Much of Mike’s family life was … complicated. That's not my story to tell, even though he’s no longer here to tell it.

One uncomplicated relationship was with his cousin Vickie. Mike made a point of being available to Vickie for advice and support after her dad died. They spoke “book.”

She was a true friend to him, before and after he became ill, and especially in his last year. She drove from Georgia to visit, sent gifts, called often, and was much more than a first cousin once removed. 

I couldn’t be more grateful for all she did for him.

Mike and I weren’t on the same schedule. I’ve always followed Ben Franklin’s advice: early to bed, early to rise. Mike was a night owl, staying up to catch the late news. Or to watch The Godfather again. 

At some point in our life together he started leaving me a morning note, recapping the breaking news from the previous night. He kept them in a dresser drawer after I read them.

They’re all gone. I can’t find them anywhere. Except for the one pictured, from last summer, which I’d tucked away.

I must have known there wouldn’t be many more.

 

Before Hinton opened a recycling center, we traveled 35 miles to Ronceverte to dispose of our plastic, aluminum, and cardboard. The last time Mike and I went there together was July 4, 2022. 

To get from our house to Ronceverte, you have to drive through Alderson, home of one of the most popular Independence Day celebrations in the state. We hadn’t thought of the possible delay-by-parade when we set out.

We made the best of it. (We didn’t always make the best of things.) We listened to patriotic marches. We told jokes and shared memories. 

It was a good day.

New York Times headline: The Agony of Putting Your Life on Hold to Care for Your Parents.

Mike was an only child. His mother had good genes. Their relationship was difficult. He dutifully, seriously, responsibly cared for her.

When she had a stroke at 95, he made some tough calls. Assisted living. Selling her home. Almost daily visits. 

Caring for her was his new career at the age of 73.

He got cancer the year she died. 

He missed so much. We missed so much. But what were our choices? 

He was an only child. The lesson? Go. Do. Be.

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.