Mikie

As most of you already know, my dear friend Michael Couzens, husband of my equally dear friend Adi, succumbed on Saturday to lung disease. Losing the ability to breathe must have been terrifying, and losing hope that there might be another path besides imminent death unbearable, but I never once heard Michael complain. He handled the ongoing crisis with grace, with Adi right there with him.

I want to post a tribute to him here—just a few of our favorite stories, maybe, and some photos. But it’ll take time to write something that does him justice, and there’s so much to say, and the loss is too fresh. Later.

Last night my mind was on other worries and I must have stopped thinking directly about Michael and Adi. As I brushed my teeth, though, I felt so heavy that I wondered, “Why do I feel this oppressive, crushing, relentless sadness all of a sudden? This is so weird! What could be causing that?!” And then it all came back. Doh. 

Here’s my own view of Michael’s end—one view of many, because he was surrounded by a stream of friends during the final hours. In fact, starting when we all—the literally hundreds of people near and far, young and not, who love and admire him—began to understand the nature of his illness, he and Adi were showered consistently with love and support.

Friday, March 17

In the morning I got a couple messages that Michael was unresponsive. When I arrived for my planned visit a bit later, he was conscious, but somewhere far away. Adi was, as usual, by his side, loving and tending to him. At one point she offered him water, gently lifting his oxygen mask so he could try to raise the glass. His hands were so weak and coordination so compromised that it took the two of them effort, but he took some swallows. 

Just outside the window a half-dozen workmen were chainsawing down a massive (four feet in diameter, I’m estimating) sycamore that had been on the verge of crashing through their roof in the latest wind storm. (Yay to Ellen and Philip for taking care of that in time.) The noise was horrendous, but thankfully Michael seemed oblivious.

The wonderful home hospice nurse, who’d said that Michael was now “in transition” to death, gave Adi lots of guidance and reassurance about these last moments. Once he (the nurse) left I went to sit near Michael where he lay diagonally across the hospital bed: his preferred position. After a few minutes, suddenly he lifted and extended his left forearm in my general direction, before it dropped heavily by his side. It was almost as though he were reaching for me, but he couldn’t have been. The motion looked jerky, like a reflex, rather than intentional action. And his eyes were unfocused and straight ahead, not aimed toward me.

I held his hand, but only briefly because I needed to go to Adi in the other room. By the time I came back, he was unresponsive again. I continued to give him some loving: patting him, holding his hand, and telling him not only how much *I* love him, but how many others do as well. I also sent love from Molly, Eleni and even Small. And Ember: he loved Ember, and would light up in those final weeks when she visited.

Saturday, March 18

In the morning Adi called to say that the nurse had declared Michael no longer “transitioning” but “actively dying.” I couldn’t get there till late afternoon. When I arrived (thank you, Vicki, for the emergency care of Ember during that time!), he sure didn’t seem alive. I asked Adi how we’d know when he was gone, but soon inferred that it wasn’t yet time for such technicalities. They didn’t matter. So I carried on as if his big heart were still beating. I talked and talked, stroked his arm and head, rested my hand on his still chest, and tearfully croaked some bluegrass favorites to him: I’ll Fly Away and Sweet Sunny South, and Adi joined me in a verse of The Green Rolling Hills of West Virginia. Eventually I planted a final kiss on his cool brow, and left so others of his beloved friends could have their turns.

Shortly thereafter, his death was officially announced.

 I gave him a brief letter few weeks ago. Here’s an excerpt:

You have so much more you wanted to do. I only hope you realize how hugely better a place the world already is because of you. Beyond your crucial legal work, you’ve touched more lives and hearts than you can possibly imagine, from those of all of our kids for whom you’ve been a constant, to people in Trona who paint shells [editor’s note: inside story]. I think of the many broadcasters who wouldn’t have had a voice without you, and the astounding number of friends whose love and devotion you’ve earned.

Above all else he adored his Adi, and didn’t want to leave her. I promised him that we’d all be there for her in whatever ways we can.

There has never been a truer friend than you, Michael: funny, quirky, blazingly smart, deeply principled, profoundly accomplished, endlessly curious. You leave a giant hole in the universe.

I guess that’s just how it is when a great person dies.

Michael John Couzens, May 10, 1946 to March 18, 2023.

Just a few more weary days, and then
I’ll fly away
To a land where joy shall never end.
I’ll fly away.