by Regina Hill

Created on: February 04, 2007   Last Updated: April 18, 2007

When we visited Black Mountain center, a local substance abuse clinic, while Michael was there for one of his last visits before he died, one of the scarier posters revealed the statistics for alcoholics. Something like 97% of them die from alcoholism. It was almost like the poster was saying... The possibility of recovery was much worse than it would be if my Uncle had had cancer.

He was the youngest brother, the tallest at 6'4". He had that way about him that people call "charisma"... charming, alluring, captivating. His height was always one of those things that caused his friends to laugh. He was so big it would have been easy for him to be intimidating, yet... he had this heart. What a heart! Great cities of compassion and oceans of tenderness could have fit into that heart of his... he was a "gentle giant" to those who knew what was hidden within. And, I was no different than the rest of them... I loved him relentlessly, fully, freely. It was easy, to just love him. The price was higher than I'd depended on, though... much higher.

Except for Elvis, there isn't anyone I could compare Michael with. He wasn't a rock singer or even well-known by anyone outside the little Southern town where we grew up. There weren't hoards of fans standing outside when he left his home and he didn't ever drive a new car, much less give away Cadillacs to his best friends and associates.

Still, he was a lot like Elvis. Instead of touring the country from a bus, he toured from the cab of a Kenworth truck. His pills weren't necessarily prescription, but he too knew what it meant to catch his sleep on a timer generated by which pill was which... the sleeper or the reviver. His life wasn't plastered across every tabloid or published as a New York Time's bestseller. No writer became privy to his every thought and feeling. No published words would ever convey his insights into drugs. When he gulped down his daily dost of sleep, there were no maids waiting to take away his tray or wake him should he oversleep or overdose.

Michael wasn't Elvis... but, he knew what Elvis knew. He knew what it felt like to live without sleep for a week, to endure the endurable and still fulfill his purpose, his duty. Unaware of their close relation, Michael and Elvis would never meet. Yet, I've often wondered if they met later on, in heaven... Elvis died at 42; Michael at 44. If either of them could speak to you and I, would they tell us what it feels like to live a simulated life based on generic insights?

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