Why Me? What Bali Taught Me About Grief
Before I left for Bali, I kept asking myself, “Why me?”
Of course I wanted to go. My son wanted to go. But the truth is, I actually tried not to go. I resisted it. I thought someone else should take Cam. His dad, maybe. Or perhaps he could tag along with one of Mike’s friends if they were going. But no one else could make it happen. And I get it. It’s a long trek. We left on Wednesday night and arrived on Friday afternoon. You need a lot of time and a lot of patience to get here.
When we arrived, we settled in almost immediately. The people are so welcoming. We made our home at a hotel in Uluwatu, in a private bungalow that wasn’t private at all because of the open-air design. At first, it was quite a surprise. Staff greeted us constantly as they passed by. I felt like I had no privacy, but I decided to lean in and open myself up. After all, when in Bali, tidak apa apa. No worries. Or more literally, “it doesn’t matter.” A phrase I was told Mike used often.
The boys went straight into surf mode. Everything was surf. Talking about it. Checking the waves from the hotel viewpoint. Not searching for waves, because there were waves everywhere, but studying the conditions, debating which break was working best and where they should paddle out.
And I began my Mike work.
Again, I didn’t know exactly why I was the one who came here, but I knew I had to. I felt like a reporter sent out on assignment. I wanted to uncover Mike’s life here. I wanted to understand why he loved it so much and why he chose to make it his home.
I had a lunch or coffee scheduled almost every day. There were places I wanted to see and stories I wanted to hear. One of Mike’s dear friends here has been incredibly gracious, sending me names of people and places that were important to him. So I set out exploring. I had lunch with an Indonesian elder. I met friends. I listened to stories. I met the man many call the godfather of Indonesian surfing, one of the five men who helped bring surfing to Indonesia. He owns the surf camp deep in the jungle that Mike loved so much.
Everyone I met confirmed the same thing.
Mike’s heart was in G-Land. He spent much of his time there, though he’d come to Uluwatu when he wanted a break from the jungle. Or perhaps it was the other way around.
With every friend I met, there were tears. Mike’s absence here is deeply felt. He made a lasting impact. Nearly every story echoed the same sentiment. When the waves were too big for everyone else, Mike would still be out there. Friends told me that on the biggest days, when most said it was too gnarly to paddle out, people would scan the ocean, spot a tiny figure riding a wave, and say, “Oh, that’s Mike. Of course he’s out there.”
They shared stories about his life here, the waves he chased, the adventures he had, and the way he lived. And I shared stories about his final days in California. Many wanted to know what happened. His close friends here stayed in touch with him throughout his illness, but when his speech began to fade and he could no longer explain what was happening, they were left in the dark. I hadn’t thought much about that until I heard their side of the story.
So I answered questions.
Each conversation unfolded differently, but I found myself saying the same things over and over. Mike was okay. Mike was peaceful. Mike wanted to come back to Indonesia throughout his diagnosis. He tried again and again, but something always seemed to stand in the way. I told them how much he loved them. How much they meant to him. I told them they were more family than many of us in California.
And we cried.
Then I cried some more.
One afternoon, standing at the lookout point of our hotel, the same place where the boys scanned the horizon to see which waves were breaking, I completely fell apart.
And then it hit me.
These are Mike’s tears.
Of course they were mine too. I was grieving my own loss. But suddenly it felt clear. I came here for him. To say goodbye to his people. To say goodbye to the land he loved. To tell them he was at peace. To tell them how much they mattered to him. Every conversation, every shared meal, every tear felt like part of that assignment.
I had arrived in Bali asking, “Why me?”
Standing there overlooking the ocean, I finally understood.
I came here for him.
He wanted to see this place one last time through my eyes. He wanted his people to know how much they meant to him. He wanted to say goodbye.
And somehow, I think he did.
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