For Douglas MacLeod: '‘What luck, what luck for all of us to have known him!, by Colleen Burke - 2021

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3 December 2021, Victorian Pride Centre, Melbourne, Australia

Doug and Stephen have spoiled me rotten almost my entire adult life. When I was in my twenties, I told them I wanted a sperm cocktail if I wasn’t married with kids by the time I was 35. I didn’t care who was the Dad, you couldn’t choose one over the other.

‘DougnSteve’ has been one word for a long time: Doug who made laugh and Stephen who loves to laugh. If the baby was blonde or dark we’d know who the Dad was.

I learned about the world through both these men. I always thought of them as much, much older as they were, always so good at being adults. They’d take me to beautiful restaurants, to a 5-star resort and tell me stories about exotic things like mortgages and volcanoes. I’d often find a fiddy in my bag after visiting, to pay for a vet bill or a bald tyre when I thought acting in profit share plays was the way to go. They have always been there for me when pets, parents and people I loved died. ‘You know where we are, we are here,’ is Stephen’s most common phrase. Stephen who sends a thank you note if you had them over lunch. Who says “oh poor baby, when I had a cold” or some minor ailment. Anyway we’ve heard beautiful stories about Doug’s past and I’d like to talk about the end of the story for our storyteller, when the heroes shine through. Some of you know it and some of you won’t.

Doug had an amazing career but the most important part of Doug’s life was Stephen.

I’ve followed their love story for a very long time. They had been together for a short time when I was first smitten by Doug’s charms. It’s been a 40-year marriage that became official in 2018! Stephen would like to thank Magda for her contribution to marriage equality. Stephen had been a carer for Doug after his stroke for a long time, and Doug had survived his first bout of encephalitis when they got married. When Doug was in ICU the first time with this disease, surrounded by machines, the doctors were completely mystified, it took them quite a while to diagnose. Stephen was terrified, there were a million tubes and wires to Doug’s skull and Doug was delirious and when he told the nurses scurrying around him, “This is my boyfriend and this is my girlfriend, and they both like looking at naked men.” Anyway he made it through but he knew he had come close to dying that first round with encephalitis and was determined to marry his man.

His speech at their wedding was very typical of Doug, “there is enormous pressure on me as a writer to come up with the right words so I looked to the greats: I searched through the sonnets of Shakespeare, none of them were good enough for my Stephen; I looked to Chaucer, to Blake, none of them were right. So I looked to the words of the great…. Ronnie Barker: “What luck! What luck to have met this man, this beautiful, kind and sweet man, what luck, what luck!“

I’ve put up a photo of Doug with Sascha my dog. They had something special going on —we’d go for walks and Doug said he felt really powerful walking my wolf. Walking was still a challenge after his stroke. I took him to a bar for dinner in Fitzroy Street where the barman had invited me in previously, and made of a fuss of my dogs. I thought it would be fun for Doug. Anyway, it was a busy Friday night and the owner was pissed off because the dogs were taking up room as they do, spreading themselves out on the floor. He still served us dinner but he was grumpy, and as we were leaving Doug slipped him a 20 to thank him. That’s who Doug was, gracious and polite.

My dogs were a way to reach Doug when he had no words, when he was very ill. He could commune with Sascha but not Tinker so much…. her head was too big apparently. You will see them together later and thank goodness The Alfred and the rehab allows pets on the bed, on the white sheets, no questions asked. During that very harrowing time which, fortunately, Doug had little to no memory of, there were moments of great beauty where his soul, character and talent shone through. On the few occasions I visited him when Stephen wasn’t actually there, (Stephen would have to be almost terminal himself to not be there, he showed up from breakfast to dinner every day for a year bringing Doug delicacies and comfort, never leaving his side, you couldn’t drag him away). Anyway there was a time when Doug could only communicate in verse, he complemented me on fine attire, I can’t remember how he rhymed, something brilliant… and when Stephen called on the phone “You’re company to me is sweeter than wine” and another brilliant rhyme, I won’t even try. Apparently, this rhyming thing happens to other patients too but Doug sounded like Shakespeare. No wonder the nurses loved him

Another time he was really distressed as he could only hum — words weren’t coming out. The man who could repeat the script from a movie word for word after seeing it once, couldn’t speak! So I played him the humming chorus. He calmed down, the composer, the musician that he was, began humming the notes perfectly. A moment of great beauty. No wonder the nurses loved him.

Once he was really concerned, as he was convinced that every object in the rehab room was about to fly and he wanted me to leave to be safe. Our very own Dr Who episode. Stephen and Doug shared a great love, and Doug and I shared a great love of Dr Who. This is who he was even in his confusion, he wanted to put my safety above his. Doug always wanted to write a Dr Who episode. What a fucking cracker it would have been. Great beauty.

When Doug came down with encephalitis a second time, he came close to dying many times and the doctors were convinced he would never leave hospital. And the reason he survived this long is down to one thing, and one thing only — Stephen’s love, and his mantra “you’re getting better Douglas, You’re getting better”. Stephen who moved heaven and earth and brought in a High Court judge to bring him home after a year in hospital. And he gave Doug the best life he possibly could. Stephen who would bring books to any nurse in hospital who was kind to Doug, the nurse who took Doug for wheelies in his wheelchair, the nurse who took the time to hold Doug’s hand. Pretty much every nurse who cared for Doug would fall in love with this man, who was always polite and courteous even when he was in great pain.

Stephen created a family of carers in their home. ‘Home’ that sacred word. I’m bringing you home, Doug. They brought Doug joy; Andrew, Sachie and Nathan, their good friend David and the lady who brought cake, I’m sorry I can’t remember your name, all these amazing humans were Prozac to Doug. They showed up the day he died, showed up to his cremation and showed up today. I think true love is not that heady romance at the start of a relationship, it’s showing up every day as Stephen has done for the last 10 years when things were tough. Let’s face it, things the last three years were hellish. This man who is made of integrity and warmth and empathy. Who tethered the lifeline to Doug in his astronaut pyjamas and kept him going, kept him wanting to live. Despite all the pain that Doug was in, he just wanted to keep waking up and seeing Stephen’s face. I know you all want to show Stephen how sorry you are but keep it brief today. He’s keeping it together beautifully, but there’s years to come when you can show Stephen some love.

I’d like to thank everyone who has showed up today, who’ve given their time and brought their love. I’d like to pay tribute to the people at this amazing venue, the people on the front desk who were always so welcoming, to Justine the CEO who gave us so much time, to Ingrid the venue coordinator who bought those stunning rainbow cups for us to use, and to Dannii and to Michael from Joy FM who went above and beyond to make all this happen. I hope it’s the start of many marriages, celebrations and funerals for this community. What a gorgeous space for it to be held in.

When Doug was dying, I played him the humming chorus again. The doctors told us that hearing is the last sense to go. I thought I must sing, I must sing, bring him some comfort, but I’m really not a good singer. I started playing him my Spotify playlist on my phone, it was all so sudden, just to give him some music. Mama Cass came on — ‘Dream a Little Dream of Me’. I tried to sing along. Poor Doug who we thought was unconscious raised his hand in an ‘oh god, make it stop’ motion. Stephen got more morphine for him. Doug had given his last bit of feedback which we all valued so much. I think the review of your life is who shows up to your funeral. The love of your life and a large group of beautiful friends.

What luck, what luck for all of us to have known him!

We love you Doug

For John Spencer - 'He had the spirit of the boxer, you see', by Richard Schiff - 2005

December 2005, Los Angeles, California

This eulogy was initially read by Bradley Whitford at John Spencer’s memorial service as Richard Schiff could not be present. Schiff recorded it for the West Wing Weekly podcast

To John from Richard. I am a great actor. You can laugh if you want. For seven years, John Spencer has been trying to convince me to get me to say it out loud. I am a great actor. To honor John, I have said it. For those of you who know me, you know how ridiculously impossible that is for me to say. Never mind that I still think I suck. That's not the point. John Spencer came at you with love like Joe Frazier came at Muhammad Ali with fists.

Think about it. John Spencer would come at you, short and powerful, forehead first with fiery eyes and loading that left hook with compliments and adoration and admiration, respect and absolute and pure love. And throw them at you with ferocity and determination and grit. He would not let up no matter how you ducked, bobbed, weaved, and sidestepped. Sure enough, he'd catch you with that left hook and buckle your knees.

He had the spirit of the boxer, you see. He was a fighter. He fought his demons that way and day in and day out, he was triumphant over them, batting them down as they popped up like so many Jacks in the boxes, trying to divert his focus, his drive, his well to be the best human being he could be.

His great weapon was acting. He loved acting like no one I've ever met. He loved the makeup, the robe, the slippers, the trailers, the prizes, the gossip. He ate it and dreamt it, drank it, devoured it like steak. To do it right, he kept those demons nearby, allowing them to live through his acting and so always walking that dangerous, courageous line. The line only great actors and artists must tread on.

John Spencer was a great actor.

I was doing a scene in the Oval Office on The West Wing, a tough scene. John was doing the Warren Leight play at the Taper and had to leave the set every day by 5:00 PM to make a show. He was shot out first. All day long, I was doing this very hard scene and all day it was going well, alive in the moments. When I was being shot, I expected it to go just as well. But John had left for the play, and when I looked over to his chair where he had been sitting all day, the scene suddenly stopped. Someone had replaced John in his chair, and the scene stopped. You see? And I realized that all day in my glances over to John, I had received this great gift. One look from Leo and I had been filled with substance, with purpose, with clarity. And now with John gone, I was empty, and the scene stopped. The play was over, and I had to start again by myself, and I hated it. I told him that the next day. I thanked him for his great gift to us, his generosity, his presence. John was always there for us off camera, giving constantly and totally and forever giving.

I am not present at the memorial because I am doing a one man show in New Jersey of all places. When I told everyone of this choice to do this play, I was greeted with such remarks as, "Are you out of your mind? Why on earth are you doing that?" But John responded with, "Oh, that's great. It's going to be so great for you. What's the play? You're going to kill them." And so on and on. Each and every day, as I wait terrified in the wings to embark on this wild expedition on stage, I talk to John. And I thank him for his faith in me.

I think if John were back here as fearful and shaking as I am, he would smack down those demons and put the proverbial mouth guard between his clenching teeth and tear out on that stage and conquer all.

I thank him every night. I thank him for all that he has given us and will keep giving us. At his funeral in New Jersey, I watched his friends and family and the other Catholics present reach over and touch his casket to say goodbye. And so I did as well, and then felt a rush, an electric surge coming through my hand from his casket. I was reaching out and touching him to say goodbye. I had missed the chance in Los Angeles. Some believe that the soul stays around for a couple of days before it embarks on the next journey, wherever that is. Well John had stuck around I think to say goodbye to us.

Wouldn't it be just like him, one last act of generosity to let us say goodbye, to stick around for a little, just a bit more conversation and companionship to chat about the things in this world one more time. What's the greatest thing you can say about someone? That without them you would not be who you are. John Spencer has changed my life knowing him, and I will always love him for it. With severely buckled knees lying flat on my back on the canvas, in fact, I say this for you, John. I am a great actor.

One day, maybe one day, if I keep talking to you, keep listening to you, I'll be just maybe as great as you.

For Beau: 'I'll always love a dog named Beau', by Jimmy Stewart - 1981

27 July, 1981, New York, USA

He never came to me when I would call

Unless I had a tennis ball,

Or he felt like it,

But mostly he didn't come at all.

When he was young

He never learned to heel

Or sit or stay,

He did things his way.

Discipline was not his bag

But when you were with him things sure didn't drag.

He'd dig up a rosebush just to spite me,

And when I'd grab him, he'd turn and bite me.

He bit lots of folks from day to day,

The delivery boy was his favorite prey.

The gas man wouldn't read our meter,

He said we owned a real man-eater.

He set the house on fire

But the story's long to tell.

Suffice it to say that he survived

And the house survived as well.

On the evening walks, and Gloria took him,

He was always first out the door.

The Old One and I brought up the rear

Because our bones were sore.

He would charge up the street with Mom hanging on,

What a beautiful pair they were!

And if it was still light and the tourists were out,

They created a bit of a stir.

But every once in a while, he would stop in his tracks

And with a frown on his face look around.

It was just to make sure that the Old One was there

And would follow him where he was bound.

We are early-to-bedders at our house -- I guess I'm the first to retire.

And as I'd leave the room he'd look at me

And get up from his place by the fire.

He knew where the tennis balls were upstairs,

And I'd give him one for a while.

He would push it under the bed with his nose

And I'd fish it out with a smile.

And before very long He'd tire of the ball

And be asleep in his corner In no time at all.

And there were nights when I'd feel him Climb upon our bed

And lie between us,

And I'd pat his head.

And there were nights when I'd feel this stare

And I'd wake up and he'd be sitting there

And I reach out my hand and stroke his hair.

And sometimes I'd feel him sigh and I think I know the reason why.

He would wake up at night

And he would have this fear

Of the dark, of life, of lots of things,

And he'd be glad to have me near.

And now he's dead.

And there are nights when I think I feel him

Climb upon our bed and lie between us,

And I pat his head.

And there are nights when I think I feel that stare

And I reach out my hand to stroke his hair,

But he's not there.

Oh, how I wish that wasn't so,

I'll always love a dog named Beau.

For Marilyn Monroe: 'I cannot say goodbye. Marilyn never liked goodbyes', Lee Strasberg - 1962

8 August, 1962, Westwood Memorial Cemetery, Los Angeles, California

Marilyn Monroe was a legend. In her own lifetime she created a myth of what a poor girl from a deprived background could attain. For the entire world she became a symbol of the eternal feminine.

But I have no words to describe the myth and the legend, nor would she want us to do so. I did not know this Marilyn Monroe, nor did she.

We gathered here today, knew only Marilyn – a warm human being, impulsive and shy, and lonely, sensitive and in fear of rejection, yet ever avid for life and reaching out for fulfillment.

I will not insult the privacy of your memory of her – a privacy she sought and treasured – by trying to describe her whom you know, to you, who knew her. In our memories of her, she remains alive and not only a shadow on the screen or a glamorous personality.

For us Marilyn was a devoted and loyal friend, a colleague constantly reaching for perfection. We shared her pain and difficulties and some of her joys. She was a member of our family. It is difficult to accept the fact that her zest for life has been ended by this dreadful accident.

Despite the heights and brilliance she had attained on the screen, she was planning for the future; she was looking forward to participating in the many exciting things which she planned. In her eyes, and in mine, her career was just beginning. The dream of her talent, which she had nurtured as a child, was not a mirage.

When she first came to me I was amazed at the startling sensitivity which she possessed and which had remained fresh and undimmed, struggling to express itself despite the life to which she had been subjected. Others were as physically beautiful as she was, but there was obviously something more in her, something that people saw and recognized in her performances, and with which they identified.

She had a luminous quality – a combination of wistfulness, radiance, yearning – that set her apart and yet make everyone wish to be a part of it, to share in the childish naivete which was at once so shy and yet so vibrant.

This quality was even more evident when she was in the stage. I am truly sorry that you andthe public who loved her did not have the opportunity to see her as we did, in many of the roles that foreshadowed what she would have become. Without a doubt she would have been one of the really great actresses of the stage.

Now it is all at an end. I hope her death will stir sympathy and understanding for a sensitive artist and a woman who brought joy and pleasure to the world.

I cannot say goodbye. Marilyn never liked goodbyes, but in the peculiar way she had of turning things around so that they faced reality – I will say au revoir.

For the country to which she has gone, we must all someday visit.