At the end, Mike was unable to eat, bedridden, completely dependent on me. His hospital bed was in the guest room. I slept lightly, at the opposite end of the house, listening for him, always available. 

He continued to call for me in the days and weeks after he died. Or so I thought. I was sad and unnerved when I realized he was gone, and that I’d only imagined hearing his voice.

My therapist recommended Joan Didion’s The Year of Magical Thinking. Reading it was healing. Life is not better now. But it’s different. Tolerable. 

And often … too quiet.

I’ve written about Mike the student. He loved to read and learn, and rarely went anywhere without a book. While the rest of us were playing Candy Crush, he was studying.

In the last six months of his life, he spent a lot of time in hospitals. Each trip meant packing a bag, and each bag had three books in it. Every time. Including the final one, to hospice house. He didn’t read them. He didn’t even open them. 

I came to realize they were security for him. As long as he had books to read, he wasn’t done learning.

Mother’s Day, 2006. His favorite month. 

That May morning was full of Appalachian spring. Warm, breezy, soft, sweet.

“We need to talk about something,” he said.

The last time he’d proposed a “talk,” he suggested we see other people. I was, naturally, a bit apprehensive as I sat down at our dining table with a fresh mug of coffee.

We’d lived together for nine years. We’d been dating since 1993 – with the aforementioned break.

“I think we should get married,” he said. “We make a good team.”

I’ve always thought it funny that I was wearing pajamas when he proposed.

A recent Washington Post article about digital clutter sent me to my inbox to see how many emails I was hanging onto – 390, some still unread. (Mike’s account has two.)

I started deleting – so many were unimportant! 

I stopped to read one about Mike I wrote on his birthday last year.

The resulting emotion surprised me. Astonished me, really. The last month of Mike’s life was so very hard, and reading about it brought it all back. 

I was – and am – sad and angry and sad and frustrated and sad and helpless. But only sometimes.

Time really does heal grief. 

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.