Episode Number 268 of Kelly’s Surreal Life, Or The Sun and the Buddha (I Can’t Decide)
ON TUESDAY MORNING someone brought me a copy of Monday’s New York Times. I saw that Dad had made the front page. Fuck, yeah. I could feel my dad smiling from the great beyond. The article talked mostly about his career, but at the end it said he was survived by his daughter, Kelly, and wife, Sally Wade. Hmm. I knew he called her “his spouse” and even “his wife” in public because he felt that “girlfriend” or “significant other” was just silly for a man in his sixties. For a second I was set into a tailspin. Would he have married her without me knowing? No, I knew he hadn’t. Get it together, New York Times.
I gathered myself together as much as I could because today was plan-the-memorial day. While fully immersed in that surreal is-this-really-happening-in-my-life? mode, I was also filled with an intense inner knowing about what was needed to honor my dad. I could feel his presence right next to me. He was my inner GPS telling me what was needed, what was not; what to go for and what to ignore. It was as if I were seeing the world through his eyes. It was a very weird feeling, because I was so used to him being the absent father. But now that he was gone, he was more present than ever.
Bob and I went to Jerry’s house to talk about the memorial we would have there on Saturday. If I had any doubt at all about what we should do for Dad, it was alleviated because Dad had left instructions:
Upon my death, I wish to be cremated. The disposition of my ashes (dispersal at sea, on land, or in the air) shall be determined by my surviving family (wife and daughter) in accordance with their knowledge of my prejudices and philosophies regarding geography and spirituality. Under no circumstances are my ashes to be retained by anyone or buried in a particular location. The eventual dispersal can be delayed for any reasonable length of time required to reach a decision, but not to exceed one month following my death.
I wish no public service of any kind.
I wish no religious service of any kind.
I prefer a private gathering at my house, attended by friends and family members who shall be determined by my immediate surviving family.
The exact nature of this gathering shall be determined by my surviving family. It should be extremely informal, they should play rhythm and blues music, and they should laugh a lot. Vague references to spirituality (secular) will be permitted.
George Carlin
5/1/90
I was shocked by two things when Jerry showed me the typed-out document: (1) that he’d written these instructions at all; and (2) that he hadn’t amended them since 1990. I wondered if he even remembered that he’d written them. I imagined he’d smoked a joint and gotten into some kind of existential fugue when he wrote them. I was happy he had. It gave me direction. I envisioned the memorial immediately. We would play some videos of Dad, interspersing them throughout so we would all remember to laugh. We would have Spanky McFarlane sing the blues, and I knew I had to have Kenny Rankin sing “Here’s That Rainy Day.” We would have the people whom he’d known and loved be able to share their memories—Jerry Hamza, Sally Wade, Pat Carlin, Dennis Carlin, Jon Reigrod, Theresa McKeown, Jack Burns, Rocco Urbisci, and me—and maybe a few comics, too. This memorial would rock.
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.