It’s been six months now.

I don’t hear him calling for me any more. He’s not waiting for me to come home, to bring him meds or a book or something to drink.

I can donate his clothes. He’s not coming back. He won’t need sun shirts this summer.

Even though he couldn’t eat, I still cook for both of us, when I bother to cook at all. My freezer runneth over with single-serve containers.

He wasn’t going to get better. He wasn’t going to get better.

I know grief takes the time it takes. 

It’s been six months now.

I was going through photos from last year and found this one. Anyone would be able to eat a serving of pasta and not need photographic evidence.

For Mike, though, it was a Big Deal to eat anything, let alone spaghetti with meat sauce. Which is why I took his picture.

He is, in fact, sitting at a table with a plate of food in most of last year’s photos. 

He actually spent more time praying and meditating than he did eating. 

But he wouldn’t have wanted me taking pictures of him working on his spiritual life.

 

Much of Mike’s family life was … complicated. That's not my story to tell, even though he’s no longer here to tell it.

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.

 

Before Hinton opened a recycling center, we traveled 35 miles to Ronceverte to dispose of our plastic, aluminum, and cardboard. The last time Mike and I went there together was July 4, 2022. 

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.

At the end, Mike was unable to eat, bedridden, completely dependent on me. His hospital bed was in the guest room. I slept lightly, at the opposite end of the house, listening for him, always available. 

He continued to call for me in the days and weeks after he died. Or so I thought. I was sad and unnerved when I realized he was gone, and that I’d only imagined hearing his voice.

My therapist recommended Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. Reading it was healing. Life is not better now. But it’s different. Tolerable. 

And often … too quiet.