Mr. Howard

Central Catholic senior Reyna Ramirez and John

We're lucky to teach, my husband John reminds me. Our GICC high school kids keep us young.

I like to think this is true. My students regularly introduce words to my vocabulary, like "lit" and "savage".  Not as in a lit lamp or a savage tiger but as in, "The homecoming dance was so lit, and the music was freaking savage."

Yeah. I'm hip.

Just lately, however, I feel old. It's because of John. One night in August, he wakes me at two a.m. to tell me he needs to be driven to the hospital.

"Something's wrong with my heart," he says.

There is not, incidentally, a more traumatic way to be jarred awake. If only he'd twist my bottom lip with a pair of pliers instead.

It's not a heart attack, the emergency doctor explains, but atrial fibrillation - a heart arrhythmia which, left untreated, can result in stroke - just like all the commercials say. He instructs us to see John's doctor immediately.

In the space of a few hours, life has become considerably less certain, and on the way home, my exhausted husband is lost in thought.

"This is the first time I ever thought about my own mortality," he says at last.

I don't say anything. I never remember a day I didn't think about dying. That's the kind of happy-go-lucky girl I am. Still, how can the idea never have occurred to him?

Not only does John suffer from atrial fib, his doctor informs us, but a sleep test indicates severe obstructive sleep apnea. In other words, John stops breathing for periods of time during his sleep.

John, Tommy and Kenny

Just like that, I'm in panic mode. In the predawn hours with all senses alert, I intently listen to John's breathing as he sleeps and frequently reach across the bed to feel his pulse.

"I'm not dead," he growls.

Things are fine now. A surgical procedure and blood thinners keep everything in rhythm, and John straps on a CPAP mask every night to help him breathe. It's like sleeping with Darth Vader. I confess to a certain titillation at the thought.

The truth is I've taken him for granted these last 35 years. He knows where the main water valve is, how to fix the garbage disposal, and catches every spider in the palm of his bare hand. True, John's a huge grouch. In reality, however, underneath that rough 6 foot 8 exterior is the heart of an even bigger grouch.

When he came to Central Catholic all those years ago, Mr. Howard created quite a sensation. Bigger and louder than anybody the kids had ever seen, he taught the Industrial Revolution wearing a giant fake nose and glasses and pulled rubber chickens out of his desk. One morning, late for class, he tried to scare his American history class by explosively leaping through the door. But when you're 6 feet 8, you shouldn't leap through anything. Slamming his head against the door jamb, he nearly knocked himself out.

The kids liked him, and so did I. Very soon I loved him, and the next thing I knew we were married with two little boys. He's raised Kenny and Tommy with the same loud and loving discipline he's used to teach two generations of kids, and every day for the last 35 years he's made me laugh. Except for the days I have a migraine or I'm so mad I could scratch his eyes out. Truthfully, adapting to his sarcastic humor took a little getting used to, but I'm almost immune to it now.

The Howard family, 1962. Top row from left: Bill Howard,
Jim, John, Dave. Bottom row from left: Ruth Howard holding
Mary, Julie, Cliff and Tom

Once, when we're first dating, he tells me about the favorite childhood game he and his close-knit little tribe of six siblings used to play on the family farm in Colorado.

"We had more fun dressing up as our favorite Renaissance authors," he muses nostalgically.

My jaw drops. He's the smartest person I've ever known. Shoot, maybe they really did.

They did not. This, like the story of the life size statue of himself the old high school erects in his honor, is part of his demented humor.

Just before Halloween this year, I bring home bags and bags of candy - because John loves Halloween.

"I'm stashing this stuff in the garage," I scold, "so don't you dare get into it before Halloween."

Napping with the cats

A few days later, he comes to me shaking his head.

"Bad news," he tells me. "We have a mice infestation. They ripped right into that Halloween candy - a feeding frenzy." He turns to walk briskly into the house. "I'll call the exterminator right away."

He knows damn well I got into that candy.

Just once I wish he'd let me get away with something.

The dirty little secret about Mr. Howard, however, is really not a secret at all. Eventually, just like I did, his students begin to adore him. He teases them unmercifully, shames them for taking shortcuts, and forces them to practice self-reflection. But he's also a  rock solid presence in their lives. When things get tough - parents divorce, grandparents die - Mr. Howard is there. The kids know it, our boys know it, and I know it.

I remember that he spent three nights with me in the hospital after my double mastectomy. When the nurse removed the bandages for the first time to examine my chest, John leaned over to look and said, "Looks good, Cath."

How can you not love a man like that?

I'm glad he's back to his old self again - concocting new soups, teasing the cats, and messaging our boys in Colorado after the failed performances of his beloved Denver Broncos.

Cathy, John, Tommy, Kenny, daughter-in-law Savanna
and Luna the Dog

"The Broncos are dead to me!" he hisses.

These are the things I don't take for granted any more. I savor his caustic humor and love hearing him bellow joyfully at his students all the way across Central Catholic's first floor. Most of all, I love that he's utterly mean to me. The way he feigns shock that I've eaten the last piece of corn bread or does his dead-on impression of the way I discipline the cats makes me laugh until my stomach aches. When John's mean to me, I know what he's really saying is that he loves me.

This week, two days after Thanksgiving, Mr. Howard will turn 65.

I suppose that means we're old, although I'm only 63 which technically makes me a trophy wife. But I don't feel especially old.

John doesn't feel old either. Every day, rain or shine, he walks four miles.  With unrelenting discipline, he heads to the gym three times a week to lift weights and smothers his healthy bran cereal in disease-fighting blueberries. Just the same, his health scare suddenly makes the passing years feel precious. For the first time, we talk about living wills and funeral plans.

"You can cremate me," I say, "but don't scatter me all over the yard. I want to be in a cemetery - in sacred ground."

He snorts. "You won't know the difference."

"I most certainly will!" I snap. "And another thing. I'd like to have you next to me."

He considers this.

"Deal," he finally says. "But if you go first, I'm burying you in the old cemetery."

I am about to argue that the old cemetery is full to capacity.

"Because," he raises a finger, "that's where I walk, and I'd like to be able to sit with you every evening to tell you about my day."

I hate it when he's nice. It means he's been thinking about things, too. Like all long married couples, we look back on our lives hardly believing the lightning speed in which our children have grown up and we've grown old. How can it all have happened so quickly?

Thankfully, John's heart is in good shape again. Though we're a good deal wiser, we nevertheless look forward to finishing our teaching careers one day and enjoying a fruitful retirement. I fully expect the two of us will shuffle on for another 20 years or so. We can do it - even with arthritic knees and cholesterol medication and blood thinners.

What are a few aches and pains compared to a long stroll on a beautiful day? I don't mind a bit.

As long as John is beside me.