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.

When I met him in 1993, Mike’s non-professional interest was “who killed JFK.” He read the Warren Report. We went to Dallas. His conclusion? Oswald acted alone.

Throughout our years together, he was always studying something in addition to psychiatry. Politics took center stage when Obama ran for President. When Trump “won,” his interest in the Christian mystics and meditation really took root, having begun a few years earlier.

He needed to feel grounded; the mystics did that for him. Little did either of us know he was preparing for something far more impactful than who occupied the White House.

The first trip Mike and I took together was to Las Vegas. He’d often gone there; I never had, and wanted it to be special. I borrowed a cocktail dress; we went to fancy restaurants. We saw George Carlin!

I was glad he was willing to see it with new eyes. 

And, truly, that’s just about the only way to see Las Vegas. We suspended our usual definition of ‘beautiful,’ and embraced the tacky neon lights and party atmosphere.

The last time we went there was in 2006 – to be married, on August 5. Happy anniversary, sweetheart. I miss you.

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.

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.