Mike and I met in February, 1994 – pre-selfies! This photo from Christmas that year is the earliest one I can find of the two of us.

We met in AA. He was nine years sober; I was three. After several months of dating, our sponsors blessed the relationship, and we stumbled our way through learning to love each other.

Alcoholics aren’t easy to love. But we worked it out, spending nearly 30 years ‘trudging the road of happy destiny.’

Yesterday marked 33 years sober for me. His recovery helped me, as I hope mine helped him. 

Cheers to you, love.

It's been a year.

Mike died on the Day of the Dead, when the veil between the living and the departed is thinnest.

I learned everything I know about Day of the Dead from watching Coco. Mike didn’t care for animated films, but I love them.

He’s gone, but is always with me. Anticipating November 2 was harder than getting through it. Friends and family reached out. I had a Market Burger – his favorite – for dinner.

The day concluded with a Taizé service, this one honoring those we’ve lost this past year. Too many are missing.

But they were there.

I went to my first Episcopal Diocese of WV annual convention last weekend. That might not sound like fun to you. You would be wrong.

I’ve been thinking since the concluding prayer what it would have been like if Mike and I had gone together.

Mike’s faith and church – Ascension Episcopal in Hinton – were the most important things in his life. My spiritual foundation was in the 12 steps, so I didn’t attend services with him. 

I took his seat when chemo rendered him immunocompromised. I’m not sorry I did. I only wish I’d done it sooner.

And with him.

Looking at my relationship with Mike, I recognize that opposites do, indeed, attract. When we met, I believed that if you’re not living on the edge, you’re taking up too much space. 

Mike, however, was naturally cautious. There were times I thought his default was ‘no.’ (He said ‘yes’ plenty of times; my selfish assertiveness was triggered when he said no to me.)

I mostly don’t live on the edge now. I do say yes, often, to new experiences. Mike’s thoughtfulness was a good counter to my impulsiveness, and I frequently wonder “WWMD” as I make decisions for myself.

I wrote about Mike’s orange hat in June. As the first anniversary of his death approaches, here’s an update on its whereabouts now.

Many of you have suggested that he’s always with me. I know that’s true, and I’ve made sure of it, symbolically. Every time I hit the road, he’s with me. 

Well, his hat is, anyway.

A month ago, I thought I was handling this grief thing pretty well. I know there aren’t any rules. Anything goes. Everything’s right.

This month has been tough. Rough. Hard. 

I know he’s gone. 

But I want him – not just his hat.

Mike loved dogs.

I had a chocolate Lab when Mike and I met. He probably wouldn’t have noticed me had it not been for my dog.

He grew up with dogs – Tags was one, and there might have been a Tags II. During our years together we had Molly and Hershey (pictured).

He called Hershey a “West Virginia Brown Dog.” He adored her. 

She died in 2019, after his diagnosis but before he started chemo. I know things worked out as they were meant to, but I will always wonder if a dog might have made his last years happier.

I left the beach Saturday, wishing I could stay.

Mike, on the other hand, was always ready to go home. Maybe he lived in the present more than I do, appreciating what he had when he had it. Maybe he was more of a homebody.

He really did know how to stay in the now. He worried about what might happen if he didn’t do this or that. And when nothing bad happened, he took credit. His worrying prevented the awful-horrible-terrible thing.

He wasn’t a Boy Scout … but was always prepared. Contingency plans were in his doctor’s bag.