A Goodbye to Mike

Written October 4, 2026, two days before my husband Mike’s planned death.

A goodbye. In two days, October 6th, my husband, Mike Bosworth, will take his death cocktail and leave his life.

——— We sit on the couch, and Mike coughs as he eats. Frequently. It is not quick. He coughs and coughs until he can clear his throat. I pause the TV. Wait. His throat has regressed. His body is dying.

Several years ago, Mike was supposed to have surgery on his throat. The opening in his throat smaller than a bean. But in the pretests, they found a heart problem. So, he first needed a new valve in his heart. Months later, July of 2024, we are in Seattle for his throat surgery. I am waiting in a diner with a good family friend. My cell phone rings. The surgeon tells me he has never seen so much blood. Should he stop? Yes, stop. Later we find out that Mike was given the wrong instructions. He stopped the blood thinner but was put on aspirin. Months later, after he has recovered, after many more blended meals, he has surgery again. The cricopharyngeal muscle in his throat has been cut so it doesn’t close his throat as the opposing muscle weakens.

He no longer must eat pureed foods, salads that have been put through the food processor. He is not coughing. We think he is good. That everything is fine.

He gets sick this past winter. A virus or a bug of some kind. He is weak. He begins to lose his joy, his big spirit weighed down. He begins to complain. He is not a complainer. This is the beginning of his decision to leave. Of his desire to be free of his body, of this life and his embodiment.

We have had 18 years of what a long-term relationship is. The melding, the frictions, the sorting out of who the two of us are together. It is big work. We are opposites. But now we have moved into saying goodbye. Day by day. How to say goodbye over and over. How to honor what was, what can no longer be.

Mike has been a father to many. Not just his 3 children, all of whom were lucky to have him, but also to many others. This translates into a drove of goodbyes. The hum of activity, the multiple Zoom calls and phone calls and hospice people and therapist and people dropping off flowers.

That is his largeness. The father part of him. The part that brought in a new way to sell. To legitimize selling, not to sell, but to help others find solutions. Not just a cash exchange, but a teaching of how to connect, how to tune into the needs of others. His gift to the world.

Perhaps that matches the part of me that is a mother. That has mothered many. No children of my own. Animals, plants, clients. But I live in a smaller world. I have mostly not been visible outside of those I directly touch. His world is filled with sky, booming. Mine is quieter.

And we have parented each other. I have mothered parts of Mike, and he has fathered parts of me. I have relied on that part of him. Leaned into it.

So now I am losing him. I can barely say it out loud. That he is leaving. That I love him. That as difficult as it is to deal with his disabilities, I do not want to let go. That something primal is happening. The brew that the two of us were. The enormous impact we have had on each other. How he will leave me different. More secure in myself. How he will take with him my impact on his soul.

I feel fortunate to have shared these years with him. And yet, you cannot hold a body dying from the earth. It wants to return, to become dark rich humus. It wants the earth as the spirit and soul want to be free.

He will be one of my guides. I do not know which aspect of him will be with me. How the window between worlds works. How I will feel the light breeze of him. I do not know how he will continue to influence me, support me, guide me. Only that he will.