Losing a Friend: Loyalty, Loss, and Lasting Promises

On a quiet Sunday morning at 8:59, Mike, my boss, advisor, and closest guy friend for over forty years passed away. His death marked the culmination of an intense six-month period that tested the bounds of our longstanding promise to care for each other at the end of our lives.

Like my late husband Paul, Mike was educated in Catholic schools, which instilled in them both a blend of intellect, critical thinking, and an ethical framework. Paul had been the love of my life, while Mike provided unwavering friendship and loyalty that was an anchor in my life. Our corporate careers had not only intertwined our professional lives but also our personal lives. Both were old-fashioned gentlemen, ethical beyond reproach, and brilliant. We showed up for each other when the other had problems or concerns.

While Mike and I were always close, we had significant disagreements about work over the years. Mike would argue for sport. He was a brilliant man, writer, and editor who loved a good debate. I rarely got an article back from Mike that he had not edited heavily. Sometimes, his edits and our differences in handling situations would end in shouting matches behind closed doors. Often, following one of our many epic work disagreements, he’d come to my office and say, “I’m hungry; let’s get lunch.”

Our anger lasted only a short time. Mike might have wanted to apologize on rare occasions, but he didn’t have it in him. He would always be much sweeter and more open to new ideas…for a while.

Whether I was coming into or leaving his office, he would always bellow the word “WORK.”  He would end all our late-night calls telling me to “work.” It was our code word.

A couple of days before he died, I coaxed him into eating a few bites of pizza and cheesecake. We were unaware it would be his last meal and our last conversation. He repeatedly told me he was ready to go. We both understood what he meant and wanted. I assured him we were making arrangements to take him home and care for him until the end. As I left, I leaned over and said, “Say the magic word.” He couldn’t remember, so I whispered, “Work.” In a sweet, weak voice, he said the words one last time, “Work.” I will cherish that moment until my last breath.

The shift in our relationship began subtly when Mike, who usually dispensed advice and wisdom, called to ask for my assistance. He wanted to meet for lunch—a simple, frequent request, but the call came with a sense of urgency this time. Over his favorite lunch at Owen Brennan’s, he handed me a yellow legal pad filled with a list of things he wanted my help with his estate planning, future healthcare needs, and other personal matters he needed help organizing. This request signaled a more profound shift in our relationship dynamics. I was no longer just a colleague and friend; I had become a caregiver tasked with ensuring his final days were managed with dignity and respect.

Accepting this responsibility brought a mixture of honor and anxiety. Years earlier, Paul’s sudden death had left me wrestling with profound guilt over his passing alone—a burden I carried for years.

I spoke with Paul at 6:00 pm. Like Mike, Paul had a list of things he wanted me to do on the way home from work. When I finally arrived home at about 8:00 pm, I found him dead. This remarkable man had died alone. He deserved to be surrounded by me, his friends, and his loved ones. The way he died has haunted me.

Now, caring for Mike allowed me to help someone I loved prepare for his life’s final chapter. Initially, it was doing what I do best: organizing and completing projects. We met with lawyers, accountants, and financial advisors to get his personal affairs in order. We interviewed home healthcare companies and other services that could care for him as his health declined. We had the plans in place, and he was at peace. All his affairs were in order.

Mike’s health changed drastically the day after signing all his estate papers. A stroke and a fall left him with a broken hip and a severe concussion. His health declined rapidly. Our daily interactions became a blend of the ordinary and the profound. We managed practical matters, interspersed with reflective moments on life, our years of friendship, and our understanding of what was to come. He began to depend more on his circle of friends in ways we never imagined he would allow.

Mike depended on me for many things, including ensuring he had his favorite foods. He wouldn’t eat hospital or nursing home food, and his friends banded together to ensure he had something he liked every day. When I had COVID-19, I hired a friend to help with the daily meal deliveries. She spoiled him with his favorite foods. She even humored him with his favorite olive loaf and cheddar cheese. Olive loaf? I tried it once; that was enough.

Having multiple surgeries myself, he knew I would ensure he had everything to be comfortable. He knew he could talk to me about where things hurt and how he felt mentally and physically. The man who never needed assistance was allowing us to love and care for him in a way we never dreamed he would allow.

We discussed Mike during a meeting with our financial advisor, David Pickler. While talking about some things, I verbalized all my feelings for the first time. I looked at David and said, “I want to take care of Mike in ways I couldn’t take care of Paul. I want to do everything I can to help him until the journey’s end.”  I was overwhelmed with the realization my motivation was to do for Mike what I couldn’t do for Paul. I was driven to take care of Mike.

I was at a new skilled nursing facility one afternoon, helping him settle in, getting the bed set comfortably, putting up laundry, and setting up the TV for sports and his favorite show, True Detective.  Out of the blue, he asked me what Paul would think about us. We rarely talked about Paul. I sat down, thought for a second, and told him I knew Paul was grateful for him taking care of me all these years. He would be happy that I was taking care of him, and Paul would be proud that we had maintained our friendship through the ups and downs of the years.

I kept my composure until I was safely in the car. On that cold, rainy Saturday afternoon, I lost it. I called another friend and caregiver who had worked with us at our corporate jobs. It was an ugly cry. I was determined to care for Mike and do everything I couldn’t do for Paul. The grief and guilt I felt over his death had lingered forever. God was allowing me to love and care for my “work husband” in a way that Paul’s sudden death had stolen from me.

I was also able to admit taking care of Mike was healing my soul about the way Paul died. At times, I questioned my motives. Was I taking care of Mike, or was I healing myself? I finally accepted that I was doing both. Mike always knew I would fight his battles to the end. He knew all his friends would take care of him. He knew he wouldn’t die alone.

During the last six months, my friends and family often told me I was doing too much and that I should let someone else take care of him. They always asked if there wasn’t family to handle these things. Quite frankly, it was no one’s business. They didn’t understand my deep need to care for him through this illness, to be there at the end, to leave no stone unturned. There were days he would look at me and ask why we were doing this for him. I told him it was because we loved him; he had taken care of us, and we would take care of him. Then, there were days he would order us out of his room because he was overwhelmed by the love and care we provided. He never wanted to share his emotions.

I knew why I took care of him. What I did and how I did it was no one else’s business. I knew my motivation. I was honoring Paul’s memory with everything I did for Mike. God gave me the gift of caring for someone I loved to the end of his life. While the journey has been painful, heartbreaking, and exhausting, it has allowed me to heal from lifelong guilt in so many ways.

Taking care of Mike took a toll on our health. I was sick on and off all winter. I would catch something at the nursing home and would be ill and couldn’t see him for a few days. When I returned, a to-do list on yellow legal paper was always waiting for me. As the illness progressed, the lists became fewer and shorter.

Taking care of Mike to the end has been one of the greatest blessings of my life. It was humbling and challenging, but it was an honor to help this wonderful friend on his final journey. It healed my soul.

Mike had countless friends who ensured he was cared for on this journey. His close friends from his Christian Brothers High School days were remarkable. I’ve never seen a more caring group of men rally to support a friend.

In his final hours, surrounded by friends who were his family, the emotional landscape was complex. I felt a tumult of grief for the impending loss, even knowing he was ready to go. Yet there was a profound peace knowing we had fulfilled our mutual promise. As I whispered a prayer by his bedside, I thanked him for his steadfast support, friendship, and the chance to be there when it mattered most.

Mike’s departure was the conclusion of his earthly journey and a significant milestone in my life. It provided closure to the lingering pain from past losses and reinforced the enduring values of loyalty and friendship.

Reflecting on the blessings and trials of caring for Mike, I am now at peace, strengthened by our relationship and the promises we kept. This experience, though heartbreakingly painful, was a profound reminder of the power of friendship and the importance of fulfilling promises—lessons that I will carry forward with gratitude and strength.

While I imagine the rest of my journey will be walked alone, God blessed me with a husband and a “work” husband who played such significant roles in my life. They both gave me the strength to face future life’s challenges. I will miss Mike, our talks, lunches, and arguments. I will miss our late-night talks and his perspectives. I miss him terribly but am grateful he is finally at peace.

Paul and Mike, you both made me a better person. I love and miss you both. May your memories always bless those who loved and cared for you.