Remembering Michael

Death is more universal than life; everyone dies but not everyone lives. - A. Sachs


As I sit here in my den on a pleasant evening with a waning moon, it suddenly occurs to me that tomorrow is October 1. The beginning of a new month with a fresh round of bills to pay, a new sunrise to greet as I sip my hot coffee, an early morning meeting when we will study a Promise from the Big Book (Alcoholics Anonymous). I have a certain love for the Promises because I was asked to read them aloud at the first AA meeting I attended. At the beginning of the meeting when I read them, they seemed unattainable, but when I walked out after an hour's passing, I had hope.


Tomorrow marks fifteen years since the death of my partner, Michael. His mother and I took turns staying with him overnight at the hospital during those last days, and she had stayed with him the previous night. I went to his room early that morning, before I went to work, and his mother and I admitted to ourselves that we would probably lose him that day. I raced to work and found a supervisor. Only my very close work buddies knew what was going on with Michael. I told the supervisor what was happening and she looked at me and said one word: Go.


His mother and I spent the morning beside him, each holding a hand, and we talked to him. Several seizures had left him unable to talk, his eyes were rolled up in his head, but we knew that he could hear us. We told him not to worry about us, that we would take care of each other, and that if something came for him he should go. It seemed that he had been waiting to hear this, because his labored breathing slowed and after a little while he was gone. It was strangely beautiful and comforting, and I am glad we were there beside him.


Michael had a zest for life that his illness could not squelch as hard as it tried. He was concerned about others, and continued to do thoughtful things for people even when he was tired and weak. A few days before he went into the hospital, he was over at a friend's house roto-tilling behind their deck. The powerful machine gave his wasted body a run for its money, but he just laughed and carried on, enjoying life and helping others. That's how he lived life.


Never knock on Death's door: ring the bell and run away! Death really hates that!
- Matt Frewer


When he went into the hospital it was his first time there, so everyone assumed they would fix him up and he would come home. His first visit was his last, and I know he would be pleased with that. His doctor told me later that he had wanted to admit Michael to the hospital several times, but Michael flatly refused.


We each had a cat, and Michael's cat, Taz, was very fastidious about using the litter box. When he went in the hospital I noticed on one of my brief trips to our home that Taz had started peeing outside the litter box, which was quite out of character. At this point, Michael had been moved to the hospice floor and his spirits were low. A friend of his from work suggested that we smuggle Taz in to visit Michael, and this sounded like the kind of hare-brained caper that he would appreciate. We drove the cat to the hospital parking lot, stuffed her in a pillowcase, and slipped her into his room undetected. Taz was very curious about the room, and after she had checked out the surroundings to her satisfaction, she snuggled up beside him on the bed and purred. Michael was so happy to see her, and they spent the evening together. A nurse bustled in at one point, and her only comment was "What a pretty cat!" That's when I knew that he would not be coming home.


Taz seemed to know this, too, and once she knew where Michael was, she never went to the bathroom in the wrong place again. She accepted his death before the rest of us could. She continued to live with me until this past May, and she was twenty-one when she died right next to me one night. I believe she stayed with me until she saw that I was firmly on my path to a new life. Tonight I feel a bit wistful, but not sad. I know that Michael is well, and he knows that I love him.


It's funny how fluid time can be. I've been in staff meetings where I fully expected to glance outside to see a glacier creep by; today I couldn't tell you even one thing that was discussed. But, even though fifteen years have passed, I can still hear Michael laugh. In that way, time sometimes treats us with kindness.


"I meant," said Ipslore bitterly, "what is there in this world that truly makes living worthwhile?"


Death thought about it.

"Cats," he said eventually. "Cats are nice." - Terry Pratchett