My Life as a Furry Red Monster - Kevin Clash [35]
“What’s up, Miss Cindy? Everything all right?” I asked her. I sometimes commented on how serious she was, how she walked around a lot of the time as if she were deep in thought. She chewed at her bottom lip for a moment. “Everything’s okay. Just thinking about some things at home that I have to fix.” She walked off with a quick wave.
Cindy frequently complained of headaches, and by the middle of our junior year, they became so persistent and so debilitating that she had to see a doctor. She received the worst possible diagnosis: cancer.
I was shocked when I learned the news. I had to do something to help Cindy, but I felt powerless. Then I came up with a plan. I could show everyone how talented she was and give her one last chance to perform for an audience.
I had been doing puppet shows in and around Baltimore for a while now and had even started appearing on a local children’s television show hosted by Stu Kerr, my friend and mentor. I invited Cindy to sing with me at a show Stu and I were doing at the Inner Harbor, Baltimore’s waterfront shopping and entertainment complex. She eagerly agreed. She sang “Corner of the Sky” from the musical Pippin to my puppet Bartee. Chemotherapy had taken her hair, and her delicate features were nearly lost in the puffiness of her face. Her rendition brought the house down and tears to my eyes. She died eight weeks later.
Even though I knew for some time that her death was inevitable, I was devastated when I found out. I went into the choral classroom and sat on the piano bench and stared at her seat for a few minutes. I couldn’t imagine that she wasn’t going to barrel into the room as she usually did, arms loaded with books, her voice and presence lighting up the room. I expressed my grief and love for Cindy through my craft, and at her funeral, I gave her mother a clown puppet to donate to a children’s cancer charity in Cindy’s name.
One thing I learned back then was that performing in front of an audience made me step outside of myself and forget for a little while whatever was troubling me. I’ll always remember Cindy’s final performance with me, and the courage she displayed. She was so thin and frail, I thought she wouldn’t get through the song, but when we got out on that stage, that voice…Lord, that voice.
Her eyes shone and her rapturous voice washed out across the audience all the way to the back rows. She made it seem effortless. Cindy had the guts to live her last days with passion, sharing her gift and getting out in front of an audience to do what she loved.
FOR SUCH A small monster, Elmo has an enormously brave heart. He’s taught me so much about courage, especially about staying strong in the face of painful circumstances.
As part of my work with Sesame Street, my fellow Muppeteers and I regularly visit and entertain sick children. Working with organizations like the Make-A-Wish Foundation, we go into hospitals and visit with kids, parents, and medical staff, or sometimes invite the children onto the set of the show. Doing this type of performance is as rewarding as it is challenging. But I admit I found it particularly difficult when I first started doing the work, until I let Elmo take over.
I found it hard to move past the emotional hurdles, especially if we were working with terminally ill children. I’d look at their parents, I’d think of my own daughter, and I’d feel incredibly sad. But then I’d remember: My job was to entertain, and it was time to let Elmo do his thing.
Elmo knows how to see a child and not a disease or a condition. What Elmo sees is a potential playmate, someone who wants to laugh and sing and have fun with him like all his other friends do. Once a beautiful little