My Inspiration

Today, with Mike’s picture in my pocket close to my heart and the words “Just 4 U Mike” on the back of my shirt, I finished the Philadelphia Half Marathon (my first one ever). I ran for Mike. I ran for me. And I ran for countless other young Melanoma angels I know who are no longer here to run themselves.

There was a sense of irony running this race with Mike as my inspiration—he always used to say “running is dumb; real athletes play football or basketball!” During the race, I could hear his voice teasing me for running so far in the freezing cold. Nevertheless, I cannot imagine a bigger inspiration. While I had not really trained enough over the last couple of months (for obvious reasons), and I was running with excruciating knee pain (I popped an Advil every single mile, after mile 4), giving up, stopping, or not finishing under two hours as I was determined to do, was never an option. Mike would be so disappointed otherwise. The concepts of giving up, or doing something half-assed were completely foreign to Mike; I want to live just like Mike did. So I kept running, and at most mile markers, I pointed to the sky (a la James Thrash after each catch) and said: “that was for you, babe.” And, as wacky as this sounds, I swear, Mike gave me some signs that he was watching me run through the city today. Thanks for the “smiley face” at mile 9, Mike.

For the first time since Mike’s departure, today, I also ran past a lot of Philadelphia landmarks or spots where Mike and I had made memories for almost 9 years. The emotions were overwhelming. The sight of the South Street Diner set off a major crying fit mid-race. Yes, my husband was obsessed with the Hungry Man Special there! But for some crazy reason, there was also a sense of comfort in seeing some of those spots. My heart ached that we will no longer be at those places together, yet I was (and am) grateful that we had so many fun times and awesome memories for me to cling onto.

As I now lay in bed, in major knee pain, I am starting to wonder if Mike was right after all. Maybe running long distances is dumb. But dumb or not, Mike got me through today; he was, and will always be, my amazing source of inspiration!

Empty and Guilty

Today, I woke up with a knot in my stomach. That same knot that has been there for at least the last week. The knot that represents the emptiness and guilt that I feel. Empty for having lost a part of me, for having lost my soul mate. Empty because I feel alone, even though I am surrounded by friends and family around the clock. Empty because I feel like I no longer have a purpose.

And then there is guilt. Guilt for being able to do things that Mike is no longer here to do. Guilt for waking up. Guilt for being able to walk, run, eat and talk. Guilt for laughing. Guilt for breathing. Guilt for being alive. But most of all, guilt for not having been able to save Mike. For months, I watched the disease ravage him, and yet, there was nothing that I could do to stop it. I know I did as much as I humanly could, but at the end, I failed Mike. I failed to save him.

Over the last several days, people have repeatedly told me that time heals all wounds. My wounds are deep. I will need a lot of time to heal. But I wonder, will time also fill this emptiness? Will time erase my guilt? Will this knot ever go away?

Mike’s memorial service was on Saturday. It was absolutely perfect. Perfect just like him. About 500 people gathered to celebrate Mike’s life—-a true testament to Mike. To honor Mike’s wishes, I delivered the eulogy. It was atop the list of one of the hardest things I have ever done. As I stood there, gazing at the large crowd, hands shaking, and unable to breathe, I feared one thing most: that I would not do Mike justice with my words. It is hard to capture the essence of Mike. It is hard to describe him using words. So, I did my best. I just hope it was what he expected.

At the request of some family and friends, here is the eulogy I delivered:

Months ago, when Mike gave me the honor to speak at his memorial service, I had no idea how difficult it would be to stand here and talk about a man who was in every sense extraordinary. A man whose brief existence on earth touched countless lives and inspired us all.

I can’t sum Mike up. It is impossible. So instead, I will stand here and thank him. Thank him for the way he impacted each of our lives. Thank him for teaching us all how to live life to the fullest. Thank him for his passion, his loyalty, honesty, generosity, selflessness. Thank him for the endless laughter he brought into our worlds daily. And most of all, thank him for just being Mike.

Every person who was fortunate enough to meet Mike, couldn’t help but fall in love with him. Mike was infectious. He made everyone around him feel good about themselves, even if he was busy making fun or teasing them, which we all know was something he did best.

Making people laugh was Mike’s number one goal in life. His trademark. Even during the last few months while he was sick, he would try so hard to muster up the energy to make an inappropriate funny comment or make everyone laugh. Mike’s solution to each of life’s problems was a joke or prank. And he loved bragging about his pranks over and over and over again. As I look around this church, I see so many people who are lucky enough to have gotten their nicknames from Mike. Agan. Smashford. Beefcake. Dumpy. And best of all, my nickname, Nags.

Mike took pride in being the funniest one of all of our crazy friends. And he insisted that we all remember him for one thing—being funny. Well, I promise you Mikey, your sense of humor will never be forgotten.

Mike was also the most passionate person most of us have ever known. Passionate about anything and everything that mattered, and even passionate about things that most people wouldn’t think twice about. Mike was passionate about me. Passionate about his family. His friends. His work. Passionate about the Philadelphia Eagles, even though they never gave him that Super Bowl win he desperately wanted to see. Passionate about his hatred of Charlie Manuel. So many nights I sat next to Mike and watched him curse the Phillies and swear that he would never watch another Phils game, just to come home the next night and see him watching and cursing the Phils yet again.

Most importantly, though, Mike was passionate about life. Mike’s zest for life shined through everything that he did. He managed to pack three lifetimes into his short one. He lived each moment for that moment, and each day for that day. He always said that he wanted to live his life in a way that if he left the world early, there would be no regrets. Well, Mikey, mission accomplished.

I can’t really describe in words Mike’s strength, optimism and courage. Anyone who watched Mike fight this battle against Melanoma, knows exactly what I mean. Mike never gave up. Never. Not even at the end. He never felt sorry for himself. And he always said how lucky he was. Lucky to be loved by so many wonderful friends and family. He fought with grace, dignity, and most of all with laughter. Mikey, we are so proud of you for the way you fought this battle. Your enemy was not fair, but you never wavered. And at the end, you did not lose. You won. You will always be our hero.

As I stand here today, I am incredibly jealous. Jealous of heaven for having taken those gorgeous blue eyes. Jealous of all the angels who are no doubt partying with Mike and getting new nicknames right now.

Mike, you left your footprints on all of our hearts. You are not gone. You will always be here in our thoughts, in our hearts and in our memories. It was truly a privilege to have loved you and to have been loved by you. Now, go. Go make all the angels laugh. Till we meet again, safe travels, my love.


Michael J. Filippone
(July 24, 1973 - November 7, 2007)

For Mike's Obituary, go to www.philly.com and type Filippone.

Angel

Mike is finally free. Free from the needles, free from the scans, free from treatments and medications, free from pain and free from the horrendous Melanoma.

At 2:15 p.m., with one hand in my hand, and the other in his mother’s, Mike’ soul left this earth and soared the skies. He is now my very own angel.

I feel empty. I feel numb. And worst of all, I feel like it’s not real. I cannot believe that I will not hear his voice again. I cannot believe that I will not feel his touch again. I cannot believe he will not wink at me, smile at me, or kiss me again. Mike’s departure, while expected, feels so sudden and surreal. I now ache for one more hour, one more minute, even just one more second with him.

This morning, although he could not really speak in words, he told me he loved me, and kissed my forehead one last time. And I told him that I love him over and over and over. I just wish I could tell him one more time.

Mike, you have left a gaping hole in my heart. It was an honor to love you, to marry you and to walk this path with you. I miss you, and will forever love you. You will always live in my heart and mind. Safe journey, my love.

We will celebrate Mike’s life on Saturday, November 10, 2007 at Holy Trinity Evangelical Lutheran Church, 927 S. Providence Rd., Wallingford, PA 19086. Visitation will be from 2-3 pm. Memorial Service from 3-4 pm. All are invited.

In lieu of flowers contributions in Mike’s memory may be made to the Trustees of the University of Pennsylvania, specifically noting a gift to support Dr. Keith Flaherty’s Melanoma research; 34th and Spruce Streets, 12 Penn Tower, Room 1222, Philadelphia, PA 19104.

Torn

It has been nine months since the horrendous disease invaded Mike’s brain. Because of the way the disease attached itself to Mike’s brain lining (believe it or not, that’s way worse than having tumors on the brain itself, which Mike also has), Mike’s prognosis was six to eight weeks. Six to eight weeks. Yet, nine months later, Mike is still here. No, the fact that Mike is still here is by no means a miracle. It is by no stretch of imagination a sign of treatments having worked. And it certainly does not mean that Mike is beating this disease or is going to get better; he is not. Mike is here today only and only because he has been fighting tooth and nail to hang on. For three years, Mike waged a heroic battle against the cancer. For the last painful couple of months, he has waged a war against death. And even tonight, as I look at his frail body, watch him wince in pain with each slight movement, and listen to him yell nonsense about climbing a tree with dollar bills and a car on his back, I still see no signs of surrender. That will to fight, refusal to give-up, and urge to live encapsulates Mike.

The last nine months have been long, incredibly difficult, emotionally and physically draining, and downright excruciating. For Mike, for me, and for both our families. As I sit in bed next to Mike tonight watching him sleep, I feel at a crossroads with my emotions. The selfish part of me wants Mike here, for just one more day, one more week, one more month. Just a bit longer so I can lay next to him and hear him breathe, hold his hand while we sleep, kiss my favorite part of his forehead, or hear him call my name (just so he can ask for something and decide he doesn’t want it by the time I bring it). He is not ready to go, and I am not ready to let him go. Yet the rational part of me knows better. He is suffering. He is not himself. He is alive but not living.
I want his pain to end. I want him to be free. And so I feel torn. Torn about what I should want, or what to hope and pray for (not that God is listening anyway). Torn about whether I should tell Mike it is ok for him to stop fighting, or beg him to hang on just a little longer. This internal struggle eats at me daily. I wish there were some easy answers, or a manual to deal with this crap.

Meanwhile, Mike’s mental state has deteriorated even more over the last week or so. He is very feisty (a la “angry drunk Mike”) and says the craziest things. He has developed a passion for using expletives, and most of what he says does not make sense at all were it not for the curse words attached to it. If anyone knows anything about the following let me know: “monkey and Tony in white wagon,” “Mr. W. going down to Mississippi,” “dollar bills for kid with backpack,” and “broken guy swimming in shark tank.” Despite his utter confusion and incoherence most of the time, Mike still manages to make me laugh daily. Making people laugh was always Mike’s specialty, his trademark. He is still good at it. He is still funny and charming, even in this state. Unfortunately, the funny things he says are all x-rated, and I don’t want to make anyone turn red, so I will refrain from sharing.

Thank you all for your support, friendship, and love. If I don’t email back or call, it is not because I don’t appreciate your thoughts or phone calls; I do. It is just that I am overwhelmed and tired. And plus, we all know that I also have a lazy side. To those of you who have been feeding our families, visiting to make us laugh, and just listening to me cry non-stop, know that I am eternally grateful. I love you all!

Please continue praying and sending Mike positive thoughts.

P.S. Over the last few months, I have realized that I am an awful blogger. It takes me weeks to do an update, and compared to other bloggers I know, I just suck! There are days when I get the urge to write, but then get busy with Mike, work, visitors, and everything else that goes on, and end up not having even with one free minute to write one sentence. And then there are days that even a gun to my head will not produce a meaningful entry. I will try to be better, but I have also resigned myself to the fact that I just can’t be good at everything!