Kelly Conway - My Dads Funnier Than Your Dad: Growing Up with Tim Conway in the Funniest House in America

I HAD JUST POURED A CUP OF COFFEE WHEN A TEXT LIT UP ON MY PHONE. It was from my friend Jill in New York. Hey, Jill wrote. Are you okay?

I sat down at the counter. Yeah, Im good, I typed back. Just getting dressed. Whats up?

Im on-set in the middle of a wardrobe fitting, Jill wrote. But my assistant just told me. Im so sorry about your dad. Ill call you as soon as I can.

I stared at the message. So sorry about your dad? After a moment, I clicked on a national news site. On the front page, there was a picture of my dad, with a headline under it. Comedy legend Tim Conway, dead at 85.

The words hit me like a blow to the stomach. I couldnt breathe. I had just seen my dad the day before and was getting ready to visit him again that morning. But now he was gone.

The phone vibrated on the counter. Suddenly, calls and messages began pouring in as friends from all over the world learned the news.

My stepmother, Charlene, didnt bother to inform me of my fathers death when it happened. I hadnt had the comfort of a few hours, or even a few minutes, to process the news privately before the rest of the world knew about it. My dads life had ended in a nursing home only a few miles from my friend Beths condo in Sherman Oaks, where I was staying in order to be closer to him. The condo was so close I could have walked there. But it took a friend two thousand miles away to tell me that he had passed away.

It seemed like my tears would never stop. Had someone been with my dad when he died? Was anyoneCharlene, or Mena, his gentle, kind caregiverholding his hand as he drew his last breath? When my dads spirit parted from his body, was he alone? I would never know.

The phone rang and rang but I shoved it away. Outside, a cold wind swayed the palm trees against a gray sky. In the past few weeks, I had taken to wearing an old sweater of my dads, a slightly frayed cashmere crewneck, and had pulled it on that very morning. Sobbing, I wiped my tears with the cuff. It still smelled like him.

Over the past year Id watched helplessly as the father I loved succumbed to a terminal illness. Many people who have lost a loved one to a progressive disease compare it to an abduction. For me, there had been another kind of theft outside of my dads illness. My stepmother, Charlene, had denied me any say in my fathers care for the last year of his life. I had been prevented from visiting him, accused of theft, physically attacked, and repeatedly lied to. Ultimately, I would take my fight for my dad to court, and in the process, lose part of a family that I had loved. What had been a close and loving thirty-year relationship with Charlene, and my stepsister, Jackie, was shattered beyond repair. All because I wanted to help my dad suffer less. How had it come to this? It is a question that still haunts me.

I had spent those final, precious visits with my dad, holding his hand and talking to him. We would watch his favorite shows on television, and I would tell him about my daythe errands I was going to run, or a job I was thinking of taking. I patted his face with a cool, damp washcloth when the room felt too warm or pulled up the blanket when it was cool. I just wanted to be close to him.

In those last weeks, leaving my dad after a visit was like getting my heart broken over and over. Whenever I said the words, Okay, Dad, I have to go now, but I will see you tomorrow, he would instantly dissolve into heaving sobs. No amount of reassurance could console him. Dad! Id exclaim, wrapping my arms around him and trying to hide my tears in his chest. I promise I will be back tomorrow. It took every ounce of strength to leave him, and I often stayed past my allotted visitation time because I couldnt bear to walk out of the room. The fear of angering Charlene and being thrown out by security guards didnt faze me; all I wanted was for Dad to know that it was okay because I would be there with him again the next morning.

The first time Dad cried as I was leaving, Id just assumed it was part of the illness.

Im sure he does this when anyone from the family leaves, Id said to Mena, his caregiver.

No, Mena replied, shaking her head. He only cries when you leave.

When I had left him yesterday, with my assurances that Id be back again the next day, did Dad know it was the last time wed see each other? Did he know that he was leaving this world?

I stood up, rubbing the tears from my face. It was time to pull myself together and take charge where I still could. I had my five brothers to think about. I needed to reach out to them before they heard the news in the same cold and dispassionate way that I had. I also needed to reassure my friends that I was okay so they wouldnt worry.

I felt an impulse to go over to the nursing homepart of me needed to see that my dad was really gonebut there was no point in going over there now. I knew I didnt want to see my stepmother or stepsister, but I did want to play some role in helping to memorialize my father, something to share a little of the kind, loving, and funny man who had raised me.

Then I remembered the Willie Nelson song.

Angel Flying Too Close to the Ground had hit the country airwaves in 1981. Willie sang it with tremulous emotion against a background of weepy steel guitar. One day Dad and I were riding in the car when the song came on the radio. Dad had turned it up as we drove down Ventura Boulevard in the Valley. When the song finished, he looked over at me. Thats the song that I want to be played at my funeral.

Dad was just forty-eight years old at the time. The idea of him having a funeral seemed as likely as his flying to the moon.

Dad! I said. I cant believe youre talking about your funeral.

Thats the song I want to be played at my funeral, he repeated solemnly.

I was a teenager and thought the song was just silly. And the idea of Dad wanting it played at his funeral was mortifying. I stared at the side of his face, waiting for him to crack a smile to show he was joking. Oh, sure, I scoffed. Because you are such an angel, right?

Dad didnt blink. Im serious, he said. You have to play it at my funeral.

I rolled my eyes and looked out the window. Okay, Dad. I promise we will play Angel Flying or whatever it is at your funeral.

I thought that was the end of it, just one of Dads many jokes that came with the territory of being his kid. But later, I realized that he was serious.

Heres my song, hed say whenever it came on the radio, which was a lot that year. Remember, when I go, this is the song I want to be played at my funeral.

I picked up my phone, not knowing who to call first. Plans for Dads memorial were probably already in motion, and I had to let Charlene and Jackie know immediately about the song. Id promised Dad so many years ago, and I would make it happen. It was so perfect.

But I paused, knowing that my calls would go unanswered. I was the oldest of my fathers six kids, and his only daughter, but I would have no say in the decisions about his funeral.

I spent the day making phone calls to friends and family. I spoke with my brother Tim, who also lived in Los Angeles, while my brothers Patrick, Jamie, Corey, and Seann prepared to come into town. Even as we made arrangements to gather, we were completely in the dark. Only when Charlene decided to inform us would we know when the funeral would occur and if we were even invited.

Beth sat with me as I cried in between phone calls. She brought me plates of food and tried to get me to eat. I was so thankful that Beth was there with me because being alone on that day would have been unbearable.

By the time dusk fell, I was exhausted from tears and talking. I went into my room and crawled under the covers, still wearing Dads sweater. Without the distraction of phone calls, I had no choice but to face the deep, dark hole that Dads passing had opened within me.