Missing Howard

My stepfather's sudden death has rocked me to my core

I posted an official goodbye to my stepfather Howard Katz on Instagram yesterday. But I wanted to share my innermost thoughts here.

It’s morning in Arizona and I’m in the kitchen where Howard should be — always was — and he’s not here. I walked in when I woke up early to my mom sitting alone having coffee — and I burst into tears. Not that Howard would’ve been up this early, but his mug is empty by the coffee maker, his phone and watch on the counter. But he’s not coming back.

I open the fridge to get milk for my coffee and the plate my mom always has ready for him for breakfast, a Saran Wrapped melon and berries ready to go, or a bagel or muffin by his seat, aren’t there.

It’s dark out and all I can hear is my own crying.

I’ve been sobbing so much since the moment I found out that now I have to grip my throat it’s so raw. It’s embarrassing. I can’t seem to control it. My mom isn’t a big crier, nor is my daughter. So the three of us hug in the dark as the Keurig spouts and only I am sobbing. I apologize for the drama as I cry, knowing, of course, this is not about me. I’m supposed to be here for my mom. I don’t mean to be selfish. But I just can’t stop. It floods me.

I’m typing on the kitchen counter now and his reading glasses are right next to me, the thick black cord wrapped around them. How will he never wear them again? How is this possible? The words on the screen blur as my eyes fill again. I need to get a handle on this.

Yesterday on the plane to Arizona with my daughter, I went through every picture of “Howie” on my phone — the “search by name” found 1,167 which I then uploaded to a shared family album. I went through each one and texted the best shots to the people he was with. Holding my younger son as a baby. Making silly selfie faces with my younger daughter, their tongues out, their eyes crossed, laughing. Playing baseball in the backyard with my older son when he was three. Having a serious conversation with my older daughter and her doll, age six.

There were hundreds of him and my mom. In the early mornings reading the paper. Decked in black tie at night. Always in sync. And so many family photos of all of us. Gosh, he was everywhere. He didn’t miss a single moment for any grandchild. Every play, every graduation, every important and not-so-important moment, he was there. Smiling.

“Hey, kid,” he’d say. Always followed by a compliment.

I’m grateful there was no pain. My mom and Howard mostly live in Arizona now. They sold their New York apartment just this year which we all collectively said goodbye to, a group photo captured us all in front of the boxes. But they spent summers in the Hamptons. Howard basically lived at the Atlantic golf club. Someone called my mom yesterday to tell her the flag flying in front of the stately clubhouse was now flying at half-mast for Howard. It was one of the times she lost it.

They’d come back to Arizona the day before. We’d all just said goodbye to them for the season. They’d come to our home for Rosh Hashanah and break fast. The last thing I said to Howard as we hugged was, “Be safe,” always worried they’d get into a plane crash or a car accident. You never know. But it didn’t occur to me that they would arrive in Arizona and he would be gone the next day.

When my mom called me and I answered from the student center of my son’s family weekend at boarding school, I couldn’t hear anything so assumed she’d accidentally called me which had been happening quite often.

But then she called again a few minutes later from the hospital, hysterical, and told me. I slid on the floor and sobbed. I won’t go into the ugliness of my reaction, Kyle and me together wailing. Somehow, hours later, I helped my mom finally leave the hospital, on the phone with her as she unlocked the car and slid in, holding his clothes. Somehow, we all made flights to get to her. My brother, closest by, was here within hours, thank goodness.

Everything felt like walking through sludge. I kept saying, “My brain isn’t working right now.” I know that’s what happens to me during grief, a typical response, where only about 10% of my executive function works. I slept in my clothes and wore the same thing all the next day — until I got here. Basic functions seem impossible.

Our family is all arriving today and tomorrow to spend a couple days together, an informal goodbye. My mom isn’t ready to plan the service in New York, so I’m going to hopefully take care of it shortly. I’ve convinced her that others want to honor his memory and we’d be robbing them of a way to pay their respects if we didn’t organize something. Howard had a zillion fans. And he loved a party.

Somehow, I’m going to get through this because we all get through everything. But this is different. Howard is part of my immediate family. My phone’s home screen is a photo we took late this summer, laughing: Howard, my mom, Kyle, the kids and me on the staircase. I can’t believe he’s gone.

I know he’s not my “blood” relative and I’m super close to my own “real” dad too, but for anyone who doesn’t have a step-anything, it doesn’t matter one bit. It’s love. Love doesn’t need a DNA test. I do know his daughters are the ones more entitled to be sad. His grandsons. His “real” family. So I defer to them. But he is as real to me as anything, with my mom every moment, a constant, soothing, delightful presence for 30 years. God, we were so lucky. How is that chapter over?

I’m supposed to open my pop-up Tuesday in New York and see lots of people. I may try to do it if I can even get home in time. But I don’t know how I’ll pull off public events. Maybe it’ll be “easier” when I’ve left their home in Arizona. But then, what about my mom? She’s busy, she says. She has so many plans this week, she couldn’t possibly come back with me, though I offered. But how can I leave her? She says she isn’t alone; she has so many friends here and Murphy, her beloved puppy who she refers to as my “brother.” But how?

I’ve been saying “never again” a lot lately. But now, as the hostages are about to get released and unfettered joy and relief are primed like a champagne cork worldwide, I’m feeling the “never again” of all the things we won’t get to do with Howard. The graduations. The dinners. How he was always there, no matter how late, to pick us up at the airport. The quiet moments at home. All of it.

He should be sitting in his favorite chair, TV on, as I write this. But the chair is upright. Empty. My mom is puttering around, hyper-functional as always. And I am doing what I know helps me. Writing. Sharing. My tears have ebbed as I’ve typed. My sobbing subdued. What can you do to help? You just did. Thank you.