Mike was an owl. I am a lark. 

Mike watched a lot of television. I canceled our satellite service the day after he died.

Mike could quote every line of The Godfather, and almost every line of The Godfather, Part Two. Give me Bull Durham, Pretty Woman, or The Princess Bride, thankyouverymuch.

We agreed that Cool Hand Luke is one of the best films ever made. I’m glad we watched it again last year. I’m glad we watched it together. I’m glad we compromised on what time we watched it. 

Because larks and owls rarely make dates at 8 pm.

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.

I really miss sharing news with Mike. I’ve thought so many times – especially recently – how much he would have wanted to know … well. 

If you know, you know. Winky face.

I woke up yesterday to the news that WVU’s Coach Huggins resigned. He’s had a tough year. He’s made some not-great news. Maybe this recent incident will be his wake-up call. 

I really don’t have anyone else to talk to about it, now that Mike’s gone.

I watched a TED talk recently about addiction, which concluded that the opposite of addiction is connection. 

I agree. I think Mike would, too.

That hat.

He wore it everywhere. 

Mike graduated from the University of Virginia, but he didn’t really embrace being a Wahoo. UVA wasn’t his first choice. He endured it. He was, at heart, a Mountaineer, opting to go to West Virginia University for medical school.

In August, 2017, we watched, shocked, as men carrying torches marched across the lawn – Jefferson’s lawn, sacred ground – chanting “Unite the right!”

That was the night Mike became a UVA alum. We went to Charlottesville shortly after the demonstration. We donated to the Brody Jewish Center. And we went to Mincer’s.

To buy that hat.

When you start going through personal items and Things That Must Be Kept, you’re bound to find a mystery or two. I mean, that’s a major plot point for many a novel, right?

My Mike mystery is an indecipherable code. Only two short paragraphs in one of only two of his notebook journals I’ve found.

I haven’t spent a lot of time trying to figure it out. I’ve spent more time wondering why he felt the need to write in code. Where did it come from? Did he make it up? 

And if so – how freaking smart was he, anyway?