Ingredients
Mike and I met in 1989. He was the new grad new guy, who was always up for a hike. He did a “do-it-yourself divorce” from Kathy with a K, and finalized it over lunch one day at work. In the meantime, I pretended not to date my coworker Jeff (everyone knew), ultimately learning that just because you love someone doesn’t mean you should marry them.
On the day we met, I was wearing my favorite outfit of purple harem pants, and a matching vest with a purple patterned blouse with boots. I was treating Ivar, a 90-some year old, medically complex rehab client who was hard of hearing, aphasic, and could only actively move his above-the-knee stump. My talking with a low voice and using tactile cues was relatively useless. Despite, this, I performed step-by-step informed consent to transfer him to the large treatment table into supine. He happily flailed, ignoring my directives, talking extensively in his own aphasic dialect, and the only thing we accomplished was bridging on a bolster. Translation: he put his intact leg on a bolster and picked up his bum. Medically necessary care, at your service!
Mike was the new guy getting a tour from the PT department head, Sue. He was an off-white guy, wearing a tan corduroy suit with leather elbow patches, and a wide brown striped tie with an off white shirt. He had big fluffy hair, and wore 70’s engineer glasses frames in the time period between when it was cool in the 70’s and when it came back in the 2020’s.
We said ‘hi”, having no idea that this moment would become famous much later on.
I would soon learn that he was really easy to talk to and be with. So much so, that as time went on, we hung out amidst packs of people, and then on our own after I broke up with my kind yet incongruent secret boyfriend guy. After a few months of hanging out, Mike started digging me and asked the ‘more than friends’ question, I said, “Let’s keep doing what we are doing.” Here is the kicker: he said, “OK”. Then he truly stayed true to the fun friendship course. That was a deal-maker for me. He did not change gears or get weird or put his arm around me after a beer or two: he was the same guy until I realized we could truly be each others’ people for the long haul.
Ricki Lee Jones was our first concert together. That night, when I told him on November 26th, 1991 that I thought we should be more than friends, he was stoked and strongly agreed. In fact he said, “Really?”, kind of like a 12 year old girl. It was adorable to see a man say that. So the guy got the girl. I had a strong hunch that he would truly be my #1 fan for the long haul — and he was that, 100%. I really felt we could probably work through just about anything because he believed in me, and was super steady (unless it involved an uncooperative inanimate object, then he would lose his shit.) We overlapped in some ways; we differed in lots of ways too, and it took us time to become a ‘we’. Becoming a couple, and becoming each other's’ people takes time. No one tells you that, but I am here to share how Mike and I became a ‘we’.
The following narrative is my rehearsal writing for the speech I gave at his memorial service in August of this year. What I said was the distant cousin of this. Writing many of these essays moved me into the space of the experience, which prepared me for the moment I spoke. This version, unedited for length, appropriateness, sequence or theme, feels good to share:
We’re here today because Mike Hampton brought us all together. He is our common ingredient: our common thread in the fabric of the people who are in this room right now, and many who are dispersed around the planet. Everyone here has a connection to Mike: some by birth, and some simply by paths crossing and a choice. As his wife, just like the friends in this room, I’m the one he chose, and he chose me back. I called myself the “New, Improved"!” Wife. He was worried that after he was divorced, that he would be seen as damaged goods. I saw an incredibly sweet man who understood what it takes for a marriage to work. At a garage sale in Seattle, we sold the Unity Candle from his first wedding, marking it with a cautionary note that it was defective. An elderly woman tenderly asked why we were selling the wedding clock engraved with the words: “To Michael and Kathy, July whatever, whenever”. I responded calmly, “Because I am not Kathy.” She was delighted and bought it immediately.
Our past wasn’t his and hers: after being together for 33 years, and married for 31, we became a We and our past became Ours.
We were ground zero for the Bellinghamptons.
This is my love letter to Mike. Before ALS, each day of his life, and our lives together, were what we expected. He would make me laugh because we could be silly together, playing ridiculous made up games. He would be DJ at night and play randomly connected songs series, each a brick somewhere in our road. If he played an old song and I knew the band, he’d say, “I love you a little more because you got that right.” And we would laugh. Not every day was like that. So many days disappeared into years and the grey muzzles of our dogs and the growth of the kids, now it is the blur that older people have spoken of for all of time. “Treasure this, time goes faster than you think,” they’d say. And they were right. And now ‘they’ are me and Mike is gone. I am alone without my person. And we are here to remember him.
My thesis statement for this talk has had a number of titles. From the boldly instructive, “Life is finite, don’t waste it”, “We’re all going to die, get your shit together before its too late.” and even harsher warnings. I’ve settled for now on, “Carpe all the diems”.
After ALS, we noticed how every single day slipped through our fingers. Bulbar ALS is a brutal disease. Living with it is like when Milo finds himself in the land of Digitopolis in the book “The Phantom Tool Booth”, drinking subtraction stew which only increased his hunger with each bowl. Life became absolutely finite on August 28th, 2022. I will not ignore those years as we remember him today, because they were the ultimate test of who he was, and how he decided to live.
Enough is a lot less than you think.
One day when he was no longer working, and weak enough to no longer walk outside on his own, he said something along the lines of, “You know, I wouldn’t have chosen to live this way. But today was a really good day. I slept well, I played my word games, it was a beautiful day, we spent good time together. I never would have imagined that this would be enough, but it really is. Today was a great day and I’m really happy I had it with you.”
We went to the Washington Coast and I read, “Call of the Wild” to him every night. I portaged his scooter over a bridge, and loose sand and a small tributary so we could get to a very stinky decomposing whale so we could see its enormous white spinous processes in the sand. We bought a used convertible, drove too fast and listened to fantastic music that Mike curated. We sat on the deck. He got massages and acupuncture and visits from friends, without leaving the house for days or weeks depending on the weather and how he was doing. Many Thursdays, Gerardo and Mike would come over, Gerardo would give Mike a hand and foot massage and they would talk about the week, and the world. Mike had automatic phrases integrated into his phone, including, “Motherfucker” which, at times, was on repeat, well timed with the audience and always well received.
Show Up. Choose which one you want to be. Learn from every experience.
Death and illness is very uncomfortable to be around. I have personally sorted out weird social math equations involving how well I know a person + their family, divided by the condition, and usually concluded that sending well wishes, one “If you need anything” and lots of “privacy” (not visiting or offering anything) is the way to go. The thing is, ‘privacy” looks a hell of a lot like abandonment and ignoring someone in a tragedy. To be 100% clear: I have been that guy. Remaining silent to a family in a tragic situation is not privacy: its about the discomfort of the person walking away, and their inexperience with death.
Now, after this experience, I have a better insight into the social math equation when tragedy strikes. Gift certificates are awesome. Former coworkers from nearly 40 years ago paid for our housecleaning for over a year, and they came out to visit and help us with house projects. It was amazing. We received gift cards for UberEats, cards, prayers, kindnesses and incredible compassion from others. Friends went on trips with us so we could be sad and maybe a little bit drunk in a new place, which was good when we were zombies. Individuals have donated to the UW ALS Research Fund. Friends came up and helped me reorganize our kitchen and basement and garage, so something in the world made sense and could be found again. Since Mike died, one friend as sent a picture/poem/hiking invite/kind word relentlessly, always supportive of a decline, and delighted in an acceptance. Not once has she said, “Well, let me know when it works for you, I’m sorry to bother you.” because grief brains and scheduling social engagements are not good bedfellows. She KNOWS about grief, and continues to present me with open doors I can walk through if I have the oomph, as well as understanding when I don’t.
These are all really impactful steps.
The lesson is: allow tragedy to be a magnet for your kindness. If you turned away last time, that’s where you were at. See how you can turn towards someone, next time.
You get to choose what matters. Allow yourself to matter.
Every couple has its own dynamics. One of his goals in his final years of life was to find his voice, state his truth, and share what was most important to him. I encouraged Mike to be emboldened and to lean in to ask for something that was important to him: longer visits with people he loved, tough conversations to share the truth of how he felt. Part of his magic was his easy going nature, and adaptability.
Satisficing is the choosing of a fulfilling, albeit not necessarily perfect, path in life. This can lead to a greater sense of purpose and engagement, which has been linked to increased lifespan. Mike was a satisficer, which was one of the things that made him easy to love. He also had the adaptability to face really harsh experiences, turn away from the darkness and towards better things. He could gently coexist with things that later he realized, may have benefited from more boldness and edge. This in and of itself is a lesson that choosing the right amount of peaceful coexistence, and the right amount of bold advocacy, is a skill to develop as well as a choice to wield.