Thirteen months without Michelle (#1374)

Topics/tags: Michelle

Warning: Maudlin and Meandering Musing ahead.

Michelle passed away thirteen months ago today. To mark each monthly anniversary, I reflect on her and on my life without her. I’ve come to accept that these musings are generally more about me than about her. I suppose that’s natural. I also plan to post more musings directly about her.

As I said, it’s been thirteen months. How do I feel? Different. For a long time, it felt like she’d just passed away. It even felt like she’d just gone away for a bit, and that she’d be back soon. At this point, she’s been gone long enough that I know she’s gone, both consciously and subconsciously.

I thought that would make it better. It hasn’t. I think it’s made it worse. I no longer have the horrendous pain of realizing once again that she isn’t coming back, and I’ll no longer have the joy and love and comfort of her presence. Rather, I am constantly, or nearly constantly, aware of that lack.

I miss her. I miss her physical presence. I miss her thoughtful approaches to things. I miss doing things together. I miss talking about the kids, books, politics, movies, TV, whatever. I miss the hugs. I miss the care with which she approached the world and her patients. I miss her joy. I miss her so much.

We’re now at the season of her favorite holidays. A friend sent me one of those Facebook surveys in which Michelle said that Christmas was her favorite holiday. I believe that. She definitely loved decorating the house for the holidays. I’m going to do a bit this year. But she also loved Halloween. Few things brought her as much joy as sitting on the front porch in her witch’s costume, greeting the kids, commenting on their costumes, and handing out candy. Of course, she’d probably delivered many of them. And Thanksgiving. That’s when family comes together. She and I both grew up in families that welcomed in friends, and we did the same, having our kids bring home friends throughout college. Last year, the boys and I had our own Thanksgiving. This year, we’re going to someone else’s place. At least it’s friends that Michelle, the kids, and I celebrated past Thanksgivings with.

In any case, the holidays are hard without her. The normal days are, too. As I’ve said, so many things remind me of her or of interactions The small plastic containers she liked to use for spices. Approaches to washing dishes. The way she filed paperwork [1]. A book she loved. A series of books we read together back in Chicago.

Beyond Halloween, a few things have been especially tough this month.

The first is, I suppose, a problem of privilege. We had written our wills so that it would not be necessary to create an estate. All that she had went to me. All that I had went to her. And it almost worked out that way. Then we encountered that one bank account in which she hadn’t listed any beneficiaries [2]. They aren’t willing to turn over the account until I provide proof that I’m the executor. And, well, without an estate, there’s no executor. My lawyer said, It will be easy; we’ll just create a small estate. But it got hard. I don’t understand the complexities on the lawyer’s side, but there were some. And my lawyer handed me a Probate Inventory form. I had to list all of our bank accounts (with the value at date of death), insurance policies, major possessions, etc. And, well, most of the information from her death is in one giant cardboard box. So I had the difficulty of sorting. And it brought up so many painful memories. Oh, look, here’s yet another form we had to have her sign. She could barely write her own name at that point. Here are the dozen or so letters for this insurance policy; I hated fighting with them. I also found myself yelling at her from time to time. Where did you hide this paperwork? Why did you set up a savings account that can only be accessed from your phone? In any case, I’ve never been good at paperwork; I often relied on her to handle it. Now it’s my responsibility.

The harder thing was something of my own doing. I needed some shelf space. That’s nothing new. I decided that it would be okay to pull down her medical books in a step towards getting rid of them. And if it had just been her medical books, it might have been okay, although some of them I associate so closely with her that it might not have been: Rosen’s Management of Labor, a human anatomy coloring book from medical school. But what brought me to deep, uncontrollable tears were the books that make me think of her, the books that followed us from place to place: The book on sign language she’d had since high school (Elaine Costello’s Signing: How to Speak with Your Hands), a book of Backgammon strategy that I’d bought her early in our time together, Iyengar’s Light on Yoga. Those books just scream Michelle to me. I sobbed uncontrollably then. I’m sobbing uncontrollably now, just writing down their titles.

That feels a bit stupid, doesn’t it? Should a book so signify a person that it brings me to tears? I don’t know whether it makes sense or not; it’s just how I am. Perhaps I attach too much meaning to things. Perhaps it’s why I hoard. The good thing about hoarding? It’s unlikely that my kids will associate any particular book with me.

When people ask me, How are you, Sam?, my two most common responses are I exist and I get by. Both seem honest. I’m continuing my existence, but not doing much more than just existing. I’m getting by, but not necessarily moving forward. I still need to figure out what forward means.

It’s not all bad, not even all neutral. The other day, someone asked me about something I’d been doing and I used the word happy. They noted that it was the first time they’d heard me use that word in a while. But it’s true. I still have moments of happiness. I even have a few moments of great joy. Although I said Halloween was sad, I also found joy. I liked seeing the kids in their costumes, saying hi to a few of the parents I knew, and handing out treats.

I wish I had a pithy statement to end this musing. I don’t. There’s still a lot of sadness and feelings of loss in my life. I suppose there will always be. There are also moments of happiness and joy. I expect I’ll encounter more of those as time goes on. We’ll see. For now, I get by.

Postscript: Today was national First-Generation College Student day. Michelle was a first-gen student. I plan to muse on some of her experiences and some related issues tomorrow. I’ll explain why then.

Postscript: Any suggestions for what to do with Michelle’s old medical books? I’m planning to send a list to her colleagues to see if they want them. Beyond that? I’m not sure.

[1] Someday, I’ll switch back to the way I prefer.

[2] Eldest tells me she tried.

Version 1.0 of 2025-11-08.