Re-Visiting DeForest Kelley

As you may have read, last week I played “patient” to two people who were working toward passing their state CNA tests. For part of the practice, I took from my closet two robes–one of my dad’s, and one of De’s (both men passed away in 1999)–to serve as “alternate gowns” when the gals were play-acting “re-dressing” me to show that they could do so without exposing me in any way.  (I was fully clothed; they were just pretending that I was au naturel so they could time how long it took to complete the re-dressing, or “bathing”, or ambulating, or whatever else they were doing against the clock.)

 

In the week or so since the training ended, I have kept De’s shabby green robe outside the closet–the one that he wore at home before I bought him the new white one to wear in the hospital. It still has the faint scent of his house and cologne on it, I discovered. I also discovered that I fall asleep faster, and sleep more restfully, when it’s beside me at night. It seems that its mere presence and mild scent reminds me to  relax,  to feel safe, beloved, and comfortable. It’s somewhat akin to having De sitting  protectively at my bedside, or like the time he approached me from behind during his star ceremony reception at Paramount and patted and rubbed me on both shoulders in the loving “dad and daughter” way he did that day.

 

But tonight as I lay in the dark in my bedroom, the feel of the robe next to me put me in mind of the weeks that I spent at his bedside in the hospital during the last months of his life. And I got vivid flashbacks of the leg, back and body rubs that I gave, to keep him comfortable and saturated with skin-soothing lotions during that time.

 

I remembered our conversations. I could almost hear his voice again… I laughed at some of the things I recalled that he said. (“In this town, nothing would surprise me…” was one of them.)

 

He was delightful, even in the hospital.

 

And suddenly–and quite unexpectedly–I found myself in tears. My heart welled up.

 

I realized tonight that it has been seventeen long years (and four months and a few days) since these loving actions and conversations occurred, and I found myself missing him intensely.

 

Here it is the 50th anniversary of Star Trek. I’m doing interviews about him every few days. I’m laughing with the hosts who are interviewing me, remembering all of the good times, telling the tales, keeping De as alive in people’s hearts and minds as I possibly can… because he isn’t here to do it himself.

 

But tonight I’m realizing that I’m still not “over” his passing–not by a long shot. And I’m realizing that I may never be over it, even though I have long since learned to keep putting one foot in front of the other, as he and everyone else in my life expected I would following his demise.  I have moved on–I’ve had to!–but there are times (like tonight) when I feel like a fly caught in amber…

 

I knew I loved him–who didn’t?–but did I really know how much?  I guess not!

 

I don’t miss Mom or Dad or Deaken (my “serval son”) or Mrs. Rossetti (my English teacher who believed in my writing abilities years before anyone else did)–or anyone else–as much as I miss De.

 

That’s quite the statement–but it’s true!

 

And I very much doubt I’m alone here. Anyone who ever met De–and countless people who didn’t–must feel the same way all these years later, whenever they sit still long enough to fall  into reminiscing about “those thrilling days of yesteryear” when he was here blessing us, cheering us on, believing in us, and being uniquely wonderful at conventions, during interviews, and whenever we were able to spend time with him–up close and personal or remotely.

 

De always wondered if he’d be remembered. He stated one time, “There’s nothing deader than a dead actor.”

 

Shakespeare  said it, too, as Leonard Nimoy reminded us when talking with Bill Shatner about De one time: “This life is but a walking shadow; a poor player, that struts and frets his hour upon the stage, and then is heard no more…“

 

Make no mistake: I am still “hearing” from De. I always will. He is so much a part of my heart that as long as it beats, he will always be right here…

 

And the best thing about it is that I sense he is smiling.

 

I hope (and think) he exceeded his own expectations for his life.

 

I know he exceeded mine.

 

God, how I miss him, though!