‘Nothin’ lasts forever Even cold November rain’


When a son dies it rips your heart out. When a son kills himself it rips you all to pieces.

Grief has been joined by anger and guilt. Anger because a young man of twenty would throw away the gift of life. Guilt because you didn’t pick up that last phone call.

It was late, you were in bed with your second wife Susan. The phone was in another room.

“Do you want me to get that?” Susan asked. “It might be Will.”

Will was your son from your first disastrous marriage. He lived in Toronto with his mother. You lived in Miami with Susan.

“I just talked to him earlier for two hours, he wore me out,” you said to her.

You had talked to him several times that week, each time for one or two hours. He was confused, lonely, totally fucked up. In the last call you told him you were exhausted and that you’d call him the next day and talk about his situation some more.

You felt like you were on a not-so-merry fucking merry-go-round. His mother had said in a separate phone call that you were “coddling him,” that he’d never make it on his own in life if you kept doing that. She told you it was time to use some “tough love.”

You let that last call go to voicemail.

The next morning you checked the phone. There was no message.

You were sitting down to breakfast with Susan when the phone rang. It was your ex-wife. She said: “Prepare yourself for a shock.” She told you outright. “Will is dead.”

There was no immediate shockwave. Only a surreal numbness in the mind. You got the details. Enough barbiturates to kill himself three times over.

You hung up the phone and that’s when you cried. You wailed, you screamed. Susan held you tight.

The anguish was replaced in the next days by “arrangements.” You took a plane to Toronto. Your older brother was one of the pallbearers. A beautiful voice inside the church sang ‘Ave Maria.’ There was a lonely ceremony on a hill outside Toronto. You took a plane back to Miami. 

That’s when the horror set in. You woke every morning to the same nightmare. Your son was dead. Your son killed himself. “I could have saved him,” you said over and over to Susan.  

You kept hearing the phone ringing, ringing, that last call, you didn’t pick up. You didn’t pick up. You told Susan you were going to kill yourself. She held you firm and told you straight: “You can’t do that to the rest of your family, you can’t do that to me.”

The nightmare went on for a year. The only reason you survived is Susan kept you alive. She saved your life.

The two of you went on and had a life together, thirty years. You travelled—to Europe, Australia, Canada, all over America. It was a turbulent marriage, great and grisly, but always steadfast. 

Now it is many years later. The rest of your family is dead. Susan is dead. The love of your life.

You live alone in a bungalow with ghosts. You drink a lot. You live the 80-proof life. You smoke purple haze.

On this night, two days before Thanksgiving, your first without Susan, a voice in your head says, “Do you know why you’re still here?”

“No, I don’t,” you answer. It’s a question you have asked yourself many times.

“To honor your son and your two brothers and your mother and your father, and most of all to honor Susan for giving you the strength to go on.”

With thanks to Renata and Outosego.

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10 thoughts on “‘Nothin’ lasts forever Even cold November rain’

  1. Aw, Mich, you just broke my old heart with that story, I am trying to imagine your going through all that pain and loss, I can feel some of it having just lost my Susan, but man, your Son? The only thing I can say is that his was his choice to opt out, not your fault, man……You gotta stay strong if I am going to get you up^ here to Alaska, I am working on it hard as I can, trying to take care of business, keep the bills paid, and especially deal with Susan’s Kids…..My good neighbor’s wife took me into Homer today so I could get a shower, they invited me & some other neighbors over for Turkey day…..She had just returned from a long trip Out-side to visit relatives and friends, one of her friends just had Breast Cancer operation, I donated one grand to a fund for her……I am sitting here sucking up^ my usual wine/Vodka combo……Remember You Listen, I Look! Pal George…..

  2. Thank you George, you’re a good friend, and I hope some day a good drinkin’ buddy. My ears and your eyes, I like that!

  3. Glad to hear you are still with me Brother! It is all in time my friend, One learns patience with age like vultures wait for death to arrive to have a meal…..

  4. Hey! Mich, I hope you did not have to spend Turkey Day alone, My neighbors gave me a nice, happy wine filled day, I have heard not a word from Susan’s kids in weeks like I do not exist here anymore, I do not want to bug them with endless e-mails so I just sit and wait for who knows what to happen. Like I am waiting them out in Limbo for now…..In considerate is too good a word for them! It is like I never spent 35 + years living and taking care of their Mother, who they could not be bothered to visit even one time in all those years. They are all over 50 years on in life, you would think they had learned common courtesy, but no, I am just an asterisk on a blank page…..

  5. Yeah, I was alone, brother, as I have been these past 11 months and 9 days since Susan died. In terms of “other” so-called family members, looks like we’re in the same boat, mine have been just about as absent as your Susan’s kids. Your fellow asterisk. Billy Mich

  6. Oh! My Dear Brother, I am so sorry for you to have to spend our special day home alone, that’s why YOU have to come up here and see if you like this paradise I live in, just today I had another neighbor have me over to her house, had a lovely chat, got to know each other better, and when I left she handed me a big box of all kinds of food! Hey Mich, I want you to keep up^ with me on here, I am just getting all fired UP^, so many nice people have become fans of mine, You all make my Heart Sing, that a little old man can sit in his old log cabin, and reach out and touch almost this whole world. My grief has only served to strengthen me, I will never get over my loss, but I am going to make her proud she knew me! It is called get back on your feet man, and go another round!

  7. Hey brother, it does sound and look great up there — I checked out photos of Homer on line — and it’s a really kind offer you make but moving up there with all my stuff would be daunting indeed. Good advice: Get back up, go another round! Yeah, that’s what I gotta do!