Twenty-two months without Michelle (#1420)

Topics/tags: Michelle

Michelle passed away twenty-two months and a day ago, on 8 October 2024. As has become my norm, I’m marking the day with a musing. I tag these as Michelle; however, in most cases, they are more about me than about her or even about our relationship. I don’t think she’d mind.

I’m continuing to stumble through life without her. Of course, I stumbled through life with her, too; she was just better at nudging (or shoving) me back on track. There are fewer moments of utter despair, but they still arise. And, although I tell myself to rejoice in the years we had together, rather than mourn the time we no longer have, it’s hard.

I still ask myself, How could she leave us? and How could she leave me? But those aren’t fair questions. She didn’t want to leave. She’d also warned me that I was likely to outlive her. (Sometimes I wonder whether saying that made it true.) Perhaps most importantly, I gave her permission; I think we all did. I remember telling her, It’s okay, you can go, we’ll make it without you. At the time, I didn’t think I was lying. And I wasn’t; as hard as it is, we’ll make it without her.

I don’t have a coherent story about how the past month has gone, just a few vignettes of sadness.

Middle Son moved this month. Eldest Son and I drove up to help. I think it was hard for all of us. Michelle loved to help the boys (now men) move and to settle in to new places. She liked the shopping trips to make sure their new places were adequately supplied, the opportunity to guide them in how to arrange their new places, the ability to help them choose new furniture, and more. My primary enjoyment comes from Tetris-ing things into the car or van and carrying boxes, and I’m no longer in shape that I can readily carry as many boxes for as long as is necessary. In any case, both of us valued the feeling of pride as we helped them advance to the next stage of their lives. I wish she could have been there.

I’m not sure why, but driving back also reminded me of some of the times we drove back from visiting Middle. Michelle and I did a lot of driving together. For the first eight or so of our years together, we regularly drove from Chicago, where we lived, to the Boston area, where my mom lived. Once we moved to New Hampshire and Maine, we regularly drove to Chicagoland to visit Michelle’s parents. And once we moved to Grinnell, we still drove back east, at least until my mom moved here. On the drive back, I particularly recalled a late-night drive in lots of snow. I’m not sure when it was; probably early in Middle’s time in graduate school. But the drive was slower and longer than normal.

During the drive back, I found myself listening to Three Dog Night’s Greatest Hits album. Why? Well, I’d been listening to Aimee Mann sing an intense and somewhat creepy version of One and wanted to return to the version I knew best. Listening to the album got me thinking about her time with Sing Out and wondering which of the songs on the album they sang. I also wanted to share our thoughts on these songs that we both grew up with.

That’s one of the hardest parts of losing her. I so miss the opportunity to share things together: music, books, a story about the kids. So many things are better when they are shared with someone you love. And sharing is better when it builds upon a shared history. I’m pretty sure I’ve written that before.

I’ve also heard about a lot of her brother’s successful accomplishments of late. I know he misses her nearly as much as I do. She would have been so proud of what he’s accomplished and what he’s accomplishing. I’ve told him that. I’m proud, too. I just wish he could hear it from her.

I’m also struggling with advice that the kids [1] need, or would like, but is beyond my ken. And the problems are so much in her wheelhouse; she would have been ready with suggestions and guidance. They don’t mind that I can’t help; at least I don’t think they mind. But I wish we could help them more.

Yesterday, our friends Danika and Jeb held their first show on I Love This Song, a new platform for live music they developed. Danika and Jeb are an important part of our last few years together. When Michelle moved to Audubon, we had remote dates at their shows. We held house concerts with them. We visited them in Nashville. And we built a community of online friends. I wish we could have listened together; she would have loved being at their virtual show. Fortunately, they didn’t sing any of the songs that make me snot sob, in the words of one of their other fans, so I made it through alright. I’m snot sobbing now, but that’s healthy for me. What’s that Paul Simon says? Something like, The nearer your destination the more you’re snot sobbing away. [2]

Looking ahead, it’s only a few weeks until the start-of-semester campus picnic. The day after that picnic in 2024 was when she suddenly got so weak she had to go to the hospital. And there she stayed. But the picnic was great. She had so much fun talking to people then, even though she was in a wheelchair. I didn’t think it would be our last real event together. Nonetheless, she got to say hi to kids she’d delivered or taken care of, chat with friends, and even enjoy some food.

As I sit here crying, I realize that there’s a lot of happiness in these memories. Her joy at the picnic. Her thoughtful advice, especially to the kids and me. The time we spent together in the car, chatting or just being together. Our conversations about music and TV and books and more. So many positives!

Thank you, Michelle, for all the times (and time) we had together.

[1] I realize that they are no longer kids. One of my friends calls people like this kidults. But they will always be my kids.

[2] Yes, I know it’s slip sliding.

Version 1.0 of 2026-08-09.