The only times I’m struck dumb are when words aren’t enough. Some things simply can’t be communicated in words.

 

But I’ll do my best on this occasion.

 

Disclaimer: I’m writing this a day ahead of the 25th anniversary of DeForest Kelley’s passing because I don’t want to be doing this on the actual day. Tomorrow I’m probably going somewhere — perhaps to the beach, but I don’t really know. All I know is that I will be re-living that day a quarter century ago and I want to be somewhere peaceful and quiet. Somewhere natural, with negative ions.

 

At 12:15 p.m. on June 11th, 1999, I was in De’s hospital room when the doctor entered his room to confirm his passing. For almost two hours before that, I was in that same room with De (who had fallen into a coma shortly after I left to run an errand for the Kelleys), his wife Carolyn, and (occasionally) the chaplain. Carolyn was holding De’s left hand in her left hand (he was lying on his left side) and I was holding her right hand.

 

As the time passed, I noticed the pulse in De’s neck becoming less pronounced and slowing way down. I knew he was on his way out, peacefully, and  I was feeling immensely grateful for the “peacefully” part of the occasion.

 

Chaplain David Grant stopped by. I suggested the The Lord’s Prayer to him (because De had asked me a day or so before to recite it for him, ostensibly to see if the version I remembered was the one he had learned as a child; it was) so Pastor Grant invoked that and Numbers 6:26 as Carolyn and I continued to hold hands.

 

Carolyn told me, “I already said my goodbyes and told him I love him (during the time I had been out earlier)” so I added into De’s comatose consciousness, “It’s okay to go whenever you’re ready, De.  I’ll take good care of Carolyn; you don’t have a thing to worry about. I love you.”

 

When he died, no one cried. At least, not right away. We were all cried out, and we both knew his passing was both unstoppable and for the best. Had he lingered longer, he would have started to suffer, so his passing delivered him from that.

 

I was told I had three hours before the official word would get out, and my marching orders from De had been to call the 14 people on the list he had kept beside his hospital bed to tell them of his passing before they would hear it on the radio or TV.

 

NONE of them even knew he had been ill, so I spent the next two and a half hours calling people (only two of whom I knew) to let them know De had died, including his nephews and his closest friends. It was the assignment from hell. 

 

The Neptune Society driver came by at about 4:15 to collect De’s body. As he prepared to maneuver it from the bed to the gurney, I said (stupidly), “Be careful. Don’t hurt him.”  (He was being very careful: I was just feeling useless.)  He told me, “This is the most important person I have ever delivered except for Sam Yorty (former mayor of Los Angeles).  I will take very good care of him. Don’t you worry. It’s an honor.”

 

As the man and I wheeled the gurney down the hallways toward the entrance of the hospital, nearly every available nurse and doctor in the place lined the hallways.Some said, “Goodbye, De.”  “Goodbye, Mr. Kelley.”  “Godspeed.” It was wonderful and I teared up, barely able to see the floor.

 

Outside, news helicopters were circling.

 

I spent the rest of the afternoon and evening with Carolyn, making sure she would be okay. She was stoic, quiet…

 

When I finally got home at about 11 that night, I turned on the news to see what was being said about De’s passing, and there was a reporter on Hollywood Boulevard interviewing fans who had gathered for a vigil and to place flowers on his star on the Walk of Fame. I kicked myself, thinking, “I should be down there; I’m his official star polisher! I shouldn’t be AWOL at a time like this!”

 

But then I realized, no… I had been right where I needed to be, at Carolyn’s side.

 

I’m not sure when I cried again. I almost cried at his memorial service when I was given about a minute to say something about him. My voice trembled.

 

I know one of the next times I cried was when Terry Rioux (De’s biographer, author of FROM SAWDUST TO STARDUST ) told me about Richard Arnold being at a StarTrek convention when he heard what he thought, at first, was yet another rumor about De’ having died, but when he called Paramount to check, the person who answered the phone was sobbing, so then he knew it was true. He told Terry he had to give the news to the audience, and then they all cried together.

 

That really got me bawling, because I felt I had to remain strong for Carolyn, and that being at that convention would have been so much easier because I would have been able to cry with fellow fans.

 

And later, sitting in a restaurant when Terry asked me if I realized that I was the daughter they never had, I teared up again, protesting, “Oh, don’t say that!”

 

When she asked why, I said, “Because if that was true, I didn’t do enough for them.”

 

She responded, “You did everything they ever asked of you, didn’t you?”

 

I said, “Yes,but that wasn’t enough!”

 

She said, “That’s all they would ever have accepted.”

 

Well … that was true.

 

So… yes… this is a tough anniversary for me.  I always do my best to look on the bright side of things, saying, “But look how many wonderful June 11ths we had while De was ALIVE!”

 

That sentiment isn’t flying this year. To think that it has been a quarter century since I was with him last is a gut-puncher.

 

I’m glad he wasn’t here for September 11th, 2001 and January 6th, 2021. I’m glad he didn’t live long enough to suffer horribly, or to see how divided we have become as a nation. But in every other way, I wish he were still here to remind us of how lovely we can be when we truly see each other and treat each other as we want to be treated. As I said at his memorial service, “If this sad old world was more heavily populated with DeForest Kelley types, it would be the paradise we all wish it was.”

 

I miss him every day. I still cry sometimes. He was an international treasure, but he was also my friend. It’s good to know so many other people loved him, too. He truly earned and deserved the adulation. He was one of a kind.

 

Jackson DeForest Kelley

January 20, 1920-June 11, 1999