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Kathleen was one of my closest friends. I'm going to ask you to bear with me. I might ramble a bit, be incoherent. Accept
my apologies for starting late. I was still writing this eulogy today-and that's why we're starting late. I've been writing
this in my head for a couple of weeks now, but I haven't been able to force myself to sit down and put pen to paper until
last night, and when I sat down today to finish, I realized why. I didn't want to confront this--I wanted to keep it at bay,
as if by doing so, I could keep Kathleen alive.
I remember a scene in a movie I saw when I was very young--a boy, six- or seven-years-old, is on a houseboat on a lake
with his grandfather. The boy's mother had recently died. And the boy asks his grandfather a question. "Grandpa. Where
do people go when they die?"; And the grandfather said something like this, "Well, son. See this lake filled with
all this water. And here is this glass of water that I'm holding. And if I take this glass of water and I pour it into the
lake, the water isn't gone, is it? No. The water is still here. You just can't see it anymore. Death is like that..."
Death is like that...Kathleen is, everywhere.
I'm going to start this in the middle, my knowing of Kathleen. I'm going to just dive in, as she did, on so many occasions.
We would take walks at Stern Grove. Recently, less than a month ago, in fact, we were at Stern. We would walk to the end of
the park, where the pond was. And I would say, "Kathleen, I don't want my dogs to get wet today." And she would
just smile, smile in the way that she would, with a twinkle in her eyes, and she would sit down on this brick bench, and she
would pat it, and she would say, "Let's just sit for a minute and rest." And then inevitably, my dogs would get
in the water, and she would say, "Oh, look at them. It makes them so happy. They love the water." Kathleen loved
the water too.
So today, let's just sit for a minute and think about our special stories. I think we have many of the same kind of stories
about Kathleen.
It was 5:30 on a foggy morning ten years ago when I first met Kathleen. I could make out two figures and a pack of dogs
walking down a hill at Fort Funston. I had two dogs of my own--puppies, a Samoyed and a Rottie. She had the dogs she was walking,
and Josh, who was about 12 at the time. She was his guardian, but he called her mom and she referred to him as her son.
I kept running into Kathleen. At the time I was waiting tables at Bagdad Cafe and putting myself through school. One day
I rounded the corner of the wait station to discover Kathleen sitting at a table with a friend, and we recognized each other
from the dog park. We got to talking. I was near graduation and I told her about my final creative project--I was writing
and producing anti-smoking public service spots for television and radio. The spots targeted older adults and raised awareness
about emphysema. Kathleen whipped out a business card and said, "Hey. If you ever need crew, give me a call. I can probably
help you." That was Kathleen. Making connections. Forging relationships.
It took me a while; it wasn't always easy for me to ask for help, but we kept running into each other--Kathleen and I,
or Kathleen, Josh and I--and eventually I called her, and we forged a friendship. Eventually, we were on the phone with each
other just about every day, taking dog walks together almost every day. Always on the weekends. Through me, she met Lex, and
for a couple of years, every weekend, we were always out at Funston walking the dogs.
We went out to lunch the day that Josh left. Ti Couz. And we sat. talked. Cried. She loved him and tried to make a difference.
Two years later it was my turn to step to the plate. A family member could no longer care for her son, and I felt called
to do so. I called Kathleen, and true to nature, she was right there with me. This is what you do. Trying to follow the law
and all the rules of the foster care system, dealing with my own feelings about learning how to parent--I didn't have children
of my own, and my foster son was 14-1/2 when he came to live with me. She would share her experience, her strength and her
wisdom--the lessons she learned, so that hopefully, I too, could make a difference, and so that I wouldn't make some of the
same decisions she had made that she later felt were detrimental. She wanted it to work with me and Mark, and she stepped
in to her role of "auntie," spending time with Mark, employing him sometimes, picking him up from school, walking
dogs together.
In 2006, I had back surgery, and was given essentially two-days notice. I called Kathleen and asked her if she would give
me a ride. She said, "Of course." But she didn't do that. At the hospital, she parked the car. She came in with
me. She sat down with the nurse and asked the questions I didn't know to ask. She made me laugh. She sat with me until they
rolled me down the hallway and into surgery.
Everything she did, she did with love.
I can speak today to who she was to me, and who I know her to be, based on my conversations with her parents and her friends.
Kathleen was born in Stoneham, Massachusetts, and was the first of three children. She was the only daughter. Her mother,
Millie, told me that ever since Kathleen was a young child, she was always a caretaker, and always helpful around the house,
did anything she could to be of help. Over the years she maintained a close relationship with her mother and father, Barney
and Millie Bolton. Last November they came to California for a two-week visit, and Kathleen traveled down the coast with them
to Hearst Castle.
She loved her Swiss Street home, and after living at her 15th Street property for a couple of years, she had moved back
to Swiss Street, and she had created a real home. She liked pretty things. Her house was peaceful and calming.
Kevin, a friend of hers said to me recently, while we were at that same bench at Stern Grove, that "She had such
an incredible life, so full, in fact, she lived many different lives, and they were all full. She had a habit of creating
random, and some not-so-random, acts of human kindness at every opportunity. And she recognized and seized those opportunities
always. She lived as an initiator and as a vital part within the 'it takes a village' philosophy. She had zest and a playful
and sometimes mischievous spirit."
And that's something else she did. Kathleen did things--she created community everywhere.
I have sweet memories of Kathleen. One year, it was Valentine's Day, on another misty morning out at Funston, and there
were Kathleen and Josh again, with a pack of dogs, Kathleen with her sweet smile, saying "Happy Valentine's Day. Would
you like a chocolate?" She and Josh had gone to See's and were passing out truffles for the occasion. On my cell phone,
I have a text from Kathleen, sent earlier this year. It reads, "Happy Valentine's Day. K."
In 2001, my father passed. Prior to his death, Kathleen and I would be walking the dogs at Stern, and we would talk about
that inevitability. At some point, I asked if she might go with me to meet with him and be my brain and talk about the things
that needed to be considered that I didn't even know to ask. She said she'd been waiting for my request. She and Lex and my
partner drove to Watsonville. Kathleen gave a physical assessment and talked with my dad about his wishes for his care. When
he passed, she and Lex helped me to clear out his house. When my mom passed less than two years later, again, Kathleen was
on the phone coordinating food runs to my house, and making sure I was okay. The service was here at this church, and Kathleen,
Lex and Deborah ran that kitchen at the fellowship reception following. I think it was a year later, I got a phone-call in
the middle of the night--Kathleen in tears. "Kathy, I really need you right now. Deborah Coles is dead. Meet me at the
hospital." I went. She had lost one of the loves of her life. Along with Lex, I helped Kathleen work with Deborah's mother,
Thelma, to plan the service for Deborah. Our inner circle--Kathleen, Lex, me, my partner at the time, and Deborah--we were
a team. And this one, Kathleen, is the hardest one.
I want to blame. It's easy to be angry. Mad at the tree. Screaming at the wind. Yelling at Kathleen in the privacy of
my car, windows rolled up, driving down the road--what were you doing?! It was windy. You had been parking in the other lot
for over a year now. Why did you park in that lot that day? She whispered back. "Don't yell. It's okay. Shhh. It's alright.
It was time. I was ready, and, as one person wrote in the guestbook on the memorial site, "God had some dogs that needed
walking."
Circles and quilts. Snapshots. If the quilt were a series of sayings...
"She treated me like a big sister. She took care of me and found me a place to live."
Another in the very large circle of many circles of friends who loved Kathleen said: "Kathleen --one of the most
competent people I've ever known, incredibly resourceful."
She was:
Helper
Healer
Friend
Lover
Daughter
Guardian/mother
Angel
Nurse
Advocate
Dog walker
Stubborn. Determined. Persistent, in the best of ways.
Someone who said "I can, rather than I can't."
She was the smeller of puppy breath.
She loved pageantry. Kaboom.
She was accomplished. Successful. Playful. Mischievous. Full-hearted. She embraced life.
She was Honest. True. Present. Real.
She didn't do things in a small way. She embraced, she lived life, and she lived it big. Full.
She also understood that life and death exist simultaneously. She openly spoke of death, and she certainly didn't fear
death. She knew that death was a part of life. As a nurse, especially one doing hospice work, she had seen many of her patients
die, and her beloved Grandma Inez, with whom she was very close, passed in 2000. She had also seen many friends die.
There have been many serendipitous moments since her passing. Coincidences? Or not. Or Kathleen's spirit guiding us still.
She is everywhere.
She left these things for us to find. She was a healer. In the beginning, the middle. Even now in her end.
To the right of her computer was a table, and on the table was a document holder with about an inch of documents. One
evening I was sitting at her computer, and I picked up the document holder and leafed through the papers to find...words of
wisdom. Spiritual ways of living. I'd like to share some with you:
Poetry. The prayer of St. Francis of Assisi. Psalm 23. "How to Love Yourself" "Attitude" "The pattern of life like a patchwork
quilt" "Something to think about." "The Rules for Being Human." And "Grief is an emotional journey."
She collected nick-nacks. And in one of the cubbies in her hallway was a framed saying that read, "A friend is one who
comes in when the whole world has gone out."
We all loved Kathleen, and I'm telling you what you already know. Kathleen was about relationships. She knew not only
how to forge friendships, but to maintain them. To feed them, nurture them, develop them, grow them. She invested in them.
Her friendships were old, new, current. They spanned decades. She is the one person I knew who if she said, 200 of my closest
friends--that would be true. And there are people who say that--but with her, it was true. Kathleen had so many friends, because
she was such a good friend.
On the website, someone wrote that God must have had some dogs upstairs that needed walking. It's gotta be true. Someone
else suggested God needed another angel, because god knows, the world needs angels. Someone else marveled that the dogs were
okay, and that it must have been Kathleen's large spirit, that committed to the very end, protected and released those dogs.
We all have peaks and valleys, our crosses and our troubles. Kathleen experienced her life to the fullest. She confronted
the joys, the laughter, the love, the good times and the hope head on--she did the same with life's difficulties. Kathleen
spent her last hours doing what she loved---walking the dogs amidst the beauty at Stern Grove, one of her favorite parks,
talking on the phone to one of her closest friends. And now she is on the other side. Kathy no longer has troubles. Her troubles
are ended.
She brought people into this world, she helped them to live better lives, and she helped people to exit this world--beginning,
middle, end.
I am struck by the suddenness of death. Life and death exist side by side, with a very thin, sheer curtain in between.
And sometimes the wind blows, and the curtain lifts, just enough, to let spirit slip through.
There is no comfort, yet there is comfort. There is no consolation, yet consolation. I was talking with a friend earlier
today who said that Kathleen wouldn't have wanted us crazed, that she would want us grounded, present. That is true and not.
She would have wanted us to feel the feelings, experience her presence, and for some in grief, that might be crazed. She would
want it real. Busy-ness helps keep the feelings, and her absence, at bay. Today, when we leave, it will be for some of us,
suddenly more still and more quiet, and we will begin to feel the void, the chasm, and the ache in a new way.
She would want you to know this now:
Grief is an emotional journey. We all grieve differently and at our own pace. For some the journey is competed more rapidly
than for others. Most persons, however, take for two to three years to arrive at healing and adjustment to a new life. There
are phases: disbelief, shock, numbness, denial. Awareness, anxiety, anger, blaming, depression, guilt, wishful thinking, disorganization
(feeling helpless, feeling a sense of no purpose and no interest, no feelings). And then acceptance/reorganization and healing.
Self-affirmation. Hope. And an openness to new possibilities.
You need to feel the pain before you can experience the healing. Grief doesn't run a straight course. Like climbing a
mountain, or sailing, you sometimes got to tack.
Kathleen may not have been a religious person per se, she attended church at Glide. She was a spiritual person, this is
evident in how she lived. She had a relationship with God or a higher power or whatever you may want to call it. Barney and
Millie, I hope you are comforted by that.
Life isn't always easy. We lead busy lives. We believe we always have tomorrow. Someone posted to the memorial website
earlier this morning, "I only wish this memorial happened when you were physically alive so you knew how much you were
loved and admired. Your love and spirit will go on forever. I can't wait till I see you again in heaven. I only regret waiting
so long to go to SF to see you."
As we leave today, it would be my wish that in the memory of, and in honor of Kathleen, we remember to tell those you
love that you love them. That if you have differences with someone, you set anger aside and seek common ground and healing
instead. That you slow down and appreciate the beauty that surrounds us in our lives. That you take a walk in a park. Pet
a dog. Breathe deeply fresh air. Treat yourself to a massage, or a hot tub, or take a swim. That you sit for a minute to just
"rest a bit." That you laugh. That you practice a random act of kindness. That you reach out to someone to connect--to
establish a relationship, or a new friendship. That you pay someone a compliment, or take a moment to help someone who might
need help, or a kind word. That we all just simply live a little better.
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