Michael A. Hirsch

I died as I was born: a “nichtsnutz.”

That was my GermanAmerican grandfather’s term for me, Michael Alan Hirsch, born July 29, 1960.

I grew to appreciate the description. Nichtsnutz means mischievous child. I took it to mean someone who was willing to liven up a get-together and make people laugh.

(My family usually tolerated my high jinks, even enjoyed them, but collectively put their foot down, saying I went too far to set up a betting pool to choose which day I would die.)

Perhaps it was because I was the youngest of four, or maybe it was that I took after the fun-loving Irish side of the family, but it was probably because I was like my mother.

I saw humor as a way to bring people together. My mother wanted me to follow in her father’s footsteps and work as an accountant. But I should have known in high school that I had the wrong temperament. In my senior accounting class, I wrote a newspaper called The CPA Daily that mocked bean counters.

I made the switch in my junior year of college, changing from accounting to communications, the smartest move of my life.

It’s how I met my Mel, the woman I had been searching for during my first 20 years. She shone with beauty and intellect and a light in her eyes that still made my heart stop a beat up

until I took my last breath. She was my North Star, and I would follow her anywhere.

I also discovered a love of writing, journalism and quirky newsrooms. I followed this path and began a fascinating career.

Mel, journalism and I were loyal companions over the decades. Right out of college, we landed the only two reporting jobs at the weekly Lake Placid News, and we married four months after graduation.

I found my writing voice late in life. I was diagnosed with ALS in late 2019, at age 59. The next two years I started writing occasional essays about my journey as I slowly lost my ability to walk and move my arms, and began to struggle

to talk and breathe. It was cathartic for me, and readers said it helped them as they or loved ones struggled with degenerative diseases.

I was honored this year to win first prize for best commentary from the Society of Features Journalism for newspapers our size. I was also named the second-best columnist in Pennsylvania by the Keystone Press Awards for the same essays.

When I was first diagnosed, I came up with a daily mantra: “ALS will kill me, but it won’t break me.”

I’ve tried to live the last three years of my life this way. Yes, this disease is terrible and exhausting for the entire family. However, I did my best to be in the moment as much as possible and to enjoy my time with my Mel, my daughters and their partners, my neighbors, friends, co-workers and pets.

They all brought me tremendous joy during this time. Every night just before drifting off to sleep, Mel and I would count our blessings, and there were many despite our adversities.

And boy, did I have fun. Some of my Facebook postings reflected my nichtsnutz personality. I drove my power wheelchair at top speed — 6 miles an hour — into 10 full-size garbage cans

arranged in the middle of our street in a Lower Macungie development. In my “Grinches get Stinches” video, I attached a 10-foot spear

to my wheelchair and, using a scalpel from a doctor buddy, severed the head of an inflatable Christmas icon.

I drove through an 8-foot pile of leaves, followed by a pack of tweens and teens popping wheelies on their bicycles. And finally, I dressed as a bulldog and drove over five beloved BooBah toys of mine, leaving streaks of Boo-Bah color on the pavement.

The point of these videos was to make readers laugh, entertain myself and to show that a full life with ALS is possible.

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