Michael John Hazen, 1959-2019

Tuesday night, January 22, I got a call from my brother, Carl: My younger brother, Mike had died. Jim and I had planned to spend the next day with Mike but stayed home instead and made plans to drive to New Jersey Thursday evening for a Friday wake and Saturday funeral and burial.

Carl had asked me, before Mike had died, if this was very hard for me. “It’s sad, but not devastating.”

Grief after Michael’s death isn’t like anything I’ve ever experienced. And, of course it isn’t. I’ve never been at this place before: my mother has been dead for 5 ½ years, my dad 4 years, and David 3 ½. And now my disabled brother has died at age 59.

I keep looking over my shoulder, wondering what this new grief looks like. I’m not having grief attacks; I don’t double over with pain. There are no tears; just brain fog. I manage my routine, but I can’t seem to focus, settle down, or concentrate. For a week I’ve wanted to write memories of Mike, but I can’t find many. They are buried deep underneath 40 years of living away from Michael. I hope if I keep listening, they’ll come to me.

For the funeral on Saturday, January 26, all of Michael’s five siblings, several nieces and nephews,, three grandnieces and two grandnephews were gathered. On a bright January day, his body was buried in my parents’ plot. In a few months his death date will be carved into the headstone at St. Mary's cemetery in Perth Amboy, New Jersey.

I’ve always known that our family was different, because of Mike. We each had to take our turn watching Mike, keeping him out of danger, but Mom and Dad made living with Michael perfectly natural for us. They loved Michael and fought hard to get the best for him. For them it was a strange and bewildering new world. For me it was the way life always had been.

I grew up more responsible and compassionate because of Mike. Carl said, at the wake, that Michael changed everyone who met him. He had a sweet innocence about him. If nothing else, Michael could help each person realize their blessings, the bounty in life that they had. The things he couldn't ever have.