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.

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.