A Carlin Home Companion (38 page)

After the meeting, Bob and I went to visit Sally to check up on her and to grab Dad's address book. I needed to call our extended family, and also wanted to reach out to some comics to invite them to the memorial.

Sally was inconsolable. I was very worried about her. She was in deep shock and could barely function. I understood. Even though I'd never lost my soul mate, I knew what she was feeling. When my mom died, it felt like a limb had been ripped from my body. She was part of the very fabric of my being. Dad and Sally had been attached at the hip for ten years. While he was on the road, he texted her constantly and called her numerous times a day. They were deeply enmeshed, just like my mom and I had been. I'm sure his absence and the silence was excruciating and terrifying for her.

I knew there was little I could say or do to ease her pain. Only time would do that. There was no bringing him back. There was only being with, and moving through, what was. I was doing my best to do that myself. I felt lucky I'd had some practice with all this from losing my mom. And although I may have looked from the outside like I was functioning, I, too, was gutted, of course, and had my own bucket of grief to shoulder. I knew I couldn't be the one to take care of her. I was grateful her family had come in from out of state to do just that.

Once I got back to my house, the adventures of my new surreal life continued. Garry Shandling called. Before my dad's death I'd known one or two comics, and that was only because they'd been my therapy clients. This daughter of comedy did not hang out at comedy clubs or even really follow comics' careers. I wasn't a comedy nerd. Now they were reaching out to me to ease my pain.

As I sat on my bathroom floor crying on the phone with Garry, it was clear he was as torn up about my dad's death as I was. We talked for more than thirty minutes, and it turned out that we had much in common. He too had been studying Buddhist philosophy for quite a while. Talking to him made me feel less alone. He was a wise soul, and his humor and insight steadied me. I invited him to the memorial.

Buoyed by my conversation with Garry, I called Lewis Black. He was a wreck, too. He was kind and gracious, and I instantly felt like I was talking to a long-lost friend. I thanked him for being on Larry King, and also invited him to the memorial.

We were all wrecks on the phone that day.

Then Richard Belzer called. He said he couldn't make it out to the memorial, but let me know that David Letterman wanted to do a tribute to my dad on the show, and had asked Richard to come on to talk about my dad and his work. I was so touched. And then he said to me, “Kelly, you are family. Your father meant the world to me, and you are now a part of my family. If there is anything I can do for you, call me. I am here.”

My father was gone, but I was not alone. I didn't have to fear falling down a rabbit hole of grief because these men were stretching out their hearts and declaring, We are here for you. I realized that these men were, in some ways, my father's other children. He had inspired, shaped, and determined their lives as much as he had shaped mine. They, too, were his heirs. I felt an instant kinship with them. They were my brothers and uncles. I felt a net of love and light catch me and carry me forward.

I had lost my father, but gained a family—a comedy family.

As I perused my dad's phone book trying to figure out whom else I needed to call for the memorial, I saw a number for Jon Stewart. Before I knew it, I was dialing the number. I expected an assistant.

A man's voice that sounded just like Jon Stewart answered. “Hello?”

“Jon?” I cautiously asked, realizing I'd gotten his private work number.

He said, “Yes?”

“This is Kelly Carlin, George's daughter.”

“Omigod. Kelly.”

I began to choke up as I said, “I just wanted to call to thank you for the tribute you did on your show last night.” Jon had taken a moment at the end of
The Daily Show
the night before to play a clip of my dad's work.

“Of course. Of course. I am—well, we are all—so torn up about it. It's just so shitty.” I could tell there was emotion in his voice.

“Yes, shitty, indeed.” Jon had done a brilliant interview with my dad in 1997 at the Aspen Comedy Festival that was part of the special
George Carlin: 40 Years of Comedy.
I knew my dad meant a lot to him. I continued, “We're having a memorial on Saturday. If you want, I want you to know that you are welcome to come.”

“I wish I could. I wish I could,” he said.

*   *   *

On Wednesday morning Sally called to tell me that a friend of hers was going to bring a trance-channeler over to her house to help her contact George, someone who claimed to be able to access realms beyond our human life. She wanted to know if I wanted to be there.

Now, in the past, my parents and I had done this kind of thing a bunch of times with a gentleman from Canada, Doug Cottrell. Doug is considered to be like Edgar Cayce—a medical intuitive who also tells you about your past lives and helps guide you through current life issues. To do this he goes into a trance and accesses what they call the Akashic records—a collection of knowledge supposedly stored in the astral plane. Mom often invited him to come down to stay with them for a week, and he'd do sessions there. Dad, ever the seeker, was open-minded about such things, and would have sessions with Doug, as would I. Over the years he'd helped me put my life in perspective. My mom had even witnessed him give people uncannily accurate medical diagnoses. But even though I was no stranger to this kind of thing, I was not up for it that week, and told Sally so. But, I thought, hoped, and prayed it might give Sally some solace, and I told her she should do it.

After the session Sally called me.

She said, “So your grandma Mary was the first person to greet him when he arrived. Your mom was there, too, in the background.” I laughed. I could see my mom, ever the producer, hovering in the background with a clipboard and a list of things for my dad to do. Sally continued, “And the first thing that George said was, ‘Oh, shit. Oh, fuck.'”

I nearly dropped the phone.

I told Sally what Jon had said to me on Sunday when he had contacted my dad, and how I'd laughed about it, but how it had also made me worry about him.

Sally continued, “Oh, but the channeler said that his, ‘Oh, shit. Oh, fuck,' weren't cries of pain or despair, but a comment on how amazing it all was. He couldn't believe how beautiful it was.”

I cried tears of joy. I sure hoped it was. I was comforted by the image.

*   *   *

After being busy and preoccupied all week with planning the memorial, Friday came sooner than I wanted. I was dreading it because it was the day we'd set aside to see Dad's body and say good-bye to him. Jerry, Patrick, Dennis, Sally, Theresa, and Bob and I all gathered at the funeral home. It was the same one we'd used for Mom. I thought,
Does this mean we now have a family mortuary?
Sitting in the waiting area, I was again reminded what a strange ritual this is. We were there to look at the dead body of a person we loved. As I looked at everyone's faces in the waiting room, I really understood the term “grief-stricken.” It was such a hell.

Each of us went into the room where we would have our personal good-byes with Dad. Patrick put a nice fat joint in Dad's pocket—a little something to ease his way. As I sat waiting for my turn, I was very worried about Sally. She looked completely unraveled. I wasn't sure if she'd slept or eaten in days. She said that she wasn't sure she could go in and say good-bye. Looking at her, I wasn't sure if she could either, but still I encouraged her to do so. I knew it would be the hardest thing she'd ever do in her life, but if she didn't do it, she'd regret it. That much I was sure of.

Because I had grieved my mother's death already, I knew how important it was to say our good-byes at these times. It begins the healing process.

When Sally finally went in, I was startled by the wail of grief that came out of her. It was unnerving. I immediately regretted encouraging her, afraid it was too much, but told myself that she was stronger than even she knew. Sally would survive this. It would take her some time to find her way through all of this, but she would survive.

Then it was my turn to say good-bye. Bob and I went in together. Thank God for Bob. He, like he is every day, had been my rock that week. He'd been my arms, and eyes, and brain. He'd fed me, hugged me, and helped guide me through every moment. I was so grateful for his steady love.

We walked up to the coffin and looked at my dad. He looked pretty good, but his skin was waxy and fake looking. It was just so weird. Death is so fucking weird. Bob tearfully said his good-byes, hugged me, and then left me alone with my dad. I sat on the couch at the other side of the room, not sure what to do. I took one of the mints from a bowl on the table in front of me. I put it in my mouth, and then took another one, walked over to the casket and placed it on my dad's chest.

“Here's that rainy day they told me about…” I began to sing. I sang the whole song to him while I cried, and then I began to laugh.

“Dad, this is just so fucking weird. Here we are. A day that I knew would come, but that I never thought would come. I thought for sure you'd live forever. So did you. Wow!” I began to cry again. “I love you so much.”

Then I took a postcard with a picture of the Buddha on it out of my purse. I read aloud what I'd written on the back. “Dear Dad, This is just a finger pointing at the moon. You now know the Real Deal. Congratulations! Love, Your Baby Doll.” I put the postcard on his chest. The “finger pointing at the moon” was a picture of the Buddha on the front of the postcard. This saying was an old Buddhist adage that meant that any depiction of enlightenment was only a symbol of the idea; it was not the experience itself. Which was what I meant by the next line: “You now know the Real Deal.” Dad was now on the other side. Whatever that was like, he was there. I'd felt he'd quietly struggled with finding peace his whole life, and no matter what, he had it now. I was truly happy for him. His struggle with his body, and the planet, and humanity was over.

Then I took off my necklace. It was silver and had a painting of an orange sun on it. As I laid it on his chest, I cried as I told him, “Dad, you've been the sun in my solar system forever. It's been a great ride. I wouldn't have changed a thing. But now I must be the sun in my life. My life must be for me. I love you. I will forever. Thank you for everything you have given me. I will do well with it all. I promise. You will live in my heart forever.” I took one last long look at him and touched his face.

I walked out of the room knowing that for today, he and I were complete.

 

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT

He Was Here Just a Minute Ago

I
S IT OKAY
to “kill” at your father's memorial?

I sure hope so.

No, I didn't want to
kill
anyone. I wanted to crush, shine, knock it out of the park. You know, kill.

*   *   *

As people gathered in Jerry's backyard, R & B music from the fifties and sixties played. Just like Dad had requested, his memorial was a small and private affair. There were less than seventy people gathered, but all of them had been deeply influenced in some way by Dad's life—extended family from both the Bearey and Carlin sides, a few friends from Dad's old neighborhood in Manhattan, many people who over the years had worked closely with him, close family friends of my parents, my own close friends, a few comics, and of course, me, Bob, Jerry, Sally, Dad's brother, Patrick, and my cousin Dennis.

We had everything we needed—a dais and a big TV monitor for videos; food and drink; and one another. I decided earlier in the week that I would emcee the event so I could set the tone and provide context for each of the speakers. Before I went on, I went into the bathroom to do my “move.” It instantly grounded me in the present moment, and I thought,
Thank God I went to Leadership
. It felt like all the work I'd done on myself the last eight years—Pacifica, Life Coaching, and Leadership—had been to prepare me for this very moment, and the next era in my life. I was immensely grateful because although I was weary and heartbroken, I was ready for this day. My mind was clear, and my heart was full of love.

Once everyone gathered and sat down in Jerry's backyard, I got up and began.

“Welcome,” I said calmly, and then I took a beat, looked out at everyone, and said, “Fuck! I don't know what to say. There are no words, and yet we are all here to say a few of them. Dad knew exactly what he wanted this day to be like. He left us instructions. Jerry will read those to you in a bit, but first to give you an idea of what to expect today: There will be some speakers, some music, if you need to get up to leave or get some food or a drink, do what you need to do. This is family.

“I apologize for what might be called the Carlinesque bit I am about to do, but hey, I'm a Carlin, and so, as my dad would say—FUCK YOU.” This got a huge laugh. I breathed, as did everyone else. The tension emptied out of the space.

I continued having fun with what I was saying. “Anyway, here are a few things that hopefully we will not be talking about today: I hope that no one will mention that my dad has ‘passed away' or that we ‘lost him,' or that he's ‘gone to a better place.' He has died. That is all the language we need to use. He would want it that way.

“Also, he is not looking DOWN on us. As he recently told us in his last special—there is no UP THERE up there. And let's please refrain from pondering if Dad has gotten back all the lost keys, pens, lighters, and wallets now that he is heaven. Also, we will never know if he got his two-minute warning, so let's not try to figure out the clever thing that God may have said to him.