He didn’t only have that orange bucket hat. This blue one had a wider brim that offered more sun protection. But as you’ve seen over the last year, he much preferred the orange one.

This photo was taken on a bridge over Indian Creek Road in Monroe County – a favorite place we often walked together. I sprinkled some of his ashes into the creek from that bridge last year.

And I haven’t been back to walk there since.

After a year …

most of the time, I’m fine. 

most of the time, I’m good.

most of the time, I miss him.

Here we are – Hilton Head, 2018.

Before.

I use two ‘befores’ now. 

“Before he got sick” is any time prior to June 14, 2019 – the day we learned Mike had cancer.

The other, of course, is the day he died, and means the period between June 14, 2019, and November 2, 2022. 

He’s wearing a jacket, the ever-present orange hat, and his little half-smile. He didn’t love the beach [first]before, but came to love it [second] before.

He was willing – for me, the beach lover – to see the beach with new eyes. I’m grateful for beach memories with him.

When Mike took up a cause, he rarely abandoned it, and that was especially true for Physicians for a National Health Program. He fully supported PNHP with his money, his participation, and his voice.

We went to rallies throughout WV and also traveled to Washington, DC, to meet with our federal representatives about Medicare for All. 

As a doctor, Mike saw the flaws in America’s health care system on a personal level. He watched insurance companies charge more and cover less.

PNHP amplified his voice. You don’t have to be a physician to be a member. You can join here.

Did he eat this Thanksgiving feast in 2021? He did. My calendar for that fall shows he was done with chemo, and he’d had the first of four bi-monthly therapeutic endoscopies at Ruby Memorial in Morgantown. 

We were filled with hope.

Surgeons who perform therapeutic endoscopies don’t just look at the esophagus, they also treat what they find, by freezing, cutting, or burning. Mike eventually was treated with all three options. The fourth procedure was clear.

But the PET scan he had the following spring wasn’t. And this feast turned out to be his last Thanksgiving.

After several church-sponsored ‘free stores’ at which no one wanted Mike’s father’s vintage ties, Deacon Nancy (now our priest) and our friend Christine created this quilt from some of them.

Their thoughtfulness and generosity overwhelmed him. The quilt has hung in our home since the gift was given.

Mike spent time in two different rooms toward the end of his life. I moved the quilt each time to hang behind his bed. He didn’t want to risk damaging it by using it … but he wanted it nearby, to remember the love and care his friends put into the project. 

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.