Michael’s Death: Part Two
Mornings are always the hardest; it’s when reality hits, and you realize that someone is truly gone forever. No more morning coffees together, no more discussions about martial arts.
About seven years ago, after a bodybuilding season before COVID-19, I weighed around 90 lbs at 5'7" with probably 5% body fat, if that. When I showed up at his house after a few months, he hadn’t seen me in a while. He walked into his house, grabbed a container of trail mix with peanuts and candies, and told me to stick my hand out. He poured a generous portion into my hand and said I needed it. I had no idea.
When you’re so focused on aesthetics, you don’t realize you look like Karen Carpenter on a heavy dose of steroids. I won all the shows that season, and that’s what mattered to me. It was more or less an intense focus and desire to win even if it meant dying. I didn’t foresee the serious health issues stemming from the sport, like severe damage to my HP Axis that left me infertile, a stroke, and seizures.
We spent about two hours sitting on that porch in San Leandro, talking about life.
When I told him I was going back to study sports psychology and physiology to better understand what happened, he fully supported me. I was mainly in Silicon Valley, working tirelessly for too many startups with founders too shy to take their dreams anywhere. Because of my education, I didn’t get those coffees with Michael like I used to when I was younger. I wish I had spent more time with him.
He is the second man who has left this earth in the past year who was like a parental figure to me. A man who didn’t hesitate to complain about my antique car and how it required more maintenance than I gave it, or to advise me never to settle down because all men are terrible. The usual lectures.
I’ve discovered that neither Maria, the housekeeper, nor I can gain legal access to Michaels body for a proper burial. This is what happens when men die without companions or offspring due to their incorrigible bachelorhood. Michael was an extraordinary individual — an incredibly successful professional motorcycle racer and a thriving business owner in Oakland.
He had a phobia of commitment to women, which left him lonely in his final days. We all knew he was dying, and he had no desire to get better. He told me he didn’t want to improve, didn’t want any handouts, and didn’t want treatment.
He essentially left his house in San Leandro to his housekeeper and his business, along with the building and warehouse he owned in Oakland, to his employee. I can’t even begin to comprehend this; it all seems so surreal.
Neither his employee nor his housekeeper wants to go through his personal belongings. Now, as his friend who lived above the piano shop around the corner, it’s up to me to sift through all his stuff.
If you’re over 50 and facing illness, take a moment to seriously consider your situation. Many of us avoid discussing it, but it’s crucial to have a will or some kind of plan in place. Michael didn’t have one.
Michael was 61 when he died from two collapsed lungs and heart disease.
Sigh.
Doc
