Please bear with me on this—it’s been on my mind the past few days and since this is my blog, I’m pretty sure I’m allowed to write about it here. I’ve been hesitant because I don’t want to make this about me, nor do I want to be “head griever.” Like anyone else, I just am trying to work my way through something unfortunate …
So the other day, a few of you may have seen how I Tweeted and Facebooked about the sudden passing of George Mihalakos, who ran the café in the Register building where Connecticut Magazine is located.
As I said, George had the rare ability to genuinely connect with everyone in the building—one of my co-workers said “He made everyone feel like they were his favorite.” Very true. He was really the nicest guy you’d ever meet, and any time you’d walk into the café, he would greet you with such enthusiasm that even the most crappy day didn’t seem so bad. As I wrote in the Register article linked above, I never walked away from him with anything less than a smile.
He always had the radio on, usually on 99 Rock WPLR. On the day a few months ago when I had been pimping my book on the “Chaz & AJ” morning show, I went into the cafeteria later in the afternoon, and engaging in a bit of humblebragging, asked George if he’d had heard me earlier. He said he had heard the interview, but hadn’t realized it was me, and then immediately began to grill me (so to speak) about it. He then insisted—I mean, really insisted—on buying a copy of my book, which I brought in the next day. We made a trade; he got the book and I got three good lunches out of it.
I definitely came out on top in that deal, for sure.
So last Wednesday, I skipped breakfast at home, figuring I’d treat myself to one of George’s bacon-and-egg wraps. I got to work and went directly to the café—I didn’t even have to say anything other than “Good morning,” because George knew what everyone always ordered.
“The usual, right?” he called out from behind the grill.
I was the only one there, so I called back, “Yeah, thanks!”
Usually, George makes conversation with everyone about everything—sports, politics, work, family, etc.—but he was pretty quiet that day. When he brought my wrap to the register, I was taken aback by his appearance. He was pale, perspiring and looked very pained. His face was especially gaunt—for a flash, with the shape of it and his prominent ears, he reminded me of a younger, beardless Abraham Lincoln.
I asked how he was doing because he was clearly not himself.
“My back is really bothering me,” he said, turning away and stiffly going back toward the grill. “I’m in a lot of pain.”
I told him that he should really get himself checked out. (Damn, this sounds so lame now!)
He sort of laughingly waved me off. “I don’t have time for that,” he insisted.
He was found dead on the floor by the grill less than an hour later.
When I heard, my knees went weak and I was sick to my stomach. I don’t know about the timeline of it all, but had I been the last person he saw? Did he make a final meal for me, then go in the back by the grill and … just collapse? Had I simply walked away from someone I knew was clearly suffering and just … left him to die alone? I still don’t know for sure.
I mean, I knew he wasn’t feeling well, but I thought maybe he had the flu or something. I didn’t think he was going to fall over dead any second. He was only 43! That doesn’t usually happen to someone of that age, right? Right?
Ugh.
I keep thinking about it. In retrospect and in a weird way, I was sort of looking death right in the eye, and had sort of recognized it—it reminded me of the last time I saw my grandmother before she died: that cold, sweaty, pale look. I wish it had been more of a signal to me.
Now, I’ve certainly had to deal with death—family, friends and many acquaintances—on numerous occasions, both expected and unexpected. But even though George wasn’t anyone I’d consider a close friend (I can’t even say that I ever really thought of him outside of the work place), this passing really bothers me, the suddenness of it all. He was someone I interacted with five days a week, and I was talking to him one minute, and then less than 60 minutes later, he was … gone. So hard to accept. So weird.
I guess there’s another aspect of it, too. I like to think that I’m not so callous and self-absorbed that I wouldn’t just leave someone to suffer and die, but I keep thinking that’s exactly what I did.
All right, I know that there was no way I could know how ill he was, and outside of recommending he go to the doctor, what more could I have done? I mean, we all run into people feeling under the weather all the time, and very rarely do we physically grab them by the hand and drag them to the doctor’s office—he was a grown man, and if he didn’t want to go then I probably wasn’t going to convince him.
But what if I had tried a little harder and had convinced him? Unlikely, I know, but still …
Most times when we an adult who seems sick, we see if there is anything we can do for them, and if there isn’t, we tell them to “take care of yourself” and then we go on our way and figure they’ll take care of themselves. That’s what I did. Obviously with the benefit of hindsight, I wish I had done something differently.
But I didn’t. What’s happened can’t ever be changed. Would’ve, could’ve, should’ve …
I think about his two young daughters (like I have two young sons), and try to imagine their lives without him there. Heartbreaking.
If you’re any sort of regular visitor to this blog, you know that I’m a bit curious about (some might say obsessed) with my own eventual death. I think sometimes that I talk about it so much now because I know once I’m gone, I (probably) won’t be able to say exactly what happens after what we call “life” goes out of my body.
My friend John and I have a standing “pact” that whichever one of us goes first, the other will set the TV to a static channel and wait for an EVP-type message from the other. “Just nothing too scary,” as he says. “Something like, ‘It’s nice here and Mae West says hi.'”
Wishful thinking, I know—if there does turn out to be a heaven and a hell, I know where I’m headed, and it doesn’t involve harps and halos. As my sister Joni likes to say: “You, me, Hitler and Satan, playing poker for eternity.”
All right, I feel bad for being glib while writing about such a tragic situation, but for some reason, that’s what I’m compelled to do. We all deal with death and grief differently, and apparently, I desperately need to find some light in the dark, and my natural instinct is to try and say or write something amusing to alleviate the hurt. It’s not a matter of being disrespectful, but an attempt to make sense of what seems to be senseless. Like, if I can find a way to bring about a smile—as George did for me every day—than somehow a move can be made toward healing.
I want to end this on some sort of proper, wishful note or make some grand, uplifting philosophical comment, but what that is, I’m not quite sure. A good man is dead, and given my proximity to the situation, I desperately wish that I had done something more to prevent it. But I didn’t and now life goes on … sometimes there’s not much more you can say than that.
Thanks for listening.