A Life Well Lived

Remembering my Uncle Ronnie

Always smiling.

My uncle, Ron Scovill, passed away on January 18th after a year-long illness.

It is hard to think of “Uncle Ronnie” in the past tense, as he was such an instrumental part of my life. Although it was difficult to say goodbye, I know he is in a better place, one free of pain.

Uncle Ronnie was not technically my uncle (his wife Linda and my mom are first cousins and best friends) but for all intents and purposes, he fit the bill. He was there at my baptism, my confirmation, and all my childhood birthday parties. He went with us to Boston Red Sox games and on family road trips to visit my sister in Washington D.C.

Once I moved back to Connecticut, my family never went more than a couple months without seeing Linda and Ronnie, taking turns hosting one another at our homes. These visits were a happy constant in a life of change.

---

Uncle Ronnie was a man of service, active in his church, the Knights of Columbus, and the Enfield, Connecticut community where he lived. He would always help anyone who needed a hand. I’m fairly certain he knew everyone in town.

Uncle Ronnie also loved sports. It helped our relationship that he liked all the teams I liked — Uconn basketball, Boston College football, the Boston Red Sox, and New England Patriots — although somehow he was also a Dallas Cowboys fan. (A bridge too far for me.)

There were many qualities I admired in him, all of which I try — not always successfully — to emulate. He had a cheerful disposition and a positive outlook. He had a deep faith that shined through all aspects of his life. And he was always smiling.

But perhaps my favorite quality was his laugh — it was one of those piercing, Santa Clause-esque laughs that shook the entire house and made it impossible not to laugh yourself.

His laughter was often borne of mischief. I distinctly remember the time in 2004 when we visited my sister in D.C., where she was attending college. Uncle Ronnie had walked off to check out a nearby restaurant. When he came back, he walked up to my parents and I, holding a paper menu that was partially folded over. Lo and behold, he opened the menu and presented us with a big giant cicada that had landed on the paper. I almost dry-heaved. (I realllly hate cicadas.)

He bellowed a laugh that still rings in my ears to this day.

---

Uncle Ronnie’s positive nature was all the more remarkable given the tragedies he endured in life. Linda and Ronnie had three children — Ron (“Little Ronnie”), Kelli, and Laurie. In 2008, Little Ronnie passed away suddenly at 42. Then, five years later, their youngest daughter, Laurie, died at 41 after a brief illness. Although devastating, their spirit never broke.

It’s their relationship with Laurie that stays with me the most. Laurie had spina bifida and used a wheelchair from the time I was born. My earliest memory of Laurie came when I was a toddler. I was running around the Scovill house like a maniac and nearly got steamrolled by her chair coming around the corner. (Lesson learned: don’t run in the hallway.)

The Scovills were my earliest example of disability inclusion. Linda, Ronnie, and her older siblings cared for Laurie’s every need and never perceived her as anything other than a full member of society, at a time when that wasn’t always the norm. They went everywhere together as a family unit, from the movie theater to cross-country road trips.

Linda and Ronnie drove one of the original wheelchair vans — a big bulky Dodge Ram that looked more like a small bus. Every time the ramp unfurled from the side door, I thought how cool it was to see that feature on a van, not knowing that someday I would need one too.

When I began the transition to using a wheelchair — which happened five years after Laurie’s passing — I struggled to explain life in a chair to those closest to me. It is a subject I am still much more comfortable writing about than verbalizing. But Linda and Ronnie understood, having lived it every day as caregivers. When Uncle Ronnie asked questions about the inner workings of my chair — the way the wiring was coiled underneath the control panel, the durability of the armrests, the range of motion of the tilt feature — I knew where he was coming from.

Some people are uncomfortable asking about my wheelchair, so they stick to boilerplate questioning, such as how fast it can go or if I’ve ever run over someone’s foot. (8 mph and no, in case you were wondering.) With Uncle Ronnie, however, his questions were always practical, derived from a genuine depth of curiosity that only an electrician dad of a wheelchair user would think to ask. Wheelchair designs had progressed since Laurie’s day, and he marveled at the features that are now available in today’s chairs.

I was always happy to answer his questions.

---

The last time we saw Uncle Ronnie was last November, a few days before he was back in the hospital. It was his final stretch of good health. Although it was surreal to see him using assistive aids to get around — considering that he used to be in the best shape of anyone in our family — seeing him smiling and laughing and eating a full meal was a miracle in itself.

After lunch, while my parents and Linda cleaned up in the kitchen, I sat with Uncle Ronnie for fifteen minutes in the living room. It was just the two of us. As we talked, he eased into his recliner, tilting it back to help dissipate the pain.

We discussed a variety of topics, from the visitors who came to see him in the last month to the sorry state of Uconn football. “Well, at least it’s almost basketball season,” he said with his trademark bellowing laugh, made all the more remarkable given that I could see he was in significant discomfort.

Our conversation eventually shifted to my newsletter. He was interested in hearing about my writing process and how it was going.

“It’s going well,” I said. “I haven’t run out of topics to write about yet, which is a good thing.”

“I read it every week,” he said. “Keep at it.”

---

That conversation was the last time I talked to Uncle Ronnie. His health took a turn soon after, and even though we all knew it was only a matter of time, his passing still felt too soon. It always feels too soon.

Ronnie passed away on January 18th, eleven years to the day of Laurie’s passing. It’s one of those incomprehensible life coincidences. For Linda, Kelli, and the grandkids, January 18th was already a difficult day. And now it’s twice as hard. Of all days, that day.

Another coincidence I can’t wrap my head around is what happened after. For 36 hours that coincided perfectly with the wake and the funeral, I was horribly sick. I hadn’t been sick in five years. My stomach and back were in so much pain that I couldn’t sit up. I couldn’t sleep. I ran a fever. And then, just like that, I was better.

I still feel guilty that my illness kept us from being able to support Linda and grieve with the extended family. But if there’s any solace, it’s that our final memory of Uncle Ronnie was that special November afternoon.

As I type this, I can still hear his laugh. I will always hear it. And when I do, I know that he’s never far away.