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.

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.