January 27, 2024

Yesterday I wrote a post titled “Reboot.” And I posted it. Now I’m posting this one.

I started writing something else today but didn’t post it.

“You need to finish and post this instead,” said God. And She pointed me to one of my drafts.

The back story

After Bobbi died, I called some of our friends to let them know. So did the kids. Later, I wrote an email to send to people I had not called. Still later, I copy/pasted the email into a draft for this blog, and it’s been sitting there until today.

“I’m sorry for your loss” is what people usually say, and I didn’t want them to say it.

I wasn’t feeling loss. And I didn’t want them to feel sorry.

Yes, Bobbi was no longer in her body, but I felt she was with me. Still do. And as I said in the email I sent out, I don’t believe in death. And I still don’t.

It’s been 75 days between today (March 11) and January 27.

More than once, I’ve burst into tears, sobs, even a little bit of wailing. Yet, even in the midst of the “worst of it,” I’ve been at peace.

Someone suggested I might be experiencing trauma. I don’t know.

What I do know is that I love you. Whoever you are, whatever brought you to read this, I love you.

The email I sent out (edited because it wasn’t perfect and not as funny as I could make it, but now it is good enough to post, but I will probably edit it again later)

Dear <Name of person>,

<Personal comments explaining the email>

For those who don't know our family, one of our mottoes is "Keep the FUN in FUNeral." My Mom, Dad, brother, sister, and I deal with the grieving process in an unorthodox way. We tell jokes. We cry, and we laugh—a lot more than we cry.

On January 27, my love for nearly 56 years and wife for nearly 54 passed away peacefully.

For anyone who is confused, my love and my wife were one person—Bobbi.

I’m not writing about some weird coincidence where two people--one my love and the other my wife--died on the same day.

Jesus! What are you even thinking, people?

I say that Bobbi passed away peacefully, but technically, this is guesswork. We were both asleep, so I don't know for sure. But she looked peaceful when I woke up, so I'm going with that.

As I think some of you know, Bobbi was progressing through the stages of “probably Alzheimer's disease.” It didn't seem like progress to me. Things had not gotten too bad. There was a slow decline in memory and other cognitive skills over the course of years. But there was no detectable decline in sweetness, kindness, or love. She was still a joy to be with. But the trajectory of the disease is well known.

So, her passing before things got bad is a blessing more than a sorrow. So don’t be sorry for my loss.

Our friend Tom Rothschild died in 2007. He was the first person in our cohort of roughly-same-aged people to die. He left us at the now-seems-young age of 65. His sons put up this website, and I have been jealous since. I wrote a letter to Tom after his passing that's posted on the site. It includes these lines:

This is my 65th year. For a while now I’ve been thinking that my last job as a parent is to get my kids used to the idea that I’m not going to be around forever; to get them used to the idea that I’m going to die. So I’ve been making jokes about it, which at first were utterly rejected and now are—well, not exactly well received, but at least tolerated.

In the fifteen years that have followed, the kids seem to be getting better. Or my jokes are. Or both.

When I woke up, I discovered Bobbi was not breathing, and her body was cold to the touch. These are classic symptoms of BDS.¹ So I called the girls and then 911.

Girls?

I called the competent women, wives, and mothers that our girls have grown to become.

911 sent out a team from our local emergency services. I guess that the fact that Bobbi was not breathing, cold to the touch was not sufficient evidence of BDS². You have to be careful with BDS³. They needed to confirm no heartbeat, too. Which they did.

Rob Morang, from the Sheriff's office, showed up, per procedure. Rob was very kind, did his job interviewing me and photographing the scene, and was lovely enough to give me two hugs on request.

Mira and Alyssa drove up, and whichever one wasn’t driving found "Direct Cremation Services." We have renamed it "The Creamery" since Bobbi loved ice cream. Mira and Alyssa made arrangements with them.

Later, two very nice guys from The Creamery arrived. They left us with (I am not kidding) a refrigerator magnet and two business cards, the backs of which are reproduced below: 

Mira suggested they might have a discount special for a partial cremation, and Alyssa suggested it would probably cost "an arm and a leg." 

So, they are learning to take death less seriously.

Good.

Dana flew in and was in Blue Hill by dinner. And since then I’ve been well taken care of.

I wrote this in 2021, and it is still reflective of my general mood.

I’m living in the afterlife—a place a lot like Heaven, but with slower internet.
I have no reputation to protect, no secrets to keep. All sins have been forgiven.
I have nothing that I need to accomplish. And yet, there are things to be done.
I have a wife who I love and who loves me. The year I wrote this, we celebrated our 50th wedding anniversary and our 53rd cohabiversary. She’s my best friend. She knows my every success and failure, knows every secret I might have ever wanted to keep from the world. She loves me nonetheless.

As it happens, I don't believe in death.

I mean, I know bodies die. I've got little of my Mom and my Dad in these urnlets.

My sister, brother, and other family and friends have some of Mom and Dad’s remains.

Left to right: Judith and Milton Wolf

My Mom, my Dad, and friends like Tommy still live on. 

"So if I'm alive, why don't you talk to me more," my Mom chimes in as I am writing this.

"I talk to you all the time," I lie. "And you're not exactly shy about giving me advice. And you might want to spend your time helping Bobbi get started."

"She doing fine," Mom reports. And Bobbi confirms.

Love to you all,

Mike

1. BDS is Being Dead Syndrome, usually considered fatal.

2. See previous footnote.

3. I love footnotes.