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.

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.

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.

I realize now, eight months after his death, that Mike was mostly angry about having cancer. Sad, too. And I couldn’t help much with that.

He spent a great deal of time praying, meditating, studying the lives of the Christian mystics. I can’t imagine how emotional he would have been if Merton hadn’t helped him get through his days, or Julian hadn’t assured him that all would be well.

But oh, how I wish he could have been more at peace with the process. The gift of cancer is time … to appreciate, to thank someone, to love out loud.

There were times, toward the end of his life, when I was very angry with Mike. Why? I couldn’t tell you now.

Maybe because he wouldn’t accept that he was dying? He thought he could miraculously recover from Stage 4 esophageal cancer. Late last fall we were at the hospital every other day for IV fluids. I was frustrated. Exhausted. And angry. 

I’ve forgiven him. And myself. I couldn’t know how he felt. My faith told me all would be well. His told him he would be healed.

And, in every way except the one he wanted, he has been.

Happy day-before-your-birthday, America!

I’ve written about last year’s trip to the recycling center on the 4th of July. I woke up today thinking about what a good time we had.

He was the ‘old’ Mike. Funny. Kind. Carefree. Mike never was a go-with-the-flow kinda guy, but that day, even stuck in traffic, he was.

The before-cancer Mike didn’t monitor his vital signs. Didn’t plan his life around treatments and tests and procedures. 

He didn’t work so hard to live.

That day we followed the advice he often gave his patients: enjoy your day.

It was like he wasn’t even sick.

We first learned Mike had cancer four years ago this month. Of all the cancers, he said his was the one he most feared. Esophageal cancer is treatable, but rarely curable.

Last fall, after two subsequent diagnoses, several hospitalizations and countless outpatient visits for hydration, he accepted hospice care. 

I’ve said before that hospice nurses are angels. I was reminded of that when I pulled that note from the Good Stuff jar. He wanted to die at home. His nurse suggested he would be more comfortable at Bowers.

They helped him more than I could have. And I’m grateful.