Wings of Desire
If I could design a perfect day for my friend Michie O’Day, it would go something like this:
Rise early and take her dog Doc for a brisk walk around Stonington, greeting her many neighbors and friends. Come home to coffee and a ridiculously huge and gooey blueberry muffin from Katie Made. (OK, I know that bakery is in Portland, but in this fantasy Door Dash has chariots drawn by winged horses.) Futz around on social media. Get thousands of likes for her most recent selfie. Donate lavishly to some of her favorite causes, including a rescue organization in Africa that saves baby elephants, then order a painting from an emerging artist she’s following. Flirt shamelessly with the mailman and the Jehovah’s Witness who come to her door (the latter being made to blush all the way down to his white collar and black necktie by her dazzling smile). After lunching on a Nicoise salad from Scampo, her favorite restaurant in Boston, and a side of fries from Nosh (see above about delivery logistics), head into the studio for an afternoon of work with Doc by her side. Get the Maine coast light just right in a painting she’s been struggling with. Wash her brushes, then take a spin on her bike to the Nine Stones mobile unit in town (ibid) for a massage and facial, followed by a decadent chocolate pastry, dockside. Return home to a leisurely bath, the stereo cranked. Finish gussying up with a quick swipe of mascara and a pair of loopy earrings just as her friend Hank arrives and instantly sets to work with the cocktail shaker and a new drink recipe. Stand at the kitchen counter, bantering and wielding a chef’s knife as meal prep begins. As dinner simmers, stand on the deck, drinks in hand, and watch the Stonington sky morph and melt into an oil painting with swirls of purple and pink and magenta. Light the candles, plate the dinner and deftly twirl a single strand of linguini on her fork. Clear the dishes and then kick off her stilettos in the darkened kitchen for some slow dancing and other stuff. (This is a fantasy, not a peep show.) End the day perusing a chapter from one of the many massive tomes piled on her nightstand. Turn out the light and, to the sound of the sea, sleep the sleep of angels.
I have been working out this picture ever since my dear friend Michie died in early September. Michie believed in heaven — not of the puffy-clouds-and-angels-with-harps variety, but of transcendence, something beyond. I know, because she told me during our many conversations about death. It was one of our favorite topics.
Michie had a genetic condition called neurofibromatosis (NF, for short). Hers is a rare strain, known as NF2, which causes benign tumors to grow in the brain and around the spinal cord. They are tough to remove, do not yield easily to a surgeon’s scalpel and wreak havoc on motor skills. And they grow back. Both her mother and brother died young from NF2. Michie underwent 10 neurosurgeries in her life. I have written at length for this publication about her challenges, her triumphs and our unlikely friendship. When I profiled her exploits around Portland on her recumbent trike, she said: “When I’m painting, I’m not deaf. When I’m cycling, I’m not disabled. When I’m cycling, I’m free.”
Aside from the flirting, the indulgences and the teleporting food delivery, so many of the things mentioned in my perfect day — acts so second nature to most of us that we wouldn’t even think about them — were not possible for Michie as her condition progressed. Just consider:
There would be no music, no banter, no sounds of the sea. Michie lost her hearing in her 30s. There would be no brisk walks, no dancing, no high heels. She was first diagnosed with NF2 over 40 years ago, when she was an active 26-year-old. Complications from surgery and loss of vestibular function increasingly limited her mobility. When I first met her in 2012, she was able to get around using trekking poles and by wearing orthotics (plastic braces) on her legs. By the end of her life, she was wholly confined to a wheelchair.
And no more painting. When a developing tremor meant she could no longer hold a brush, she turned to digital painting until that, too, became impossible. Near the end, she could barely manage eating utensils. Her vision was also going. And yet, despite all these losses, she found a reason to face each day with a life force most of us would envy.
So, my hope is she is right — there is a heaven — and she and Hank are sipping something bracing at a bar overlooking Stonington Harbor, her lithe legs swinging from her barstool with Doc at her feet.
And that she is free.
To learn more about the remarkable life of Michie O’Day, see “Ticket to Ride” (Dec. 3, 2013) and Outta My Yard (Jan. 6, 2015, and July 4, 2016). To view her artwork, go to michieoday.com.
