They call it an “anniversary reaction.”
In just two days I will mark the first anniversary of the last time I saw Michael and as the first twinges of autumn chill arrive in the evening breeze, it hits me anew that I will not be seeing him again. That fact has only become more incomprehensible to me, not less, as the twelve months have passed since we buried him.
It doesn’t matter that I helped him choose his coffin. Nor does it matter that we designed his headstone together. We both knew it was coming, that he would never be able to make it through another winter.
And what a winter he missed. Record breaking snowfalls that even his “Wheelchair of Steel” would have been powerless against. Even I, able-bodied, was intimidated by the chest high wall of snow that greeted me when I opened my front door after our biggest blizzard hit. And the Spring he missed, record breaking rainfalls and so cold for so long; he would have been battling pneumonia and infections both just like the year before. How he lived so many years, nearly 35 in fact, as a quadriplegic is a testament to his strength. Why he did it, I well know. He did it for those he loved. He did it because he believed the purpose of his life was to serve others and to inspire those in need. He did it for us.
And true to his favorite song, Michael Schwass will remain “Forever Young”. He was just 51 when he died, having been severely disabled after a hockey injury at age 16. Just the fact of his lengthy survival leaves anyone who contemplates its significance awestruck. Having achieved what was believed impossible by becoming the first chronic quadriplegic to walk again launched him for quite some time into celebrity status in the medical community and beyond. He was instrumental in furthering research and medical treatments that have dramatically changed the lives of countless individuals who likely will never even know his name.
And he was my friend.
I know there can be such a temptation to canonize those who die young. I’ve tried not to let him become a fairy tale in my mind. I want to preserve my memories of the man, not the legend. It’s just that the more I reflect on his life and the way he went so openly into his last days, the more humbled I am by his grace, dignity and, most of all, his compassion for those he knew he would be leaving behind. He was both the weakest and the strongest man I have ever known, unable to securely hold a glass of water, yet a pillar of emotional and spiritual strength to everyone around him.
We chose his funeral home together. We sat on his gravesite more times than I can count. I tossed in the rose for him when they buried his father just a year before Michael would be buried at his feet.
It isn’t that I didn’t know. It isn’t that I didn’t understand. It isn’t that I didn’t weep and wail and fight the fact of his impending death until I was able to get past my own suffering to more clearly see his. It isn’t that I didn’t give him permission to go as I saw his body giving out.
In fact, I gave him my blessing.
It’s just that his presence has permeated this certain scent in the air and the way the autumn clouds seem to pass a bit more swiftly over the moon this time of year.
Or maybe it is his absence.
I honestly don’t know which. I’m no longer sure that I can tell the difference.
All I know is that I don’t sleep as well as I used to.
And soon the great flocks of geese will be gathering in the cemetery as they prepare for their long migration.
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