This is my favorite photo of Mike as an adult. He never just sat still, but my daughter-in-law managed to capture this, I imagine, by threatening him. That smile, those eyes …

This was the day Mike left. I think it was a choice to go on April Fools’ Day. He was, after all, a self-professed jackass. We celebrate it as Mike Day now, wearing plaid, nibbling on Cadbury Creme Eggs and doing something silly. We spend it in the spirit of Mike.

On this day in 2008, Mike and I had spent the previous evening watching Star Trek — a couple of original episodes, a Next Generation and then the Deep Space Nine episode where Worf joins the crew — and nibbling on expensive dark chocolate.

“You know, I’m having a good time,” he said.

“Huh?” I was a little stunned. He weighed less than 100 pounds, he was confined to a small bedroom and he was near death. How could he be having fun?

“I have Star Trek and chocolate,” he said. “I have my video games, Boo Bankie and my personal valet,” he said, gesturing toward me.

“Damn,” I said. “I can never complain again.”

“You’ll find a way,” he said. “I’m counting on you.”

Mike and I were alone in the house that evening. Everyone had gone back home, including James and Janet, who had been here the whole two weeks and needed to check on things at home. They planned to come back on Wednesday. Rob was at work. Mike and I had the entire evening to ourselves, which was a priceless gift.

In the morning, Mike told me he was feeling really tired and didn’t want to be moved to the living room.

“I think Ill just sleep awhile,” he said.

I dropped into the office and got back home for lunch. Mike was still asleep, so I let him be until the hospice nurse arrived to check on him. We had trouble rousing him.

“He’s between here and there,” she told me. “He could be in and out for days.”

I knew better. He was leaving. I sat down next to the bed and started talking to him, telling him I’d be OK, but believing my heart would stop when his did. I had this image of me slumped on the bed, my hand still holding his and people being shocked that I’d died, too. It had happened to someone I knew. My elementary school principal, when told his mother had died, sank to the floor and died of a heart attack. Just like that, he was gone. I could almost hear people saying it about me: “And just like that, she was gone …”

The nurse kept telling me I’d need rest, that he could linger for days, but I knew better. Mike was not a patient person. Once it was time for something to happen, he was ready. I was only in labor three hours, I told her. This kid doesn’t wait around once he’s decided.

We made some calls. I asked Rob to call Mike’s Dad. I didn’t want to hear him wail. Rob called the office and told them we wouldn’t be in, that Mike had taken a turn for the worse. I called Danny and told him Mike was dying and that it wasn’t likely he’d have time to get back here, then I sat back down by the bed and talked to him. Hearing is the last sense to go, and I knew he could hear me. He opened his eyes and told me he loved me, then gestured toward the window, as though he were greeting someone.

“Ellen …” he whispered, and closed his eyes. He was gone a few minutes later, a little after 3:30 in the afternoon. I sat a moment, waiting … Nothing happened. It hit me that I wasn’t going anywhere. I was left here with the corpse of my beloved son and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.

Later that night, my husband told me, “Nobody ever loved a kid more than you loved Mike.”

“Yeah, for all the good it did him,” I said.

So, I’m left here with a promise to keep. I have advocated for health care for all since the say Mike died. I left my job in 2009 to do it full time.

That’s why I’ll be at the National Day of Action rally in Asheville, 11 a.m. to 1 p.m. this Saturday to talk about the need for access to care for everyone. That’s why I hound elected officials to improve Medicaid, not cut it.

Yeah, I’m a big mouth. I don’t want anyone — not even the people who can change things but who refuse to do so — to go through what my family and I went through and still live with every day.

My grandkids are grown now, but they still miss him. I hear them telling their own children Uncle Mike stories. My surviving son called me a couple months ago to tell me how much his son reminds him of Mike sometimes. I see it, too.

I can’t begin to describe to you what it feels like to lose a child, especially when that child should still be with us. Mike died from a broken system that could be fixed easily, but that stays broken because of simple greed. That shouldn’t happen to anyone.

So again, this year, especially this year, I renew my promise to fight for health care for everyone — along with a living wage, safe housing, a reformed justice system that doesn’t prey on the poor. I want all of it because all of it has been broken deliberately. I want all of it for my surviving son and his kids and their kids. I want it for you and your kids.

I want it in memory of Mike.

So, today, I’ll enjoy the Wearin’ o’ the Plaid and the chocolate. Tomorrow, I’m back on the battlefield.