. You can join here.

Did he eat this Thanksgiving feast in 2021? He did. My calendar for that fall shows he was done with chemo, and he’d had the first of four bi-monthly therapeutic endoscopies at Ruby Memorial in Morgantown. 

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.

After several church-sponsored ‘free stores’ at which no one wanted Mike’s father’s vintage ties, Deacon Nancy (now our priest) and our friend Christine created this quilt from some of them.

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. 

Mike and I met in February, 1994 – pre-selfies! This photo from Christmas that year is the earliest one I can find of the two of us.

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.

I went to my first Episcopal Diocese of WV annual convention last weekend. That might not sound like fun to you. You would be wrong.

I’ve been thinking since the concluding prayer what it would have been like if Mike and I had gone together.

Mike’s faith and church – Ascension Episcopal in Hinton – were the most important things in his life. My spiritual foundation was in the 12 steps, so I didn’t attend services with him. 

I took his seat when chemo rendered him immunocompromised. I’m not sorry I did. I only wish I’d done it sooner.

And with him.

Looking at my relationship with Mike, I recognize that opposites do, indeed, attract. When we met, I believed that if you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space. 

Mike, however, was naturally cautious. There were times I thought his default was ‘no.’ (He said ‘yes’ plenty of times; my selfish assertiveness was triggered when he said no to me.)

I mostly don’t live on the edge now. I do say yes, often, to new experiences. Mike’s thoughtfulness was a good counter to my impulsiveness, and I frequently wonder “WWMD” as I make decisions for myself.

I wrote about Mike’s orange hat in June. As the first anniversary of his death approaches, here’s an update on its whereabouts now.

Many of you have suggested that he’s always with me. I know that’s true, and I’ve made sure of it, symbolically. Every time I hit the road, he’s with me. 

Well, his hat is, anyway.

A month ago, I thought I was handling this grief thing pretty well. I know there aren’t any rules. Anything goes. Everything’s right.

This month has been tough. Rough. Hard. 

I know he’s gone. 

But I want him – not just his hat.

Mike loved dogs.

I had a chocolate Lab when Mike and I met. He probably wouldn’t have noticed me had it not been for my dog.

He grew up with dogs – Tags was one, and there might have been a Tags II. During our years together we had Molly and Hershey (pictured).

He called Hershey a “West Virginia Brown Dog.” He adored her. 

She died in 2019, after his diagnosis but before he started chemo. I know things worked out as they were meant to, but I will always wonder if a dog might have made his last years happier.

I left the beach Saturday, wishing I could stay.

Mike, on the other hand, was always ready to go home. Maybe he lived in the present more than I do, appreciating what he had when he had it. Maybe he was more of a homebody.

He really did know how to stay in the now. He worried about what might happen if he didn’t do this or that. And when nothing bad happened, he took credit. His worrying prevented the awful-horrible-terrible thing.

He wasn’t a Boy Scout … but was always prepared. Contingency plans were in his doctor’s bag.

Mike didn't love the beach as I do. It was a drinking trigger for him before I met him, so I didn't push ocean vacations for a long time.

In 2008, we spent time on Florida beaches while visiting my dad. Beachwalking was a daily activity, as was eating fresh seafood.

He was hooked.

Together, we enjoyed Pawley's Island, Hilton Head, Kitty Hawk. He ate his weight in clams, shrimp, and scallops, then walked it off.

I’m at the beach now. I saw the sunrise and turtle hatchlings this morning, and wished he was here. 

Actually, I think he is.

When  I met Mike 30 years ago, politics was a peripheral interest. That changed over time. He switched from Independent to Democrat when Kerry ran for president. When Obama came to Beckley to announce his run, we were there.

We knocked on doors, went to rallies, engaged with current voters and registered more. We had parties – for debates, election nights, and inaugurations. He was thrilled when Obama won – twice!

Mike’s activism increased after Trump’s election. He would now find it unbelievable that anyone indicted for tampering with an election would be a frontrunner for the GOP.

And he would be right.

He was usually a cautious driver. Not this
night, though. He ran into a tree which
had fallen across Rt. 12. He started his last
round of chemo the next day. That – and
the dark night – might explain his not seeing
the fallen tree.

How was Mike cautious?

Let me count the ways.

He waited two minutes after arming the home alarm to make sure nothing went wrong before we left the property.

He held his breath as I drove him to clinic appointments, certain we would be late. I was never late. Not once. 

Until he sold his mother’s house, he made a daily 24-mile round trip to ensure it was still standing.

He always had a contingency plan. Did he ever surprise me?

He put my name on the deed to our house in 2021, sixteen months before he died. And this.

That man could eat. And he loved to eat. And that’s why esophageal cancer was an especially cruel fate for him.

He’d been ‘cured’ when we went to Hilton Head early in 2019. We stumbled upon a hole-in-the-wall New Orleans-themed restaurant, and he slayed the fried seafood platter.

Six months later, he wasn’t cured after all. Good thing he still had the feeding tube.

I’m going back to Hilton Head soon, alone, with plans to walk the beach, search for shells, write, read, maybe even draw.

I won’t, however, be eating seafood at Kenny B’s. That would be too sad.

Mike would have been 39 years sober as I write this. We celebrated with his cousins last year, but I don’t recall that he ate cake. He wasn’t eating much of anything by then.

His sobriety birthday was more important to him than his real birthday, or our wedding anniversary. He wouldn’t have had a life had he not stopped drinking. That’s true for most of us who have struggled with alcohol. 

He often said I wouldn’t have wanted to know him as a drinker. I’m grateful we met when we did … and that we spent 30 sober years together.

How does one get through a cancer diagnosis? 

First things first: You find your medical team and plan your treatment. 

After that, you lean. 

On each other. On nurses and doctors. On Dr. Google. On science. On faith. On counseling.

On your friends.

Our friends wrapped us in their arms and didn’t let go, even when most of Mike’s treatment took place during Covid. Friends sent painted rocks, books, flowers and plants, lobster bisque, and fancy cheese.

They brought meals, pillows, and prayers.

Our friends made it possible for us to bear the unbearable. 

They still do that for me.

Lately I’ve been contemplating how Mike changed over the years we enjoyed together. I’ve recently written about trips to Las Vegas and Dallas. As he aged, he was less willing to travel.

He never liked staying with family or friends, much preferring the autonomy and privacy of a hotel. But even hotels weren’t as comfortable as home.

Our last vacation together was to Kitty Hawk, in May, 2021, to celebrate my 70th birthday and to check off a bucket-list item. We were grateful he could eat. And grateful for a respite from treatment and disease and waiting for the inevitable.