Donald Allen Doyle

I returned from a month in Sperlonga on August 30, 1997 to the news that Princess Diana had been killed in a car crash in a tunnel in Paris.  Two weeks later on September 15, my father died.  I had last seen him in July prior to departing for Rome.  He was unwell, pale, struggling for breath, nauseous, dizzy and in pain from fibromyalgia.  She let him have chocolate pudding for dessert and coffee following dinner.  He was sitting in the living room reading the paper when all of a sudden he had an arthoschlerotic embolism.  And that was that.  Merciful, I say, as dying of emphysema must be a dreadful way to go and he was quite afraid of that.

There followed two ghastly visits to East Haddam.  Each one, she behaved like a lunatic.  Threatening that she was going to find out what Clive and I talked about – hadn’t spoken to him in months.  The second weekend was my father’s memorial service (he was an atheist) and the gays all sang songs and read poetry.  Afterward there was a reception.

The next day I found her in bed holding a coffee filter with nitroglycerine pills.  She was still going on about what I had said to Clive.  Then she became quite violent that I had not read a shopping bag full of condolences that I was not even aware existed.  She finally became so violent that I called a cab but she grabbed the phone out of my hand.  So she drove me to Old Saybrook in a death-defying ride.  She peeled into the parking lot and let me out and then skidded her tires as she zoomed away.  That was the last time I saw or spoke to her.

Following is my email to Carolyn Buckley dated September 17, 1997: