Rest in Peace, Ron Howe
My father, Ron Howe, died at 1 pm on Saturday, April 12th. That day is also the anniversary of the day I met my husband, Scott, 16 years ago. My dad, like all of us, contained multitudes, but one of his biggest talents was for dark jokes. He was also gifted at staying committed to his long term bits so I’m not surprised he died on a day I’ll never forget.
My dad was sick for the last nearly thirty years as a result of type one diabetes and the complications that came alongside it. One of the many character traits I inherited from his was his stubborn independence. It can be remarkable and allowed for him to succeed in life in ways he wouldn’t have otherwise. It also got in the way all the time when it came to his health. This refusal to take care of himself was a sticking point for us over the years.
On March 24th, his doctor called me and woke me up. She told me he needed to be admitted into the hospital and had left against medical advice over the weekend. I told her I had also urged him to stay. She laughed and said, “Sounds like Ron.” We brainstormed a plan including what to do about my mother with Alzheimer’s for whom my father was the sole caregiver. When I called him and told him he needed to go, he began to argue with me. He had a plan. My dad always had a plan - many great ones, often hysterically funny, but also so many harebrained and impulsive ones. Even though I’ve spent many years working to remain the child in the relationship, I slipped right back into the role of his parent as we talked that day. I sternly said, “Dad. I am not fucking around here. You could die. You have to go.” Like I often say during a session with a client who needs accountability and support, I said, “Please text me when you get in the car and text me when you are in the emergency room.”
It turned out my father had a systemic infection, now in his blood, that originated from his fingers. Three of his fingers had died due to lack of blood flow. The infection was too much for his transplanted kidney which stopped working. I have no idea how long he was sick or if he felt much worse than he had on his best days. He had kept his fingers a secret until he sent me a picture to show me the swelling. At that point, he was confused enough that he didn’t realize he was outing himself and what was actually going on. One of the most important values in my family growing up was to never tell anyone anything. Keep up that front at all costs. It always confused me as a child. As you can see, I’ve gone the opposite in my life. I don’t want to live a life where no one knows me. I know vulnerability begets vulnerability.
Every morning from March 24th to April 9th, I was waking up at 6 a.m. to start talking to the doctors in Missouri caring for him. There was five specialists on his case and I stayed in touch with all of them. My father was in tremendous pain along with being very confused and overwhelmed. I kept telling him I was coming and he would say, “No. Don’t come yet. I will tell you when you should. You have a family and a job and a business. I am okay.”
Over his time in the hospital, we had many painful and heart wrenching conversations about what he wanted for his care. It was clear that he wasn’t going to be returning to his home and would live the rest of his life in a nursing home. He was heartbroken. We talked about what he would chose if he had to go back on dialysis. Three of his fingers were amputated and the doctors were very honest about that only being the beginning. I kept offering to come and he would say not yet.
Fifteen years of working in hospice prepared me to have very honest and direct conversations with people about death, dying and end of life choices. Having them with my father over those weeks was familiar and also brand new. I promised I would come and be with him while he died whether that would be soon or in months or even years. But I knew. As soon as he went into the hospital, I asked my colleagues for referrals for hospices in the area. I knew he wouldn’t recover for all of this. But I anticipated there would be months.
On April 9th, I woke up to a dozen missed calls. I called the hospital and the nurse said, “Oh…his nurse is with someone else. She will call you in ten minutes.”
I said, “Whoa. Wait. Is my father alive?”
“Oh…. yes. He is alive. He is fine.”
He was not fine. He was in such unbelievable pain and was telling me he couldn’t live like this anymore. As I booked an immediate flight to Missouri, I advocated like I never have before essentially begging them to help my father. I stayed firm and kind but I let them know I was on my way and I needed to see him comfortable when I arrived.
When I got here late at night on Thursday, I woke him up and we talked. We spent Friday together talking with the many specialists involved in his care. I strongly advocated for pain management so he could be comfortable enough to make decisions. Once he had some relief and was told there was nothing more to be done, he looked at me and said, “I’m ready to go to the big bingo hall in the sky, honey. I’m just done. It’s too much.” The doctor looked at us confused and I said, “This is classic Ron Howe. He is saying he wants comfort measures only.”
Once he was finally comfortable, I left to get some sleep. My brother drove from North Carolina to say goodbye after not seeing my dad for a decade and sat with him. I know that comforted them both. I returned early Friday morning. I sat by his bedside playing his favorite music, giving him massages, talking to him, holding his hand, and staying on top of his nurses to ensure they were keeping him comfortable.
When he was very close to dying, I had my kiddo FaceTime her grandpa to say goodbye. My amazing kiddo shared memories and love. After not saying anything other than “I love you too” to me hours earlier, he was trying to talk back to her - more responsive than he had been all day. After we hung up, I said, “I’m going to get a drink, Daddy, I’ll be right back.”
When I came back into the room, he wasn’t breathing.
I said, “That’s a pretty tricky move to die when I was gone, Daddy. I’m not stoked you did that.”
I got the nurse to come pronounce his death. After not hearing a heartbeat, she was standing up to tell me it was confirmed, when my father started breathing again. It startled us both. I burst out laughing. Then so did the nurse. My dad - always a prankster. I told the nurse, “He’s fucking with us all to the very end!”
I rubbed his chest telling him I love you while he took his last breath a few minutes later.
My father and I had a complicated relationship for most of my 49 years but we began a new one almost two years ago. Many painful and honest conversations, deep apologies, a commitment to radical honesty, and my willingness to forgive allowed for us to develop a new understanding of each other. He worked hard, as best as he could, to make a living amends for so much despite his own personal challenges and taking care of my mother.
I talked to him most days by phone or text. He loved to send my tween boxes of stuff he collected for her. They drove my husband and I crazy but they delighted her to no end. After he died, I was at his house and lifted up a jacket to fine one of his famous boxes in progress. My dad loved to send GIFs and emojis once I got him an iPhone last year. Without telling me why texting had become impossible, he started sending voice memos that cracked me up. Every voicemail he ever left ended with, “OH! This is your father.” He loved it when I would recommend a show or movie to him. He would watch immediately followed by a call or text to say, “Thanks for the referral!”which always made me laugh so hard.
He began to tell me every day how much he loved me and how proud he was of me. He carried my business cards with him passing them out to anyone he found out had kids. Then he would call me and say, “So I spoke to this woman in line at the pharmacy and gave her your card. She might be calling you. She’s struggling with her toddlers.” He read my weekly newsletter every week, followed up with me about it, and printed many of them off to hang on his wall. One night, he asked me if we could be Facebook friends and promised not to embarrass me. A couple of months later, he told me he read through all of my Facebook posts from the last 20 years and regretted not having known how amazing I was the whole time.
I had a very scary childhood with my dad and he did so much to right his wrongs over these last almost two years. I will be forever grateful for that.
While I have a brother, he hasn’t been and isn’t involved, so everything falls to me. I’m finding myself wavering between taking the next indicated step and not being able to breathe.
Bird by bird. One moment at a time.
Rest in peace, Daddy. You deserve it. I love you.
