Remembrance of Dennis Kilduff

As many of you know, my dad, Dennis Kilduff, age 69, passed away at 11:35 p.m. on Monday, March 2nd. On this date, 33 years ago, his big sister and Godmother, Mary Driscoll, passed away and I've a strong feeling that the two of them were in cahoots about the timing. There seems to have been an extraordinary amount of synchronicity these last couple of weeks. Omens too have been flying out of the woodwork.

Dennis at sister Mary's wedding in 1953

The record-breaking snowfall in Boston didn't help ease his symptoms over this winter. Diagnosed with Pulmonary Fibrosis in March of 2013, Dad never once complained of losing his breath but he did grow frustrated that he couldn't be helpful around the house. Pulmonary Fibrosis causes scarring of the lungs; in Dad's case it was idiopathic, meaning the doctors could not determine its origin. Having toiled in a printing shop for decades, Dad was likely exposed him to all sorts of fumes and chemicals. He sacrificed his health so he could raise us kids. It makes me think often about sacrifice and how it has never really been a part of my repertoire. After first finding out about his diagnosis, I was quick to blame his sedentary lifestyle but I've since tamed my arrogance. Of course, I never shared my non-accredited opinion but it gave me a quick dose of cold comfort. Still, this is what I feel most guilty about during his illness - for even thinking that he could be held responsible.

Top: Dad & Me,

Bottom: Dad & sister Katie

People loved my dad - I really wanted to stress this in my eulogy. He was a jokester who talked to strangers and carried a bit of magic wherever he went. I don't know if I'm in a bit of shock or if I have accepted it and moved on. I think if anything I'm left with an icky feeling that things have changed irrevocably; that there is a big hole in our living room and that my sister will have one fewer babysitter. :( I'm stressing about the banal like wondering who is going to sit in his chair for Thanksgiving. Or do we leave it as is, empty and sacred, freezing time in a sort of New England amber?

Here sporting fake teeth and holding grandson, Sean

To make matters stranger, I'm writing this from a wet, cool and moody Maui. Mauricio and I had booked the trip months ago and true to style my dad had accommodated me until the very end. All of the funeral and family events wrapped up by 4 p.m. on Friday, March 6th and my plane left Boston at 6 p.m. The next morn we departed for Kahului.

The sun has come out in intervals but it's been a mostly wet (and healing) experience. The Northern Cardinal, one of my dad's favorites and a clear spirit guide of his, has followed me down to Hawaii. The bird was introduced here in 1929. I heard it whistling as we honored my dad at Cedar Grove Cemetery in Dorchester but here I keep bumping into it, up close and personal - like a half dozen meetings with nobody else around. Also I've been reading Cheryl Strayed's Wild memoir - an account of a young woman who loses her shit after her mother dies and decides to hike the Pacific Crest Trail. I devoured the recent film with Reese Witherspoon. I'm on the part where she berates her mother for liking the middle-brow James Michener but then comes around to embracing the author because it was a pure and authentic fancy of her mother. Likewise I plan on starting to collect Hawaiian shirts and any other hobby that I once dismissed as too dad-like and too dorky.

Northern Cardinal, one of hundreds, in Maui

I know in my heart that my dad has been absorbed into the heart of God and has been welcomed into heaven - I just don't know what to do in his absence except to keep pushing on and making him proud.

Top: My 28th Birthday,

Bottom: Holding Emily, granddaughter

Remembrance of Dennis Kilduff

March 6, 2015

St. Agatha’s Church, Milton, MA

The clearest memories I have of my dad always involve him doing something kind, generous or quirky. As kids, we would constantly hear his tag line: “Is everybody happy?” as if instilling harmony and having a good time were his life goals. He would often take us on hikes to the Blue Hills and Houghton’s Pond where we stop and feed carrot sticks and apple slices to the old M.D.C. horses and on day trips to Sandy Neck Beach where we and the other neighborhood kids would run around on the dunes before going swimming. He’d make sure to buy enough orange slices for our soccer team during the half-time refreshment and show up regularly for all our little-league baseball games. Kids and animals took to him as a magnet; it’s as if they could better sense his aura of kindness and warmth. While many of us misplace everything constantly, Dennis Kilduff would always stress the importance of being meticulous and well-prepared (from handkerchiefs to layers of clothing, from cash-in-the-pocket to bottles of motor oil - we never lacked anything when my Dad had his say).

Top: Family Photo

Bottom: Pops & Me (2005ish?)

In all his Leo glory, he shined easily in social settings and as the youngest of ten, always knew how to pull a prank. He was dutiful and loving with his mother but barely got a chance to know his own father. Tragedy in his life appeared from time to time but as an intensely private person, it rarely broke the surface of his demeanor. I specifically remember him telling me that “You always want to leave a conversation with the other person either smiling or laughing.”

Dad did share one commonality with Jesus Christ: they both loved to work with wood. For Dennis it was not just traditional carpentry but reworking beat-up, old forgotten pieces of furniture. He’d lacquer them and give them shine, transforming them into something brand new and adored. It was a certain carpenter’s alchemy of turning the dusty and rotten into hot ticket items: hope chests, tables, chairs - nothing was turned away. There were multiple projects cooking in our garage (or on a nice day, in our driveway). Whenever I catch a whiff of shellac, I see my dad, proudly toiling over his latest achievement and hear 2nd Corinthians 5:17, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.”

At work, as the foreman at the printing press, he was exalted by his employees and respected by his clients. Our home, in fact, was a surplus of paper goods. As kids we would have the shiniest and toughest folded book covers for our school text books and rolls of lily-white poster board that we could use for our lemonade stands and art projects. Our walls were graced with famous framed reprints from the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston. Additionally, Dennis Kilduff had terrific handwriting that betrayed his pure mind and heart. He was my go-to-guy in matters of aesthetics and left me with an appreciation of paper and language.

Four minutes describing him on the podium cannot do him justice. If we heard someone drone on at a public event, he’d whisper to me on the sly “When is this guy gonna pipe down?” People loved him because he had just enough grumpy irreverence to keep you on edge but on his own accord would wake each day on the more chipper end of the spectrum, seeing where he could be of service (truly). Like in Luke 6:45: “The good person out of the good treasure of his heart produces good, and the evil person out of his evil treasure produces evil, for out of the abundance of the heart his mouth speaks.” Dennis Kilduff laughed and spoke frequently with his surviving siblings, Ida Filomena Emde and Margaret Veronica Kilduff. He worshipped his wife, Nancy Maureen Kilduff, my mother, with whom he had just celebrated 40 years of marriage. Karen Anne Mahoney, my honorary aunt, was constant in her friendship their whole lives. Eric Christopher Hess, another family friend, regularly reveled in conversation with Dennis, as did Rose Margaret Canney. His grandchildren, Sean Thomas, age 9, Emily Marion, age 6 and Maggie Grace, age 2, all idolized their papa; they visited our Milton home nearly everyday. My sister, Kathryn Anne Burns and brother-in-law, Timothy Patrick Burns were steadfast companions to my father in good times and bad while raising three beautiful children nearby. But it was my brother, Sean Paul Kilduff, who was Dad’s closest confidant and tireless caretaker. Sean and my mother somehow survived this horrid winter, feeding, tending to and washing my dad as his health dramatically declined. They are true angels of sacrifice.

I would be remiss if I did not mention Margaret, Paula, Nicole and Linda from Seasons Hospice who provided impeccable in-home care for the last year and a half. The staff at Tufts Medical Center too were stellar in their service. My father looked forward to Wednesdays when his nursing assistant, Margaret, would give him a hot shower and loving attention. Our next-door neighbors, the Hunt Family, have also been exceptional in their goodwill and friendship.

We all hit the lottery in terms of having a father, a husband, a friend and a papa who was so steady, hardworking and mild-mannered in his day-to-day doings. But it was his sense of fun and levity that carried all of us our whole lives. Dennis Kilduff didn’t believe in getting bent out of shape. So “until we meet again,” pops, “May God hold you in the palm of His hand.”

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Intercessional Prayers

Funeral for Dennis Kilduff

For the men and women caretakers, the hardworking angels sweating on Earth, like the fine employees at Seasons Hospice and Palliative Care, who tend to the sick and dying and help ease their transition into God’s loving embrace, we pray to the Lord...