Michael S. Motsinger August 27, 1955–June 22, 2005
He was found slumped over the steering wheel in his truck at a local catfishing place. I got the phone call from his ex-wife, of all people.
I had known him for about 15 years. We worked together, fished together, went target shooting together, and I probably know more about him than anyone else does. We joked about being Mot & Nott. He regarded me as a guiding force in his life. He said I talked him out of doing stupid and crazy things. That’s true, I guess, but I wish I’d been better at it.
He had five heart attacks over a period of years, and he’d had bypass and heart valve surgery. About a week ago, he had a stroke. I really wonder if that was the first one. He knew death had him on a short leash, and I often dreaded the idea that I might be there at the end. Now, for brief moments, I think it would have been better if I’d been there.
Since I retired, I have been more and more isolated, and aside from my wife, he was my only close friend.
I’m doing okay, I guess. Now and then, though, I think about something he was going to help me do, and I remember I’ll never see him again. I miss him.
I know so very well how you feel. May 6 marked a year that my best friend, my drummer, my partner in crime, passed. I am told that after some time, one remembers with pain. I know I’m not there. I miss him terribly. Email me if I can help.
We’re all sorry. Try to be happy for the time you had, and for getting to know him in the first place. Remember the good times. Remember what you meant to each other. Don’t regret that you weren’t there at the end. Don’t wish you had been better at talking him out of things - you were obviously quite good enough.
This sucks. I know how you feel. When I was younger, my best friend had a hole in his heart. Literally. It killed him. Soon afterwards, I had a problem dealing with it, and carried on as usual, until I came down with huge sobbing crying jags. Then, I was back to normal. Repeat two days later. Rinse, and repeat.
