My Friend Dick

It’s five a.m., and in an hour, I am leaving for the airport to fly to Florida from Virginia to visit my friend Barb. Three weeks ago, Barb’s husband, Dick, passed away suddenly, and both Barb and I, and so many others, are devastated by this loss. Like Barb, Dick was also a close friend of mine. They are so well known to me that I actually wrote a book, The House of Life, about their lives. It was published 10 years ago, in 2016. I had spent the two years working on the book - researching, recording stories, reaching out to friends and acquaintances of theirs, while also visiting them often at both their homes in Ft Lauderdale and in Cyvadier, Haiti. During those years, I did the work of writing drafts and re-writing drafts with a sense of urgency, because I never knew how much time Dick and Barb had left, and it was important to me that they see the book finished. Then, I thought it could be any time that they could go, both being in their late 70s. Today, I know a truth I never could have known back then. Dick had 10 more years, living to be 89 years old. And Barb — well, Barb is still here, six months shy of her 90th birthday, and I am grateful to get a chance to see her again.

At the start of this year, in January 2026, I had already planned on re-reading The House of Life for the 10th anniversary of its publication. I hadn’t opened the book since I turned in the final draft to the printer in August 2016. It had been my first attempt at long-form writing, and although a huge challenge to accomplish, one I felt honored to take on because I was enthralled by Dick and Barb’s story of how they started to work in Haiti and eventually built a medical clinic that helps thousands of Haitian patients every year who otherwise would go without any medical care. I look forward to my planned re-read, knowing it would offer the time to reminisce about so sitting around their kitchen table in Coconut Creek, Florida, where they resided, drinking coffee in the morning, which turned into tuna salad and crackers at lunch that Barb prepared, and then beers at night, which I helped myself to from their fridge, making sure Barb’s was poured first into her favorite plastic beer stein mug.

During those visits, Dick and Barb took turns recounting stories for more than 40 years of traveling to Haiti, first when Dick went as a deacon with the Catholic Church in the early 80s, then later as a layperson to establish medical mission trips and start to build a clinic, an improbable feat for an American in Haiti. Barb always supported the work he was doing, first by staying home in Peoria, Illinois, to take care of their 5 kids and the house, then by fundraising so they could afford to complete the construction. In 1991, they established their own nonprofit organization, Friends of the Children of Haiti, and then spent their retirement working in the country. Barb spent her time cooking for medical volunteers and organizing patient dossiers; Dick oversaw general clinic operations.

And then there were the serene days we shared together at the clinic in Cyvadier, where their other kitchen table served the same purpose for us – a place to gather, eat, drink, tell stories, ask questions, record and document, write and re-write. As they talked, I always tried to visualize what they were telling me – the ground rumbling and the clinic shaking voilently during the January 2010 earthquake, what the blueprints of the three story clinic looked like as Dick analyzed them with his Haitian construction supervisor, what Barb’s face must have looked like when she saw Dick after he had fainted and fell down the stairs at the clinic, hitting his head, laying limp and unresponsive on the tile floor. I felt the heat in Haiti so intensely during those days, sitting around with them, sweat on my brow and upper lip. So many of their stories brought chills to my body, and made me realize how special they were because so many other people - much younger people! - would have given up and gone home. But not Dick and Barb. They always had hope in what they were doing. They knew they would never leave Haiti permanently until their bodies would no longer allow them to be there.

I hadn’t started my much-anticipated re-read before I got the call that Dick had passed away, peacefully at home with his children and Barb by his side. I was infinitely sad thinking about never being able to talk to him again, never being able to hear one more of his stories, even if it was one I had heard so many times before. I wanted another recount of how Dick recruited volunteers to come to Haiti with him, with little promise of more than a place to stay and a location to work. I wanted one more story about the challenges of shipping supplies into Haiti, or the difficulties of ordering materials to build the clinic. I wanted to hear once again about Dick getting stuck with a flat tire on a mountainside with no phone and no other option than to walk miles downhill to the nearest town, carrying a sick young boy on his back. I wanted to hear Dick say my name again with his loud, booming voice. I wanted to hear him laugh. He had the best laugh.

After hearing of Dick’s passing, I finally did start reading my book again, but not in the leisurely manner I had anticipated. I found myself reading with urgency, but not with the same kind of urgency I had before when I was writing the book. This urgency felt different. Now, I desperately need to know if I have done Dick and Barb justice in telling their story. I urgently needed to understand, to feel, that I had written their story well enough to honor Dick’s legacy now that he was gone. As I read and got further into the book, it seemed that each chapter was tragically short and missing so much detail, so many emotions. I could have described so many more moments. I could have quoted Dick more often. If only I had known, I would have had 10 more years with them, then I would have written so much more. Another 235 pages. Another book’s worth of stories. I just have to tell myself that I did my best not knowing, because one thing we don’t know is how much time we have, so I must keep telling myself that it was better to act as though there was no time than as if there was infinite time, because there certainly is not.

As I write this, I have one more chapter left to read, and I plan on it at Dick and Barb’s home, while sitting next to Barb, her in her chair, and me in Dick’s chair in their office, where they spent a lot of their time relaxing. I plan on making her dinner and helping her get to and from her bedroom. I plan on asking her to tell me stories again, even ones I have heard so any time before. We can’t have Dick back, but Barb is still here for now, and I will finish reading their story without urgency, without doubt, because, no matter how much we miss Dick, we still have Barb now, and I will always have the memories of our time together, and I will always have their story to read whenever I want, just as it is. And — I have to keep telling myself - I can always write more.