by Dr. Susan Block.

Now tumbling down the hill of time in an avalanche of emotion is the first anniversary of Max’s death.

It’s been a year of immeasurable loss, bottomless grief, sleepless nights, vivid memories, strange and somewhat comforting rituals – ashes to ashes, stroke to smoke – Bonoboville gatherings and art therapy since my beloved husband, “witness” and partner-in-everything, Captain Max, aka Pr. Maximillian Rudolph Leblovic Lobkowicz di Filangieri, aka Mickey (11/8/1943 – 5/13/2025), passed away.  So far away.

Many say that I should have adjusted by now, and in some ways I have. But this is a serious day. It’s not the Cremation/Visitation (when I was veiled and in shock). It’s not Max’s birthday (which I purposefully declared “Free Speech Day”). It’s not a new year of the bonobo, a sweet, sentimental wedding anniversary, a wondrous winter holiday, lovely Lupercalia nor springy spring festival.

It’s the date of Max’s death – the 13^th of May – one year later.

Max’s “Deathiversary”

According to the Wise Bots of the Interwebs, this solemn calendrical designation is Max’s “deathiversary.” Who knew that was the name? But what else do you call the day one year from someone’s passing? Saying “the first anniversary of Max’s death” takes longer and is more apt to make me cry. “Deathiversary” is simpler and just silly enough to sometimes even make me laugh.

Jewish traditions call it the Yahrzeit, lighting 24-hour memorial candles and reciting the Mourner’s Kaddish. Italians say Anniversario di Morte and Spanish Catholics call it Cabo de Año, also lighting candles – often featuring images of Jesus, various saints and the Virgin Mary – and saying special masses. Muslims, Hindus, Buddhists and all other world religions have their customs and beliefs – with themes of resurrection, reincarnation, ancestral connections, enduring faith or just getting through the Pearly Gates.

All religions encourage giving to charity, as well they should. However, this usually involves donating to a representative of that religion – like tipping the Holy Bouncer so he’ll let your Loved One past those Pearly Gates, or make sure they don’t get reincarnated as a bug. I am making donations in Max’s name to some of his favorite charities, Lola ya Bonobo, the Bonobo Conservation Initiative and Counterpunch, all of which he supported for many years when he was alive. Lola and BCI are proven saviors of the highly endangered bonobos in their native habitat, the world’s second biggest rainforest within the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC).

As for Counterpunch, Max loved reading it – and not just his wife’s articles – for over 20 years, relishing its feisty dedication to the “Free Speech,”  “Make Love Not War” and “Share the Wealth” principles for which he stood throughout his life.

 

A Funhouse Without the Fun

According to some Protestant Christian denominations, the Deathiversary is a time to “grieve with hope” (1 Thessalonians 4:13), “moving from the sharp sorrow of loss toward grateful remembrance.”

Copy that. Except it’s not the arc of spiritual triumph Saint Paul’s epistle implies – at least not for this widow. I move from “sharp sorrow” to “grateful remembrance” every day, many times a day and into the night until the little death of sleep gives me respite. The pain of losing my Great Love never goes away, but sleep, art, edibles, music, the support of my Bonoboville comrades, a little gallows humor and surrender to the mysteries of reality serve as mild painkillers.

But now, as Max’s Deathiversary opens its heavy Doors of Time, it’s like I’m entering a funhouse without the fun..

Erika “Black Widow” Kirk

Before I step through those doors, I should mention the somewhat positive angle to this Deathiversary thing. Yes, I am trying to be positive… but only to a point.  I’m no Erika Kirk, who has taken death-positivity to grotesque levels. These days, I empathize with all my fellow mourners, including those with whom I disagree politically. Though it’s not easy for us regular widows to grieve in peace when TPUSA Zio-Christian grief-to-grift Beauty Queen Erika is almost singlehandedly turning the sacred state of widowhood into a source of loathing, ridicule, suspicion, conspiracy, gross pageantry and horror.

Well, to be fair, none of this is easy.

Back to the positive: Max’s first Deathiversary marks one full spin around the sun since I last felt the loving warmth of my Beloved’s living body, and somehow, despite my grief, the ongoing attacks on Bonoboville (by both petty gangsters and a very petty city government), Trumpty Dumpty’s mess of everything and Charlie Kirk’s “Black Widow” popping up everywhere like a crazy-eyed Jill-in-the-Box, I’ve made it through the year. And every day, with Bonoboville’s help, I’ve memorialized Max’s life in some way.

Now on his Deathiversary, I’m honoring his death.

Stroke of (Bad) Luck

Max’s date with death was the classically unlucky number 13 – though it wasn’t Friday the 13^th; it was a Tuesday. And it was the worst day of my life.

The second worst day was also unlucky and much more of a shock – Sunday morning, May 19, 2024, at the proverbial stroke of dawn – when Max’s deep growl turned into a howl of cosmic agony, startling me awake into the nightmare I’m still having. Within seconds, we were in the ambulance rushing to USC Emergency. The good news was that Max was still alive; the bad news was that “barely” preceded “alive.”

Max had had a major ischemic stroke. The neurological term is cerebrovascular accident (CVA), but most of us call it a  “stroke” – though it’s really more of a strike – less a caress than a bullet to the brain or, in Max’s case, an unexploded bomb that formed a blood clot blocking the flow of oxygen to his cerebrum, causing sudden and severe destruction, a cerebral “Shock & Awe” that incapacitated half his body (the right half and, though a longtime Leftist, Max was right-handed), and shattered his mind (but not our love), wreaking immense brain-cell-busting damage.

Well, aren’t we all damaged goods? In a way, a stroke just accelerates the madness that’s always just around the bend of our brains.

As anyone who knew Max knows, he was a remarkably strong, passionate, Zorba-like character, the most lovingly romantic husband and consummate Bohemian noble gentleman, but also an anarchistic force of nature no mere mortal (not even Max himself) could control. Max was always on the go, producing amazing shows, publishing provocative “reader-written” magazines, thundering against censorship, making love not war, speaking out against fascism when others were afraid, helping and mentoring people (like me!), making you think or laugh or maybe making you mad – a larger-than-life lover of life.

But no matter how large and lively you are, a major ischemic stroke takes you – body, shattered brain and soul – to as deathly a place as you can go in life… and then, it takes your life. For Max, the post-stroke death march took a few days shy of a year.

What a stroke of madness, immobility and immeasurable suffering for my beloved! Though it could have been worse; he could have had a stroke in Palestine. I’m not being flip; I am truly grateful for the medical care Max received, care that so many others – from bombing victims in Gaza, Iran and Lebanon to Door Dash Grandmas’ husbands with cancer – cannot get.

Indeed, Max and I were privileged to have access to quality hospital care, though the “skilled nursing facilities” (SNFs) were deathtraps, and the hospitals kept discharging him to the SNFs. Many of the doctors tried to discourage me, gently suggesting that maybe I shouldn’t try so hard to help this old man who clearly was not “getting better.” It wasn’t easy to explain why I felt Max deserved the best care. Not that they were really listening to me anyway, deeply engaged as they were in subtle forms of triage pushed by insurance administrators.

One young Egyptian doctor at Kaiser tried several times (unsuccessfully) to discourage me from advocating for my husband. At the end of his week with us, he leaned in and said, almost in a whisper, “I hope if I am ever very sick, that my wife will care for me like you care for Max.”

There were other wonderful doctors, nurses, therapists, orderlies, case managers, ombudsmen, security guards and cleaning people – who could somehow see the “real” Max through the tangle of tubes and infirmities. It helped when I showed them photos of the hale and hearty Captain Max or shared some of our books and magazines. Even after his death, some have stayed in touch and become honorary members of Greater Bonoboville. Interventional radiologist Dr. Armen spoke about the joys of caring for Max at his memorial. Now, Dr. Armen keeps a vial of Max’s ashes under his photo, explaining “his smile gives me power every morning.”

The Belly of the American Medical Beast

Fortunately, Max had Medicare and Medical, but every day of that last year was a fight to obtain the high level of care he needed to make it to the next day. Our friend, artist, human rights activist, dominatrix, patient advocate and Sidewalk Project founder/director Soma Snakeoil connected me with specialty nurses and patient advocates who gave me crash courses in how to convey Max’s complex needs to stressed-out medical staff and tight-fisted insurance adjusters.

Soma also gave me perspective. When I called her in the midst of an 11-hour ER ordeal, she replied, “Suzy, you are in the belly of the beast.”

I remember one particularly tough day, Wednesday, December 4, 2024: There I was on the phone with Medicare administrators, disputing their imperative to “deny… defend… depose” and discharge Max prematurely, when little did I know that the tables were being violently turned 3000 miles away. That is, just as Max was being denied and forcibly discharged by Medicare (only to have him return to the ER by ambulance within days), UnitedHealthcare CEO Brian Thompson was being assassinated in midtown Manhattan – allegedly by one Luigi Mangione.

After I cajoled these insurance racketeers into extending Max’s hospital stay for a much needed three days, I relaxed and showed Mangione’s striking visage to Max who widened his eyes and grinned like he recognized one of his Filangieri cousins. After all, they both have those expressive Italian eyebrows. Not that I approve of any kind of murder; not even a little bit (it’s unbonobo, to say the least)! But I could relate to Mangione’s frustration, having spent a year in the Belly of that Beast.

The Agony & the Ecstasy

It was a year of agony, but with enough moments of ecstasy to keep Max going and not only because he was a longtime fan of Michelangelo Buonarroti, his genius countryman whom he laughingly called a “great house painter.” Oh, how we laughed, played, kissed, sang and wheeled around the grounds in ecstasy many times during that year of agony. We even danced every now and then, like when his old friend and First Amendment attorney Barry Fisher played “Bella Ciao” on his accordion, and a gaggle of giddy nurses plus another patient from across the hall came over to dance with us.

One of Max’s greatest tricks was during the most excruciating procedures, he’d transform his own cries of pain into funny little operatic songs that made everyone smile, including him. Of course, it didn’t last long, and soon enough Max’s bellows of pain would overtake his song. But for a few magic moments, my Beloved could use a kind of broken-brained alchemy to turn agony into a strange, uplifting, almost beatific ecstasy.

We also talked, of course; we’re both big talkers. But the stroke gave Max aphasia, so at best, his words came out in a jumble, which I called “Maxolalia,” a kind of post-stroke speaking in tongues. He’d make light of it with silly sounds; he was such a natural clown. But I could see how it frustrated my silver-tongued husband when he couldn’t get the right words out. Though occasionally, he’d say something poetic or apropos, like “I feel my brain,” “We are art” or “My Girl is here!”

And I was there. I was almost always there.

Every day, all day and into the night, I moved through the various hospitals, the rehabs, the overcrowded SNFs, the bumpy ambulances, the ice-cold ERs, holding Max’s hand(s) – both his limp, stroke-stricken right hand and his *good* rambunctious left hand – trying my imperfect best to help my lover and friend of almost 40 years to move, communicate and somehow ease his pain.

I’d often leave Bonoboville at dawn, at first barely aware of what clothes I threw on, as long as they were comfortable enough to sleep in a chair for a while. As Max got a little better (before he got a lot worse), I started dressing up to please my darling – a cute top, a special ring or a funny hat to make him smile, a microphone pendant he’d hold to his lips like he was on the air.  Every day, I wore the little Palestine flag pin Max had given me – and many of our friends – years before. He loved to touch it. Many of the nurses and a few doctors noticed that round little green, white, red and black pin, and seemed to pay a bit more attention to Max because of it, including that Egyptian doctor whose wife happened to be Palestinian. It did upset one SNF resident, so I hid it under my hair when I passed him in the hall. I wore it to support, not confront. Not then. I had to channel every ounce of my confrontational power into advocating for Max. It was the least I could do after he’d spent almost 40 years advocating for me.

As aphasia chopped Max’s words into less and less intelligible fragments, we communicated through touch. Strokes for the stroke patient – and the caregiver. Max could give a surprisingly good massage with that strong left hand. Too bad we didn’t have more of a medical fetish. But simple pleasure was often the most effective painkiller, and the oxytocin of loving touch sometimes worked better than the oxycontin of pharmaceutical drugs.

Stroke of Death

Looking back, I realize that before the Angel of Death took my Beloved on a flight from which he’d never return, we had almost an entire post-stroke year to essentially say good-bye.  For that, I will always be grateful.

Max Collages 9 and 10 focus on that last, sublime, Michelangelic “Year of Living Precariously.”  Putting together images from Max’s stroke to his passing in the weeks after he died was my “art therapy,” bearing witness to the horror and beauty of what had just happened. Starting with the awful image of Max on the respirator, it follows his progress over the next few months – having a go at rehab, seeing old friends, family and his favorite dogs, laughing in the ambulance, struggling with his restraints (to keep his left hand from tearing out his tubes), celebrating our 33^rd wedding anniversary, smelling the flowers and herbs from our garden, and then his precipitous relapse until the last stark images of death.

I would have done anything to keep my darling Max alive another year or even just another day, but ultimately those downbeat doctors were right; I couldn’t. But they were also wrong. Because making that final year of Max’s life as good as it could be – for him and for us – meant everything.

Deathiversary Blues

They say you’re supposed to focus on the life, not so much the death, of the deceased on his Deathiversary. And I’ve been thinking, talking, writing, editing videos and making collages about Max’s extraordinary life, trying to convey over 81 years of passion, art, adventure, revolution,  theater, publishing, erotica, reader-written media, pro-bonobo activism, international intrigue, fearless freedom-fighting and endless love – so much bright and radiant love. For 33 years of marriage and 40 years of friendship, Max lit up my life like a fireworks show, a candlelit romance and a fiery free speech rally mixed into an electric bacchanalian living theater. Capt’n Max lit up many lives besides mine, and we’ve been telling Max’s life stories all year, and we’ll continue next year and the next… But if the first anniversary of your beloved’s death doesn’t make you think about that death, what would?

Maybe the powers-that-be just want grievers like me to move on from mourning and get back to work, producing, making and spending money. Some refuse to discuss it or try to turn it into another grift (Mrs. Kirk comes to mind). Death is almost as taboo as sex to talk about with any authenticity; thus, the imperative to move on. Don’t worry, I’m sobbing under the covers, at least not as much as I was, but Max’s death was a terrible, meaningful event – not just the little death of love, but the Big Death of eternity – and Max’s Deathiversary memorializes that… at least for this widow.

In a way, I can’t believe it’s been a whole year already. The hours pass slowly – especially on sleepless nights without Max’s big warm body to pull me back to pleasure and relaxation. But the year has gone like a snap. Of course, as we age, everything goes faster; the very meaning of time unravels as our mortal coil unwinds.

Thanatos, Hel & Other Angels of Death

According to the ancient Greeks, mortality is ruled by Thanatos, the death force, fraternal twin brother of Eros, the sex, love and life force. Thanatos is cold and dull compared to warm and lively Eros, but he sneaks up on you, sometimes literally. It was dull, cold Thanatos that tore my Beloved away from me that terrible 13^th of May in 2025. And the beautiful life we shared died with him.

But not the love. Nothing will tear me from Max’s love, except maybe my own death… but maybe not. Who knows? If you’re not super religious, and even if you are, death is such a mystery.

I learned Thanatos was the brooding brother of Eros when I was a little girl fascinated by my parents’ big book of classical mythology. The Greek myths were so much more engaging than the Bible stories I was force-fed in Sunday school.

Eventually, I learned some other names for Death: Azrael, Anubis, Yanluo Wang, Hel, the Grim Reaper, the Angel of Death. For serious monotheists, Death is simply “God” who takes your life just as He (God’s pronouns are usually “He/Him”) gave it to you.

My memory of the day Max died is still so vivid. He had been in a partial coma since we brought him into the ER three days before, unable to speak or even open his eyes. But his strong left hand could still grip mine, and we held hands for what seemed like an eternity of bliss, and yet somehow no time at all. Then, at around noon that Tuesday, May 13^th, 2025,  I felt Max’s strong grip soften, his big hand giving my little one a last squeeze, and then it was like something in him – his Eros – slipped away. I screamed “Nurse!” as the Code Blue alarms were already sounding, Max’s blood pressure dropping sharply, his sodium levels plummeting, his kidneys failing, his heart stopping… and it would not restart despite the entire ER team’s heroic attempts. And then it was clear: Capt’n Max had sailed away.

I screamed some more, kissed, hugged and wept over his still beautiful, but oh-so-ravaged body until it grew cold and hard as an ice sculpture, until the morgue technicians took him away. Naively, I asked if I could go with him, and gently, they refused.

Then I fell down that hole of bottomless grief, dreaming I lived in that ancient culture where the weeping widow throws herself onto her deceased husband’s funeral pyre and goes up in smoke along with him. Obviously, I didn’t pursue that route. Instead, I went through a year of rituals and gatherings, from cremation to memorials to scattering Max’s ashes at sea on what would have been our 34^th wedding anniversary.

Now comes this Deathiversary, which is really almost a week, a kind of Holy Week (for me), but not in the right order. Max’s stroke was at dawn on May 19, 2024, and he died at high noon on May 13, 2025. Over those 359 days was the agony of illness and death… but also the ecstasy of a little extra life and a lot more love.

So, I’ll do my weepy widow’s best to pull it together, gather comrades, light candles in the darkness, sprinkle some more of Max’s ashes somewhere auspicious (TBA), play our music and share our tales of the remarkable life and terrible death of Capt’n Max, bearing witness for my Beloved who, according to some, is still bearing witness for me… from somewhere.

RIP Pr. Maximillian R. Leblovic Lobkowicz di Filangieri. May your memory be a blessing. Amen. Awomen.

I love you Max!

 

Click the links below for stories of Max’s life, death and legacy of love:

“RIP Max”
On Substack
X/Twitter Thread

“Maximillian Lobkowicz di Filangieri Obituary”
On Substack
On Dignity Memorial
On Counterpunch

“Cremating Captain Max”
On Substack

“Bottomless Grief & Topless Cake”
On Substack
On Counterpunch

“Max to the Maximus” Memorial
PR in AVN, Xbiz & ASN.
On Substack

“My Beloved Max” Collage Collection

Max Collage 1: “Family History”
On Substack

Max Collage 2: “On DrSuzy.Tv”
On Substack

Max Collage 3: Travels with Max in France
On Substack

Max Collage 4: Winter Holidays
On Substack

Max Collage 5: Valentine Lupercalia World Bonobo Day
On Substack
On Counterpunch

Max Collage 6: Purim & St. Paddy free Palestine
On Substack
On Counterpunch

Max Collage 7: Make Matzah Not War!
On Substack
On Counterpunch

Max Collage 8: A Widow’s Wedding Anniversary
On Substack
On Counterpunch

 

© April 30, 2026. Susan Block, Ph.D., aka “Dr. Suzy,” is a world renowned LA sex therapist and author of The Bonobo Way: The Evolution of Peace through Pleasure, occasionally seen on HBO and other channels. For information, call 626-461-5950.