It’s been less than four months since Mike died. I’ve made a few changes. I canceled the satellite service, and his phone. I’ve donated some of his clothing. I’ve taken over his desk. 

I can’t yet delete his email address. 

I don’t know what I’m waiting for … he never sent an email in his life, although he knew how to check it and read them.

How much longer will I continue to unsubscribe from all the political and medical subscriptions he’s still getting?

In the optional box marked “reason for unsubscribing,” I type DECEASED. I seem to want this pain.

Mike was sick for much of the last three and a half years of his life. There were some good months. Many, actually, and much hope. But, in the end, esophageal cancer usually wins, especially if one isn’t a candidate for an esophagectomy.

Mike wasn’t.

Last September or October, I happened to see the word ‘palliative’ on his chemo order. We thought more chemo meant more cure. I tracked down his doctor, who kindly told me they were “keeping him comfortable.”

More chemo really meant more sickness, in the end. And less quality of life. 

Why make him sick when he's dying?

Mike and I often talked about going south during the winter. Not the whole winter – he was a little too anxious to leave our property for more than a week or two.

We never did that. Prior to his mother’s death in 2019, she needed his attention. He was diagnosed that year, and travel was limited to one trip to Kitty Hawk for a long weekend in May, 2021, for my 70th birthday.

I just returned from our winter road trip. Georgia, Florida, Tennessee. Cousins, friends, dogs. Restaurants, shopping, trivia! An unforgettable trip. 

How I wish he’d been with me.

You won’t find Nancy of Madam’s Creek (referred to last week) listed with other Christian mystics. As Mike dove deeper into his spiritual life, he needed to talk about what he was reading. A discussion group at our church provided an outlet, and Deacon Nancy (now Sister Nancy, our priest) was the conduit.

The words of the mystics became as familiar to him as passages from Shakespeare, which he often quoted. He asked me to print many of Rohr’s daily meditations, for later study.

Nancy introduced him to Julian of Norwich. In the end, “all shall be well” came true.

Mike was a lifelong student. His love of learning began in childhood, and was nurtured by excellent teachers in high school. He studied English in college; the family script sent him to medical school. 

When we met, he was studying for certification in addiction medicine and accumulating CEUs in psychiatry. 

He also studied:

• The Kennedy assassination (Oswald acted alone)
• The opioid crisis
• The writings of C.S. Lewis and Scott Peck
• The Christian mystics

That last category was his final focus – more than a decade. Richard Rohr was a favorite, along with Julian of Norwich – and Nancy of Madam’s Creek.

Sometimes I feel guilty about the things I can do now.

I don’t mean things I couldn’t do because I was caring for him. I gladly and willingly did everything I could for him when he was sick and undergoing cancer treatment.

But I didn’t do some things, because he preferred I didn’t:

• Eat/cook with garlic
• Choose a frozen meal rather than home-cooked
• Play loud rock music
• Take over his closet.
• Look at my phone as much as I want to.

He would have tolerated some of those things. That’s what married people do, right?

Not the garlic, though.

Mike was a psychiatrist. He stepped away from patient care in the late ‘90s to write a book about the opioid problem. It was called Doctor's Orders – thoroughly researched, accurate, scientific – and way ahead of its time. 

He saw OxyContin and Soma ravaging Appalachia while drug sales reps dangled trips and rewards for heavy prescribers. 

Bookstore and library shelves today are stacked with volumes about drug addiction, non-fiction and fiction. Mike’s ultimate goal was to help lawmakers see that addiction was a healthcare issue, and that treatment  – not punishment – was the answer. 

We’re still waiting for that light to dawn.