Our lives were full – Brittany, Katarina, Alexandria, Mary Michael, and Jennie – schools, homework, family vacations to Niagara Falls and Florida. Together, we managed to do it all. And if the girls complained or whined, Mike would repeat his favorite line from “A League of Their Own”: “Are you crying? There’s no crying in baseball!”

But our lives changed 18 years ago, when Mike was diagnosed with leukemia, proving the strength of his positive nature. He never turned negative, despite years of chemo and all that the disease entails. He was fortunate to be able to receive a bone marrow transplant from a relative, but he recognized how many are not as lucky as he was to receive the procedure, particularly members of black and Hispanic communities. So, he designed a database for the Transit Authority to organize for bone marrow matches. And if someone was also diagnosed, he became their advocate and mentor.

We were and are beach people; it’s part of our souls. We have a house at the shore in Spring Lake, NJ and I went there sometimes after he died, to listen to the ocean and try to somehow find peace. I will never forget our treasured times there with our kids on summer days, playing in the surf. The spirit of those playful summers persisted and one Christmas years ago Mike gave each of our girls Buzz Lightyear figures though they were long past childhood. The girls were mystified at first about the meaning behind the gift but they came to see how the gesture of Buzz pointing upward was symbolic of their dad wanting them to reach for the stars, to grab the unattainable and live meaningful lives. Because of his love and passion and unfailingly deep confidence in his daughters, they will pass that part of him on to their own children.

Mike was there for everyone throughout his whole life, but when he was sick and dying of Covid in Hackensack Hospital, he was alone. After he passed, they let me in to have an hour with him. What I was struck by as I walked through the hospital was the eerie silence. All the doors were closed. It was as if an apocalypse had occurred, the hallways as deserted as the streets outside.

Prior to when I’d arrived there, twenty minutes before Mike died, he facetimed with Mary Michael and was able to see his new granddaughter Penelope. I know that connection, however brief and tragic, exemplifies who Mike Mantell was. And I know that because of him — though she will not remember that moment — Penelope will reach for the stars too.