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Henry "Imrich" Michtalik

Visitation:

Thursday

July 9, 2026

2pm - 8pm

John Krtil Funeral Home

1297 1st Ave (between East 69th St & East 70th St)

New York, NY 10021

Funeral Mass:

Friday

July 10, 2026

10 AM

St. John Nepomucene

411 E66th St

New York, NY 10065

Burial:

Gate of Heaven Cemetery

Hawthorne, NY

Dad,

There are not enough words or time to express my thanks for all you have done and how much you are loved and will be missed. I honestly really did not know where I fit in this family until we became so close these last 15 years. In the first 15 years of my life before college, you were always working. I did not understand at that age the importance you put on family and how you were making sacrifices for the well-being of your family. You worked in the city for higher pay and made the 90-minute commute, so that your children could attend better schools and your wife could stay at home to nurture, teach, and support your children. You emigrated to this country for a better life, to live the American dream, and to instill your values and work ethic which you treasured: family, being authentic and humble, working hard, and being resilient. You made sure we attended church, made round trips to the city for family get-togethers only to then return back to the city after several hours of sleep to start the work week. I will never forget and will always treasure the memories we made.

You were wise. You always had words of wisdom and no one could forget your famous words of advice: the way you make your bed is the way you will sleep; be careful how you treat people as you climb the ladder of success, as you may see them again on your way down; treat all people the same, regardless of what they do or where they are in life; and of course, the famous phrase when we did something wrong, “I will fix your wagon.” We never knew what this wagon was, why it was broken, how what we did required it being fixed, but knew we were in trouble. Or how sitting close to the TV would lead to “wearing glasses like Bugs Bunny”, which we all knew he didn’t and tried to correct you but it never changed.

You were creative. You used your welding skills to make beautiful gates and railings. You would do this free of charge for neighbors, and they would compliment you on the quality of your work, and how those gates have remained for over 40 years without an issue. You built a shed with your father, a grilling pit with your brother-in laws, and made your own smoker for sausages. You made designs and displays all around the house. 

You were a problem solver, the Slovak MacGyver. You could fix anything, using your mechanical skills from heaters to cars to water pumps to electrical issues. When the car fuel line had an issue on the way home from my medical school interview, you pulled over and diagnosed the issue. The State Trooper offered you a tow and you kindly declined, saying all you needed was some tape and “good lighting” and you would make it home the remaining 30 minutes, and you did.

You were resilient. No issue was too big to solve. You were always seeking solutions. You were tough as nails and proud. Even as you aged, you did not want help. If anyone doubted your strength, you gave them such a firm handshake until the other person asked for you to let go. Even in your last days, you pulled through 3 cardiac arrests, all with normal blood counts and organ function. Your doctors said we agree, “he may be 87 years old but he is incredibly strong.” Unfortunately, though your will was strong, ultimately your body could not keep up.

You were authentic and humble. You taught me to not sacrifice my ethics or morals. You and I both enjoyed comfort, and in the end, wore the same brand and size athletic gear, black and gray for you and colors for me, to keep our laundry straight. When mom would give you a colored shirt, you would smirk and say “how do I look?” Both you and I were immune to mom’s criticisms of our clothes. 

You were loving but stoic. We didn’t use words to express our love, but our actions. We didn’t need to have a full conversation, our looks and body language, as my co-workers and friends can attest, says more than enough. We never smiled, unless no one was looking. On our 4 am fishing trips, we didn’t need to talk (unless I was catching more fish than you); spending time together was more than enough When I asked you what you wanted for your birthdays or holidays, you would always say the same thing: “peace and to stay in my home.” I told you I would do everything in my power to make sure that happened. I would care for you when you were older, as you did for me when I was younger. We had challenges but an amazing team of healthcare providers, coworkers, and neighbors, and built a network of support. The only requirement was for you to keep up with the therapy, but both you and I knew, you loved the gym as much as I did. We both had our own basement gyms and shared our TheraBand’s, weights, and elliptical machines. As you needed more assistance, you were always too proud. We discussed that it was ok, and you would always do the same thing, not say a word but put your hand on my shoulder to let me know it was ok. You loved your wife so much, always asking if she was in the back seat of the car to make sure we never left her behind, as she always ran late. You would call for her to come to your side while watching TV, and holding her hand provided you much comfort. You had a loving marriage of almost 60 years and were an incredible duo. 

You were a character and always knew how to lighten the mood and diffuse an awkward moment. When I brought you to Johns Hopkins to see one of the leaders in cardiology, when he asked you to walk faster on the treadmill for the stress test, you turned, looked at him with a straight face, and said “Why? You are the one getting paid for this, not me.” Every morning waking you up, you would pretend to be asleep, keeping your eyes closed but rubbing your head, you could not resist but smile That smile would melt away any issues or concerns for the day. You always greeted the day with a smile Getting you out of bed, you would make noises like a car with a low battery trying to start on a cold winter day, only to smile, and ask “What’s on the agenda?’ I got to know you well, and just like you knew of me, I knew the potential you had. When mom was in the hospital, we got to spend even more time together and bonded even stronger. We would watch Matlock, Deadliest Catch, or Bering Sea Gold. When you saw me struggling to figure out my work schedule, your medication and therapy schedules, and visits to the hospital, you put your hand on my thigh, and said “it is going to be ok” and I knew it would be. That would not stop you from being annoyed when I needed to join work Zoom meetings and leave your side, throwing Ritz crackers like Frisbees to get my attention. When I would turn to look at you, you would casually look out the window, avoiding eye contact. I am sure there are still some crackers I never found in my place.   

You loved to travel and so did I. Wherever I traveled I would bring us back a unique beverage or food. We would enjoy it as a family whether it be seafood direct from Alaska, or chocolate or wines from Europe. As I brought you to Baltimore when I needed to work extended times, you would never sleep a wink on our drives, but was sure to give me feedback on my driving, You loved to be in the car, telling therapists on days of travel “Poďme” (let’s go). You told me you had done enough driving and now it was my turn. We ate so many Baltimore oysters and clams together that they lined our flower beds and made the neighbors envious. 

Life challenges only brought us closer. You were my father, my role-model, a superhero in my eyes, and one of my best friends—the most wise, resilient, reserved yet deeply loving, and genuine man I hope to become. I will always love and miss you.

Your son,

Henry J.