Let me start by saying that my part in Mike’s life, and in his death, was a small one. I don’t pretend to imagine what these past two years have been like for his family and for his dearest friends who, like Ronnie, have known and loved him for over 20 years.
But I don’t think there is one person who knew this exceptional individual who was not in some way impacted by his lively spirit and passionate (if eccentric) way of looking at life. And I don’t think it is possible to be 26 and lose a friend who is 26 and not be changed for the rest of your life. So in typical Millennium-Generation fashion this is my incredibly selfish reflection on how the life and death of this great person affected me.
I don’t remember the first time I met Mike. It was probably in homeroom class in ninth grade, when I first moved to Exeter. My first real memory of him is from later that year when the junior high’s orchestra performed a piece that Mike had written. We were fourteen, maybe fifteen, and he was composing orchestral pieces.
Other little moments stand out from high school. Joke of the Week, of course. Prom, where Mike rode with us and about 20 others in a rented trolley (limos were too predictable). Getting the Dominoes 5-5-5 deal with him and Ronnie.
Unfortunately what also sticks in my mind is the exact moment that we found out about his illness. Mike took the time to call Ronnie and tell him personally, because that is the kind of person he was. We happened to be visiting Annapolis, Maryland at the time, but Ronnie must have had a feeling it was something important because he took the call. I remember guessing out loud what I thought he was calling to tell us- something I thought would be sad news at the time- that he was moving to L.A. But leukemia, at 24, that was something I could never have imagined.
I was hopeful of course. Even when we did some research on the statistics of his particular type of leukemia. After all, he was young. He was otherwise healthy. Through the miracle of coincidence they caught it early, when it started affecting his hearing. And I was hopeful because I was young, because I couldn’t imagine death in someone my own age.
Ronnie followed his progress closely, keeping in touch and reading his blog. If I have one regret it is that we never visited him in Boston. But then, I thought we could just see him when he was able to return home for good.
I think the first time we saw him after his diagnosis was at Christmas last year. He was able to travel, and that was a good sign. He was thin, but he seemed himself. If a quieter, more tired version. We were so glad he was able to travel and attend Rich and Heather’s wedding and spent most of the night with him outside the venue- he was not allowed to come inside because of his weakened immune system. Maybe he was protecting us then, but he seemed hopeful himself. One more test, he told us, and then maybe home for good.
It was a Tuesday that Mike called Ronnie again. I found him sitting in the living room in the dark. He seemed to be in shock, and could only comment on how Mike once again was more concerned about how Ronnie was taking the news than about his own feelings.
I’m sorry to have to give you such shitty news, was the gist of it. And, the veiled request,
please come home.
What a gift that phone call was. We did come home and we got to spend precious hours with him. We got an answer to the question that you can’t really ask- how long? We were welcomed by his family who gave us another gift- making it possible to spend real time with him not lamenting his fate, but instead enjoying the time he had left. And still I was hopeful, because he was 26, and he was still himself through everything. And he was one of the most full-of-life people I had ever known.
It was the following week that we learned that Mike was in the hospital, and a day before we were going on a cruise we learned that he had been sent back home. We were going to be travelling internationally for a week, and wouldn’t be able to call him or hear any news until we got back. I think we both had a feeling that we had seen him for the last time. But still I was hopeful.
Our ship docked back in Miami on Saturday, August 10th. We both turned our phones back on with trepidation. I was the only one who had messages- from my mom, and my sister, and my stepdad.
Call as soon as you get this. We have been trying to reach you. Please call right away.
Of course those are the kinds of messages that fill you with dread. But Ronnie didn’t have any messages, and that was how we expected to hear about Mike. I called home immediately, even though it was 7:30 and I was probably waking everyone up. Robert answered.
How was your trip? When did you get back? Have you talked to anyone? Trying gently to discover whether we knew. And then,
Mike passed away on Tuesday.
Tuesday?
Tuesday? It was now Saturday. On Tuesday we had been snorkeling off St. Thomas. This couldn’t be right.
We were hoping you got back yesterday. The service is today, at two.
I quickly started doing the math. We were still on the boat, still had to pack our bags and go through customs. Our flight wasn’t until tomorrow, and back to DC. Could we get another flight? Could we get from Philly to Reading? How far was the airport from here?
I looked at Ronnie, watching me and only hearing my side of the conversation. I realized he also did not believe this was about Mike. I mouthed the words,
It’s Mike but he didn’t get it.
I got off the phone. I said slowly,
Mike passed away on Tuesday. Ronnie hugged me and said,
I’m so sorry.
He still didn’t understand what I had said. So I said it again. And he said,
Oh.
I started rambling on about the funeral and how long it would take us to get to Pennsylvania. Focusing on that. Ronnie focused even smaller- let’s finish our breakfast. Let’s pack our bags. Let’s get off the ship.
By the time we were back on land it was 10:00. We realized then that even if we made it to the airport, got a flight out immediately, and somehow got to Reading from Philly, we still wouldn’t make it. And I realized that I was the only one pushing to make it possible- Ronnie needed to stop. Only then did we focus on the loss of our friend.
I think Mike would have appreciated that he gave us one of the most bizarre moments of our lives. From picturesque Caribbean vacation to a fist full of reality in one swift punch. We sat on a bench at port, our bags at our feet, Ronnie’s family a safe distance away still in vacation mode, openly weeping as hundreds of strangers walked past. With their own bags, starting or ending their own vacations. I wondered if they thought we had a traumatic experience onboard and second-guessed their own trips. I wondered if they thought we had such a great time and just really, really didn’t want to go home. I pulled my sunglasses over my eyes and ignored everything and everyone.
Until they turned the cruise-themed music on through the loudspeakers. And I had the moment I will never forget, where I cried through the cha-cha slide. And the world, all at once, ceased making sense.
What is the sense in the death of a 26-year-old? There isn’t any. To be faced with the reality of it was sort of like being set back adrift at sea; let life take you where it will, or you will be lost. Suddenly I realized there was no solid ground to stand on, that even though we had only started our journey reaching the distant horizon was not a guarantee.
My favorite Mike memory? The one I can’t get out of my head? Probably one that he himself would not remember. I was visiting Ronnie at Penn State, one time out of many- I think it might have been graduation. We were at Bar Bleu, the two of us sitting in a booth waiting for others to come back with our drinks or from the bathroom, I forget. But a few of Mike’s friends from the film department came to join us, and without missing a beat Mike introduced me as “his friend Staci.” Just like that, like I didn’t need any qualifiers. Not my friend from high school (ie not quite relevant in current life). Not my roommate’s girlfriend (a friend, once removed) even though that was the main reason we had become close. Just a friend. Such a small thing, but to me then and now it struck me as an act of open kindness and warmth. Because Mike was that kind of person- everyone was his friend. No qualifiers.
As cliché as it sounds, there is no one on Earth who deserved this less than Mike. Because he had so much to give the world, and was always giving, right to the end.
As much as you mourn for the person, you also mourn for the future. With all of our friends getting married, including us, you think about what Mike’s wife might have been like, what it might have been like to have dinner parties together and go to Penn State games as (myself excluded) 20 year alums. What if he wins that Emmy, and what if that would have been the first of many? You think about your own future and realize you might not get to experience it. You think about what you have done with your time and how you can do more.
Mostly, though, you realize what is really important. Mike’s death is not a metaphor or a symbol, I know that. He is not a minor character in my life but the hero of his own. But still I owe a great debt to Mike for teaching me there are only a few things in this life that really matter:
Love, for your family and your friends. I feel blessed to be included among those he shared his last days with, knowing how precious that time was.
Passion, for the things in life that excite you. The last time we saw him Mike talked for an hour about how he got those duck sounds right, and could have kept talking for as long as we were listening.
Retaining your sense of wonder for the little things, even in face of the big ones. I’ll never forget Mike saying that he hoped he’d get to see the next installment of
The Hobbit. At first I kind of laughed it off as a petty wish, a waste of time. But then I realized that there is no required quota of grand things you have to do in your life. It’s about doing things that make you happy.
Staying true to yourself, no matter what life throws at you.
I’m sorry to have to give you such shitty news. It takes a strong person to be able to think of others in the face of their own death. I think maybe that makes
Mike one of the strongest people I’ll ever have the pleasure of knowing.
So thank you. I’m a better person for knowing you. I guess that’s what it took me this long to say.
You will be missed but not forgotten.
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