Michael Goyer dropped dead one year ago today. In front of his wife, my dearest friend Naomi. In a bed set up in their sun-lit living room, recovering from an accident that smashed his elbow and knee. Mike’s life was ripped from his body by a homicidal blood clot and he fought until his heart shut him down. Hours before, Naomi had wrote me he was in bliss. He could not have been more grateful or more alive.
Mistakes were made while Mike was in hospital, human mistakes that caused his death. Under this duress, Naomi has spent insane amounts of time and energy trying to force the hospital people to get their act together, so that no one has to die again because staff fucked up this way. Despite all the evidence, these people can’t apologize; admit that they’re wrong and deal with the consequences. Naomi doesn’t care. She means business, she wants change.
Mike didn’t have a funeral. He didn’t like fanfare and couldn’t stand near an open grave. Last weekend, almost a year after he died, his beautiful, shell-shocked children organized a memorial. Listening to them pay love-drenched tribute to their prize-winning Dad, I remembered when Mike told me his biggest dream was to have kids.
On the morning of the memorial, Naomi and I hung out at an Ontario beach. Divers rose out of the cold water, creatures out of the deep. She told me about a book she had just read by a woman who had been run over by a truck. The woman’s brain swelled so badly, the surgeons had to slice off part of her skull so it had room to heal.
Lying beside me on the sand, Naomi touched her chest and drew a large incision. When Mike died, her heart split open. It made even more room for love.
Special thanks to Liese Rose-Goyer.
Fan the flames of my heart.
GOOD NEWS FLASH: The raging dialogue around Miley Cyrus’s creative choice (or not) at the VMA’s is vital if we want to be free. Check out Sinéad O’Connor’s letter to Cyrus and Amanda Palmer’s letter to Sinead. Women, feel the power!
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