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by Kevin Rooker - November 26, 2009

He Doesn’t want to see you

Michael had come home in the early summer, moving in with parents delighted to have him there. We met a few days later, dated briefly, but still talked from time to time. Despite this, I held a certain fondness for the man.

Michael was already ill by the time we’d met, although he didn’t know it, and in the months that followed I saw his health and his spirit decline. With his cousin, Charles, as the primary care provider, I was told how the disease ravaged his body, then his mind, leaving him a ghost of who and what he had once had been. Finally, Michael could take no more and choose to put an end to it. On what would be a quiet Sunday afternoon, Michael would slip into a coma and his doctor’s allowed him to pass from this life to the next, in peace and without pain. In the days before, however, Michael would spend time saying goodbye to family and friends.

I told Charles that I wanted to talk to Michael.

“He doesn’t want to see you.”

And on that Monday morning when Michael died, I sat at home, overwhelmed with grief. Michael was the first person that I had known well that had died and I just….didn’t know how to react.

For the services, members of Michael’s family came to town and stayed in my home. As I busied myself getting everyone settled, Charles took me aside and let me know that Michael’s mother had asked that I not come to the funeral. I was shocked by that, but knew that the focus was on Michael and I had no right to insist that I be allowed to be there.

So I sent the largest flower arrangement I could afford and spent the day in silence.

Spring had come and gone before I saw Michael’s mother, before I could ask her why she hadn’t wanted me at his funeral. Surprised, she said she knew nothing of that, had told Charles nothing, and had been surprised when I wasn’t there. And when I asked her if she knew why Michael hadn’t wanted to talk to me, she touched my arm and said that he had asked to, but that Charles had told him I refused. Then, realizing what must have happened, she hugged me and said she was sorry for the lies I’d been told. And in that moment, the emotional turmoil of Michael’s death returned to me.

Charles still lives in the area where he and I grew up. Several years ago he had tried to convince a dying friend to change his will so that he would inherit all his possessions. Something I later learned he had tried with Michael as well.

I’ve come to believe that there’s a special place in hell for people who do such things. And as the years have passed, I hope Charles has come to believe that too.