Kathleen Margaret Barry
Today is a bittersweet day. For some years now, my siblings
and I have prayed for this time to come so that my mother would be relieved
from the horrible suffering she’s endured over the past decade. We are grateful
that God has called her home and she is finally at peace.
We are also grateful to begin the process of shedding the
images of our deteriorating mother that have dominated our minds’ eyes during
her illness and restoring the many rich and wonderful memories we have of Mom when
she was a healthy woman.
Still, I stand here filled to the brim with sorrow. On
Saturday morning at
How can I even begin to do her
memory justice?
You all know how beautiful and vivacious she was. Kathleen
Barry was a woman who could literally light up a room when she walked in. Upon
meeting her, she had the ability to make you think you were the most fascinating
person ever born. Everyone, and especially men, were
drawn to her like moths to a flame. I was always so proud to introduce her to
my friends because I had such a captivating and cool mom.
She was extraordinarily creative.
She could turn a mop head, some red dye, white tights and black electrical tape
into a Raggedy Ann costume. And she could make an entire nativity scene out of Styrofoam
balls, pantyhose, a bag of cotton and a sheet of cardboard. This, of course,
was very helpful during my parents’ “below the poverty line” years when our “gifts”
under the Christmas tree included bleach bottles transformed with felt and glue
into some pretty fine looking piggy banks. Martha Stewart had nothing on my
mom.
She gave fantastic and lavish parties
and hosted at least three weddings at her home. Once, she had an entire orchestra
perform a concert in our back yard.
She was someone who put confetti in with her letters and
decorated the envelopes with stickers and pictures and exclamations of “Super
Girl!” and “Congratulations!” She was a fantastic writer and a terrible
speller. In her inimitable way, she always claimed that the ability to spell
was inherited. Well, I clearly inherited that gene.
Every year on my birthday, as she did for all of her kids,
she’d write me a note containing the story of my birth. It would begin the same
way, but with the number of years changing as I got older: “10 years ago today,
I was in labor anticipating your arrival…”
She’d relay how easy the birth was and how much she loved me
and what joy I brought to her life. What she didn’t share was the fear and
frustration she must have felt as a 22-year-old with two children inside of a
year.
For sure Vince’s and my births
derailed Mom’s dreams of fame and glory. But in true Kathleen Barry fashion,
she took on Motherhood fully and threw herself into it. Though my parents had little
money, she found a way to dress my brother and me in tiny suits and
dresses—like JFK Jr. and Caroline to her Jacky-O looks. My mother, indeed, was
a woman of class and resource.
With two more children to care
for after Garrett and Meghan were born, she still managed to build an
impressive and eclectic career. She taught drama at both the elementary and
college level. She wrote, produced and directed children’s theater programs with
her partner Don Murphy at
She also enjoyed a successful
career as a high-end consultant to large corporations and government agencies,
focusing on the areas of writing, public speaking, media training and—with some
irony involved—Stress Management. She was an amazing woman.
For me personally, she has been my ally and advocate, my
closest confident and greatest source of comfort. Throughout my childhood, she was my favorite
companion in the whole world. She was my best friend.
Some might say we were too much like friends to withstand
the strains of adolescence made that much more difficult by my parents’ “take
no prisoners” divorce. True, we had a couple of rough years during which were
born the biggest regrets of my life and the loneliest times when I didn’t have my
best friend by my side. Yet, at a time when even I was losing faith in my
ability to survive my own recklessness, she never faltered in her faith in me.
Gradually, our love for one another helped us find our way
back to the easy relationship and flowing humor we had always enjoyed. I’m
grateful for all the years we had together before Alzheimer’s took her from me.
I miss being able to call her up and ask for her advice or seek
her comfort. I miss her gentle and reassuring voice, her wise replies and how hard
she could make me laugh. I miss her hugs and how good she smelled. And I’m profoundly
sad that my son Staz won’t know her and that she
won’t know Staz, because they would get such a kick
out of each.
On behalf of my siblings and myself, I’d like to take a few minutes
to acknowledge some very special people in my mother’s life who drew closer when
others drew away and endured the painful tragedy of her condition to help her
in her greatest hours of need.
There’s her friend Doris Harmon who, during the first two
years of my Mother’s illness jumped in with both feet to help my younger sister
Meghan bring Mom to doctors’ appointments, make her laugh and comfort her when
she became frightened.
There’s Ron Montague who visited Mom every day for
seven years, leaving work early and forfeiting part of his pay so he could
check in on her and see that she was being well cared for. He took her on daily
walks, made sure she ate right, listened to music with
her and gave her lots and lots of hugs. With her mind rapidly deteriorating, I
know that she felt safe with Ron by her side and that was the greatest gift anyone
could have given her. He has been a true and loyal friend.
And there’s Comfort Sarpomaa, my
mother’s caregiver and guardian angel. Comfort has patiently fed Mom, gently
bathed her, laughed, danced and cried with her, and made sure she looked
beautiful—always. In recent years, she’s been Mom’s whole world. As bad as Mom’s
situation was, we were always confident she was getting the best possible care—which
was Comfort. What can I say, the name says it all.
There are no words that could adequately express our
gratitude for what the three of you have done for her.
We’d also like to thank Bob Deason,
my mom’s financial planner and friend of the family, who has carefully protected
her estate so she’d have the care she needed for as long as she needed it. Without
his help, not only would Mom’s finances be in shambles, but I’m quite sure our inter-sibling
relationships would not have fared so well either.
Similarly, Anne O’Neil, Mom’s geriatric specialist, made
sure that mom had the most appropriate care at each stage of her disease and helped
us make many difficult and emotionally-charged decisions. Thank you, Anne for
lifting that burden from us.
And thank you to her many friends who stopped by to visit or
called to ask about her, or sent a gift or a card. And thank you for the
wonderful times you shared with her throughout her many years and for being
there for her when times were not so wonderful. Her friendships meant so much
to her. Thanks.
From me to my siblings—I want to thank Meghan for being
there in a big way in the beginning when you were the only one in Northern Virginia
and there was so much to do, for handling the countless emergencies right up to
the end, and for staying in touch with Mom’s friends. And Eric Dunn, Meghan’s
husband, thank you for being there to support her—I honestly
don’t think she could have survived it without you.
Thank you Garrett and Kelly for taking
on the lion’s share of work when you moved to
Vince, thank you for taking so
many trips and crossing such a long-distance to let Mom know how much you love
her.
I’ll also never forget when she was first diagnosed how you stepped in to have
the hard conversation with her when the words wouldn’t come out of my mouth.
Thank you Sonny, my husband, for making many crazy trips with
me to
Thanks also to my Mom’s sister Tootie
and my cousin Nancy for being there for us and being willing to roll up your
sleeves and help out along the way.
Thank you Dad for coming all the way from
to be with us when we needed you and
for taking beautiful pictures of Mom for us to cherish forever.
And thanks to the thoughtful friends and extended family in each
of our lives who’ve always asked about Mom and listened to and consoled us throughout
these sorrow-filled years.
But above all, thank you Mom for sharing your extraordinary
life with us. There will never be anyone even remotely like you.
I love you so very, very much.