IN JUNE 2004 I was ready to graduate from Pacifica.
That’s a lie. I did have all my work done, but I wasn’t ready to leave. For the last three years, I was the happiest I’d ever been. I got to spend my days doing what I loved most—reading, writing, and contemplating the meaning of life. All the while doing something most of the world deemed productive—getting a postgraduate degree. I was in my bliss and an upstanding citizen of the world at the same time. It was heaven.
Of course not all had gone perfectly.
During my second year at Pacifica, my classmates and I were required to do traineeships as counselors in our respective communities. Still on the fence about becoming a full-time licensed therapist, I was unsure about this part. I didn’t mind the idea of dealing with crazy people. I just didn’t want to be dealing with crazy people. I’d heard nightmare stories from some of my peers, one of whom had had to jump into the fray at a home for schizophrenics and lead group therapy sessions her first week. I didn’t want to deal with schizophrenics, psychotics, or anyone not grounded in reality. I couldn’t imagine that. I wanted some run-of-the-mill West LA neurotics—anxious yuppies, blocked writers, or a confused twenty-something or two. I was determined to get a cushy placement, and I got lucky. I ended up at an elementary school, counseling kids in a community that was known for its artists and freethinkers. My people.
After the first day at my new traineeship, I was relieved. I realized that I’d be able to handle the crazy of “my people.” They were no different from my parents or me. I knew what kind of kids would be coming my way: kids who came from families that had dealt or were dealing with addiction; kids who were left to their own devices because their parents were workaholics in “the business”; and kids who just hadn’t found their sea legs yet. I knew between my training and the work I’d done on my own issues that I could do this. I was excited.
What I didn’t see coming was the little girl I’ll call Rebecca.
On my second day at the school, the principal called me into his office. “Kelly, we’ve just gotten a phone call. One of our fifth graders, Rebecca—well, her grandmother just called to say that her mom died in a car crash today. Seems after she dropped her off at school, the mom was rushing down the canyon to work and drove off the road and into a tree.”
My stomach dropped twelve stories. Jesus Christ. What the fuck!
He continued, “Anyway, she’s on her way here, and—well, we were wondering if you could be there when she told Rebecca the news.”
Trying to collect my thoughts, I said, “Where’s her dad?”
“He’s not in the picture. It’s just her mom and grandma,” he answered.
My head began to get fuzzy, like a panic attack might come on. I said, “Um, yeah. Um, let me call my supervisor. She’ll know what to do.”
I called my supervisor, Gwen, and told her what was going on.
“Jesus Christ,” she said.
“Right? What the fuck do I do?” I asked, hoping she’d drive up and deal with it all herself.
Gwen was actually an old friend of mine from Crossroads, and she’d been a licensed marriage and family therapist for quite a while. I was thrilled she was at my traineeship. She knew me, got me, and was very cool.
She calmly laid it all out. “Well, first of all. You don’t have to do this if you don’t feel ready. This is a lot for one’s first week on the job.”
“Yeah, okay,” I said, relieved that I had some wiggle room.
“And second,” she continued. “There’s nothing you can do. All you can do is hold the space for this little girl and her grandmother. It’s just one of those things about this job. Sometimes all we can do is just be present and a witness for others.”
A wave of calm came over me. I said, “Well, I know I can do that,” suddenly knowing that I must do this for this girl.
“And they’ll probably need some grief counseling for her. Thank God you’ll be there all year,” Gwen concluded.
“Yeah,” I said. I was already readying myself for the task. “Well, I’m going to go down there, and tell them that I’ll be there. I’ll call you when I’m done.”
Once the grandmother arrived, we waited in the nurse’s office while someone fetched Rebecca. The grandmother was very nervous, and I assured her that there was no right or wrong way to do this. She’d be fine.
When Rebecca walked into the room, my heart shattered. She was a stringbean of a thing. Big brown eyes and a presence that said, Save me. She looked at the three of us with confusion. She asked, “What are you doing here? Where’s Mommy?”
“Hey, Sweetie,” her grandma said as she stood up and hugged her. “We need to talk.”
Rebecca looked at me, wondering who I was.
“So Rebecca,” the grandmother continued as she sat them down on the cot. “I have to tell you something. Today after your mom dropped you off here—well, she got in a car accident—” She hesitated.
“Is she okay?” Rebecca asked as tears welled up in her eyes.
“Well … she … uh. Well, she … no, Darling. She isn’t okay,” said the grandmother.
My heart ached as I sat there watching all this as if it were a movie. I said to myself, Oh my god! This is the part where she tells her that her mother is dead. This is really happening.
The grandmother plowed ahead. “Rebecca, your mom is not coming back. She died in the accident.”
Rebecca began to cry for real now, and fell right into her grandma’s bosom. They both cried. I looked over them at the principal. We both had tears in our eyes.
“What happened?” Rebecca asked after a few minutes.
“We don’t know everything yet,” the grandma answered.
Rebecca, wide-eyed, looked at me again. The principal said, “This is Kelly. She’s the new counselor here.”
I smiled a subtle smile, wanting to communicate that I respected what she was going through but also that I was here for her. “I’m so sorry about your mom, Rebecca,” I said.
Tears rolled down her now pink and swollen face.
The principal continued, “Kelly will be here all year. You can talk to her if and whenever you want.”
“Whenever and whatever you want, Rebecca,” I added, wishing I could offer this poor lost child something more than that, but that was all I had.
After about ten more minutes of crying and a few questions, Grandma took Rebecca by the hand, and they both walked out the door and into her life without a mother. Even though I’d lost my mom only a few years earlier, I could not imagine what it must be like to be ten years old with no father, and now no mother. My heart ached for her.
I would indeed see Rebecca every week that year, and a few months into the next year, even after I’d moved on to my next internship. Getting to sit with Rebecca on that day was one of the most profound and privileged experiences of my life. I did nothing. I was just a human heart witnessing the breaking of another human heart. But sometimes that’s all we have. I hoped it was enough.
I think of her often.
* * *
Fortunately most of my days at my traineeship were not so eventful. I helped a handful of families deal with crises, quite a few students cope with some ongoing behavioral issues, and referred a few other families to other therapists for family therapy. Luckily my job was rather easy. Because my clients were kids, all they really needed was a safe place to play or talk or draw. I had one client who did nothing but play hangman with me all year long. But by the end of the term, his angry outbursts and defiant attitude had dissolved. Go figure.
But in other ways my job was not so easy because my clients were kids. Like Rebecca, some of these kids were facing challenges beyond their power to change. They were in families that had deep systemic problems that a bit of play therapy would not resolve. Those kids had parents who were in denial about their own issues, and it deeply affected the whole family. I could do little for them. It was those kids who weighed on me. I saw myself in them, and hoped the little attention and space I gave them would help carry them through. Others that faced even tougher challenges were harder to have hope for. Seeing the suffering of such innocence was a burden I hadn’t expected to carry, and one that kept me awake more than a few nights. After a year I was glad to move on.
Once my third year at Pacifica began, classroom time was over. It was time to focus on my thesis. Starting in the fall of 2003, I began to work on Music for the Mourning: A Film of Song and Rebirth. Just as Maureen Murdock had predicted, I became enchanted with the Demeter/Persephone myth. I needed to continue my exploration of my relationship with my mother and her death, and my thesis gave me a chance to do just that. And just as I’d hoped from the beginning, I did an art project for my thesis—I wrote a screenplay. I wrote a musical using the lyrics of modern songs (à la Baz Luhrmann) while weaving together the stories of Demeter/Persephone with the story of my losing my mother to cancer. I bet no one has ever pitched that to Warner Bros.!
Although the academic aspect of the thesis could be a bit dry, I loved doing the research into the myth and its psychological underpinnings, and studying what others had written about the mother/daughter relationship and the process of mourning. In my thesis I was able to examine the process of grief, and reveal that, although it is filled with feelings of loss and pain, endings do eventually lead to new beginnings, if you are conscious enough to allow it. If you can weather the storm, rebirth can come from death.
But the best part of the process was writing the musical. I let the music of Johnny Cash, Blue Oyster Cult, U2, Paul Simon, and a host of others weave a tapestry of image and story. The academic piece took me five months to research and write. The screenplay took me ten days. It shot out of me like an arrow of love. It was a great feeling of accomplishment. And a huge relief.
I was fulfilled creatively, spiritually, and intellectually. And the bonus—I was no longer obsessed about my career in showbiz. I no longer lived under the shadow of my dad’s fame and accomplishments. I had my own now. I was finally busy with my own life.
* * *
Dad, as usual, was busy, too. In 2001, the year I’d started school, he’d published his second book, Napalm and Silly Putty, and taped his twelfth HBO special, Complaints and Grievances. None of which I paid much attention to due to the fact that I was now in school. That year Dad also shot another film with Kevin Smith, Jay and Silent Bob Strike Back, in which he played a hitchhiker willing to give a blow job for a ride. Dad loved that Kevin had written that for him.
Then, in 2002, Dad started to have some new symptoms with his heart. Twice he was hospitalized while on the road because he was getting rapid heartbeats and some arrhythmia. Nothing was worse than getting a call from him that started, “Hey, Kiddo. I’m at the emergency room.” My stomach would tighten, and then I would breathe half a sigh of relief knowing that at least he was at a hospital, and no one was rushing him into an operating room yet. Still, there was always the reality in the back of my mind, knowing that his heart, after three heart attacks and multiple angioplasties, wasn’t shipshape.
The arrhythmia eventually got so bad that Dad’s cardiologist, Dr. Buchbinder, decided that he’d be a good candidate for an ablation—a procedure that is used to fix heart rhythm issues, so he sent him to a specialist—Dr. Swerdlow.
In May 2003, Bob, Sally, and I sat in the waiting room at Cedars-Sinai waiting for the doctor to come out to tell us that Dad was done and all was good. This scene felt both familiar and yet new. Too many times I’d sat in this hospital’s or St. John’s waiting rooms anxious to see a doctor walk out with a smile on his face after some procedure, and tell us how great Dad was doing. But what was different this time was that Mom wasn’t here. It had always been Mom and me waiting for the doctor. Even though it’d be nerve racking, I’d feel okay because in those situations, my mom was a rock. No matter what might have happened during the procedure, she’d be strong and ready to ask the doctors all the right questions. She held the space so firmly and calmly.
But now I had to be the rock not only for me but for Sally, too. Sally was a nervous wreck. She hadn’t yet had to deal with Dad’s heart stuff. Because Dad always underplayed it so well, I’m not sure how deeply she understood the extent of his heart disease. But today the reality was in her face. And in mine. We were all on pins and needles because the ablation was only supposed to take about an hour and a half, and we were now in hour number three.
Finally, after four hours, the doctor came out. His face was sheet-white. My heart dropped. Oh shit. Oh fuck.
“Is everything okay?” I asked anxiously.
“Oh yes. He’s fine. He’s fine,” he quickly answered. “Can we sit a minute?”
Fuck. “Yeah, sure,” I said as my heart pounded out of my chest.
“Everything went well, for the most part. Sorry it took so much time. It’s just that we had to go really slow. You see, his heart is being held together with scaffolding—with all the stents and scar tissue.” He drew a little picture of the heart and what he’d done to Dad. Then he took a beat and said, “You do know that it’s a miracle he’s alive every day?” he added.
I knew his heart was not in great shape. I knew that he had a few stents in his heart that kept the arteries from closing or collapsing. And I knew he took a handful of heart pills a few times a day that kept his blood thin, blood pressure even, and heart rhythm consistent. For twenty-five years I had been dreading that phone call in the middle of the night from my mom or Jerry telling me that Dad had died onstage in bum-fuck Iowa. But I never let the idea that he might die any day take hold in my mind. For decades I had managed to put that reality in a box and hide it high on a shelf inside my psyche. Now, with this doctor’s words rattling inside of me, I knew that I had to take that box down and open it.
Dad’s days were numbered.
* * *
On May 29, 2004, I graduated from Pacifica. Dad had cleared his schedule months beforehand so he would be certain that he could come to the commencement, and I was beyond thrilled. He was giddy, too. As we drove up to the campus he said, “This is a great little car.”
“We just got it a few months ago,” I said. Bob and I had bought our first car together—a Mercedes wagon—a German tank for safety, with a roof rack for camping.
“I want to get it for you,” his mood expansive. “Let me pay it off for you. As a gift, for all your hard work.”
Bob stiffened. He was never comfortable with my dad paying for anything. I ignored this and said to my dad, “Are you sure?” It’s not that I didn’t respect Bob’s stance. I did, and had weaned myself off of the daddy dole the last few years. It’s just that I could hear in my dad’s voice how much he wanted to do this for me.
“Yes, of course. I’d really like to do this for you,” Dad answered.
I reached forward from the backseat and touched Dad’s arm on the armrest. “That would be very nice, Dad. Thank you,” I said. He patted my hand with a strong hand, like he did when he wanted to communicate that he loved me more than he could say.
The commencement ceremony was on Pacifica’s main campus, an estate on the border between Carpinteria and Montecito near Santa Barbara. It was gorgeous. As I sat among my peers on a beautiful June day looking out from the stage, I could see my dad in the crowd, beaming with pride. He sat with Bob, our dear friend Theresa, and her sister Sue. Every few minutes I could see that he was also taking notes. Turns out he was scribbling down all the New Age vernacular people were using to describe their “journeys, through the labyrinth of the sacred and collective space that Pacifica” provided. He was taking notes for a future bit on language.
A few months later Dad was on Leno. While he sat on the panel, he mentioned to Jay that I’d just gotten my master’s in psychology. I nearly fell out of bed. My dad never talked about our family or personal life onstage or on TV. Never. I welled up. I couldn’t believe he was talking about his real life. That’s when I knew for sure that he was so proud of me—because he said it on TV. Dad was proud because not only was I the first Carlin to graduate college, but now the first to get a master’s degree. This really meant something to him. Because he’d dropped out of school in ninth grade, he’d even admitted that he’d spent his entire life trying to prove how clever he was to the very things he hated—institutions. He’d wanted their acceptance, and through me I think he finally got it. He felt empowered by my accomplishments, just like I had, well—since forever.
* * *
After graduation I continued at my second internship, which had started in the fall of 2003. I planned on staying until I figured out if this life as a therapist was for me. I was now at a nonprofit run by one of my favorite teachers at Pacifica, Pat Katsky. I wanted to be her when I grew up. She’d been one of the women at Pacifica who had remothered me. If I was going to be doing this therapist thing, I at least wanted to be surrounded by other Jungians, both interns and supervisors, who understood my schooling and orientation. Plus being at Pat’s place kept me connected to my bliss and my new life that I’d created outside the business.
The center did sliding-scale counseling, and I got a wide array of clients to begin with—thankfully a general group of mostly neurotic, anxious people just like me. But soon I got clients who were even more like me. As they say in the therapy business, you eventually get the clients you really need—the ones who will stretch you and make you face your own unconscious issues. My schedule became filled with stand-up comedians, comedy writers, and actors.
It started with one stand-up, then another, and then pretty soon, my whole practice was filled with a bunch of people in the biz. I even had the child of a famous comedian as a client. Talk about getting the clients you need. Wow! It was like I was looking in a mirror every day.
For the first year it was fun and very fulfilling. I knew I was making a difference in my clients’ lives. I was helping them get over stage fright, tackling the roller coaster ride of going on auditions and living the life of a freelancer in Hollywood. Together we were shifting their perspectives to handle the vicissitudes of being a creative soul in a soulless business. I was deeply honored to be a handrail along their circuitous path of life. To witness them as they went from feeling powerless and lost to taking bold steps toward their dreams filled me with feelings of purpose and love.
But soon, while driving home on the 405 from the office, I’d find myself fantasizing about being on a stage again. The longings I’d put aside when I walked off the stage after my solo show were bubbling up. I had more to say to the world. I had more stories to tell. I wanted to be seen and heard again.
Was this just my ego? Was I just afraid to live a life out of the limelight? I was irritated by these longings. I had felt so free while in grad school, not having to deal with my showbiz ambitions, and now here they were again, trying to ruin everything.
Why can’t I just be happy as a therapist?
Plus I was good at being a therapist. My clients were thriving, and my practice was expanding. I liked the work. Well, more specifically, I liked the work while I was doing it, actually sitting in the room with my clients. And I liked the idea of the work. I loved having a solid answer to the question, What do you do? I’m a therapist. It sounded so damn official, grown-up, and normal.
But when I thought about spending the next four years in the small, poorly lit, horribly decorated office in Van Nuys accumulating hours for my licensing while I supported other writers, comedians, and actors in reaching their creative dreams, I became depressed and filled with despair. I knew there was only one thing I could do.
I had to write and perform again.