A Carlin Home Companion (35 page)

But, by the end of my six-month training, I'd met enough instructors who'd done the leadership course, which was a requirement for them, that I knew I wanted what they had—a graceful command of themselves and the space around them. They all were down-to-earth and yet able to inspire, challenge, and keep a roomful of diverse people on track.

They all told me that doing the leadership course had changed their lives. Many said, “It changed my DNA.” Although I loved most of my DNA, there were a few parts I could do without. Like the part that could never accept that I was good enough, and believed that if I ever accepted that, I would probably die, or the planet would implode, or something else just as unlikely. Yeah, that part could definitely use a change, and so I wanted in.

Plus I just knew that completing this course would help me figure out how to implement my big life plan. It wasn't a “Danny Kaye plan,” but it was a vision I had for my future—leading workshops, public speaking, maybe a documentary or theater piece, while upholding the Carlin way. Basically, if I could stand on a stage, use the word “cocksucker,” and change the world, I'd be a happy woman. I knew the leadership course could give me the courage, a plan, and support to do all that.

To complete Leadership there was a required high-ropes course component. I was deathly afraid of heights, so I figured that if I could climb up a tree, I'd finally conquer that last little something in me that held me back. And if I could do that, then just maybe I could change the world. But first I had to change myself, and that is how I found myself crying like a baby at the bottom of this tree, not giving a flying fuck about changing anything except Patrick's resolve to get me up that tree.

As my fellow Leadership tribe members (we were the “Wolves”) patiently waited while I worked out my issues, I once again looked all the way up that tree, and knew that if I didn't at least try to climb it, I'd hate myself forever. Patrick patiently asked again, “How far up?”

“Um … to … um … to touch the platform?”

“Great! And when you touch the platform,” he asked patiently, “may I then ask you if you are willing to go further?”

“Sure,” I answered, knowing full well what he was up to, and not liking it at all. “I mean that's what I pay you the big bucks for, right?” Everyone laughed. I looked over at the four people holding the ropes attached to the harness around my body and said, “Belay team, are you ready?”

In unison they smiled and said, “Ready!”

I grabbed the first peg, and before I knew it, I'd climbed up thirty-five feet to the bottom of the platform. I was shocked at how easy it had been. My body clearly knew what to do even though my mind had screamed in protest.

Once up there, I realized that I'd definitely not be happy if I just stopped there.

“You okay?” Patrick shouted up.

“Yes,” I answered, understanding what had stopped me from starting the climb—I couldn't see a clear path of pegs to the platform. I shouted down to Patrick, “How do I get onto the platform?”

“There's a peg to your left,” he said. “Grab that, and then climb up, and you'll be level with it.” All of a sudden I was standing on the platform. Wow! Amazing. There was just one problem. I was now facing the tree, my arms in a death grip around it. I was in a panic because this platform was not a luxurious space to spend a sunny afternoon picnicking on. It was practically nonexistent. It was barely bigger than my pair of hiking boots now standing on it. Terrified, I was sure I was going to die. This is why I wanted to yell, “FUCK YOU!” down to Patrick. But I had more pressing issues, like turning around. I had no idea how to do that. This simple action that I'd been doing perfectly well for almost forty-four years, now completely eluded me. My mind was blank.

“Patrick, how do I turn around?”

“Turn both your feet to the right,” he said.

Aha! Yes. And so I did. I was now looking out into the most beautiful redwood forest. I was
in
the forest. I
was
the forest. If it hadn't been for the terror-induced adrenaline racing through my veins, I might even have described it as magical.

“What's your name?” Patrick asked next. It was part of the exercise—to claim “who you were” to the trees. Yeah, we were in California.

Without missing a beat, I said, “My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” The whole group cracked up. I smiled and relaxed.

“My name is Kelly Marie Carlin McCall!” For a moment I felt as big as the forest around me.

But then came the next moment of truth. I had to walk the plank that was in front of me and jump off it. Once again my mind was blank, and my feet wouldn't move. I began to wonder how I might get down without having to jump off the end of that plank. Maybe they could just lower me?

I looked down at Patrick, and my new friends holding the rope and cheering me on, and said, “Patrick?”

“Yes, Kelly?”

“My fear, right in this moment—my fear, it's just an illusion, right? I mean, it just isn't real, is it?”

“Yes, Kelly, right in this moment, your fear is just an illusion. You are perfectly safe.”

I am perfectly safe even though my mind is having a shit fit. My mind is full of shit
, I thought.

And so I inched my right foot forward and spontaneously began to sing, “Oh Lord won't you buy me a Mercedes Benz? My friends all drive—” I have no idea why I sang that. But as long as I focused on singing the song, my fear couldn't paralyze me. And so I let Janis Joplin sing me out to the end of that plank inch by inch. And when I got to the end, I leaped into the empty space with everything I had. It felt like the most elegant swan dive ever done. When I saw video of it later, I laughed. I looked more like a sack of potatoes falling off the end. But I had done it. I had conquered my fears. I felt transformed.

I did indeed feel like my DNA had changed.

By the fall of 2007 I was at the end of my leadership course and was excited by what lay ahead of me. Three master coaches had asked me to learn their models of coaching, and invited me to colead workshops with them. I'd be making some money, traveling, and doing the transformational work I wanted to do.

On top of that I had decided on my next creative project—a documentary called
Waking from the American Dream.
The title of the project had been inspired by my father's quote, “It's called the American Dream because you have to be asleep to believe in it.” I'd heard him say it during the taping of
Life Is Worth Losing
a few years back, and the title had just popped into my mind. I hoped to travel around America with Bob, filming ordinary people talking about their American Dreams. We'd also discuss the evolution of business, education, and financial institutions with thought leaders and innovators. I wanted to find out if there was a way to wake from the myth so that my generation and future generations had something we could believe in, going forward. My dad may have given up on the planet, but I was only forty-four, and still needed something to live toward.

Leadership had allowed me to feel like there was more of me present in the world. I now had access to an infinite amount of inner knowing, strength, and love to move forward.

I didn't know it, but boy, was I going to need it!

*   *   *

Sometime in the fall of 2007, Dad and Sally went to New York City to consult with some heart specialists about his heart failure. It was getting more complicated to manage, and his blood pressure oscillated dangerously. He now carried a machine to measure it while he was on the road.

While there, Sally secretly called me to say that she was really worried about him. He was refusing to get out of bed, having trouble breathing, and sleeping a lot. She wasn't sure if these New York doctors were helping him. She thought it might be depression, or a side effect of the medication, but she wasn't sure. I called him to check in, and could tell right away that something was up.

Trying to sound casual, I asked, “Hey Dad, how are things? You feeling any better?”

“I'm okay,” he replied curtly.

I continued cautiously. “I was talking to Sally earlier, and she said—well, she's a little worried about you.”

“I'm fine,” he said, sounding like he had no interest in talking to me.

The conversation continued this way for another few minutes. I'd never heard him so cold and distant. He was usually a little brusque on the phone because he hated talking on it, but this was bordering on rude. Confused, I wondered if he was mad at me, but I couldn't figure out why.

And then I thought,
Maybe this is it
.

Maybe this is what the end looks like. He's dying. He's giving up
.

I gathered some courage and said, “I want to come see you, make sure everything is okay.” I was beginning to cry, but tried not to show it.

“No. I don't want you here. Do not come. I forbid you from coming,” he replied with a vehemence that knocked the breath out of me.

My heart shattered into a million thousand pieces.

My dad and I had certainly had moments of tension in the last few years, but he'd never spoken to me this way. Ever. I felt at sea, completely rejected. My throat and eyes stung, trying to hold back a tidal wave of tears.

“Well, okay. If that's what you want.” Not wanting to upset him any more, I signed off and hung up.

I'd never felt more alone in my life. Confused and panicked by this strange turn of events, I cried deeply for about an hour.

And then I got pissed.

How
dare
he! He might be dying, and he won't let me come and see him?
It wasn't like I was going to go to New York and fucking sit and stare at him lying in his bed all day. I just wanted to be in the city in case anything went wrong, and see with my own eyes what the hell was going on.

As the fire of rage flickered in my chest, something shifted inside me. A clarity surfaced. I saw that I could no longer accept his version of reality as the only version. His perspective about things was not infallible. Just because he was my dad, just because he was George Carlin, didn't make him god. I was not going to make myself wrong for caring about him and his condition, and for wanting to be with him. I allowed for the possibility that he might be wrong for not wanting that care. But still I did not get on a plane.

He came back to Los Angeles a few weeks later, seemingly recovered. His mood had lifted, life went on, and nothing was ever said about it again.

But from that day forward, I knew that every minute I got to spend with my dad would be taken from borrowed time—and I didn't know how much more time that was. All I wanted was to be with him and take in his essence. I wanted to implant in my mind and body what it was like to be in his presence so I could never forget what that felt like. It was such a powerful presence, I hoped it would linger in me forever. When I was with him, no matter what was going on between us, I felt whole. He was my DNA. He was my father. He was part of me.

We continued to see each other every six weeks or so over a breakfast, but it never felt like enough. Sally would encourage me to drop by whenever I wanted to, but that never worked. I tried it once, but Dad was tense and distracted the whole time I was there. Dad did not do spontaneous moments. He had his days mapped out, controlled.

I often thought,
I know we're running out of time; why doesn't he?
It was killing me. I began to consciously grieve his absence. I didn't want to be left emotionally unprepared like I had been with my mom. The only solace I could evoke to assuage the pain of not getting that time was thinking that maybe, unconsciously, he was preparing me for his permanent absence by pulling away. I began to see his lack of urgency to spend time with me as an act of love. Any other interpretation just hurt too much.

*   *   *

In March 2008, I went up to Santa Rosa to watch my dad tape his fourteenth HBO show,
It's Bad for Ya
. I thought it was one of his best shows in more than a decade. He let the “goofy George Carlin” show up again. He just seemed lighter and freer. Even the huge hunks he did on the dark topics of getting old and death were done without the anger and frustration he'd been expressing in the last few shows. I laughed with everyone else while he dismantled our culture's assumptions and euphemisms on the subject:

So, you know what I've been doing? Goin' through my address book, and crossing out the dead people. You do that? That's a lotta fun.… Gives you a feeling of superiority—to have outlasted another old friend. But you can't do it too soon. You know, you can't come running home
from the funeral
and get the book out [LEAFING THROUGH, MUMBLING]. You can't do that. A little time has to pass.… I have a rule of thumb: Six weeks. If you're a friend of mine and you're in my book, and you die, I leave you alone for an extra six weeks. Six extra weeks in the book, on the house, it's on me. But after that, Hey,
facts are facts, fuck you
, you're dead, PFTTT, FTT, FTT! Out ya fuckin' go!
We need the space!
You have to have standards: My standard, six weeks.

And another one:

This one happens after the funeral … Sooner or later, someone is bound to say this. Especially if he's had a couple of drinks: “You know, I think
he's up there now,
smiling down at us. And I think he's pleased.”

Now. First of all, there is no … “
up there
” … for people to be smiling … “
down from.
” It's quaint.
It's poetic.
And I imagine for superstitious people, it's vaguely comforting. But it doesn't exist. But … if it did. If it did. And if someone did, somehow, survive death in a nonphysical form, I, personally, think he'd be far too busy with other activities
than to be standing around Paradise
, smiling down … on live people. What kind of a fuckin' eternity is that?