My friend Donna, who I had known for a remarkable 44 years, is suddenly, inexplicably gone.
I woke up last Saturday morning and spent a lazy hour in bed, chatting with Molner and just hanging out. My phone was off, so I missed two calls from my friend Bernie Smilovitz, a Detroit sportscaster who I’ve known and loved for decades. He married my good friend Donna Rockwell in 1985 after meeting her at channel 5 (WTTG) in Washington, DC. Then I got a text from Donna’s sister.
“Hi Katie, this is Leah Rockwell, Donna’s sister. Please call Bernie. This is difficult to say. Donna passed away this morning from complications from a hernia surgery she had a few days ago. We’re all in shock. I know the delivery of this news really sucks. The entire situation is unreal. Sending love from the family.”
It took several seconds for my mind to even process the text, much less the terrible news it contained. My friend Donna, who I had known for a remarkable 44 years, suddenly, inexplicably gone. The medical examiner would later say it was a blood clot that took her from us. Donna was unbelievably special to me. Rather than explain it to you, I wanted to share my eulogy from her funeral service that took place Tuesday in Detroit. Her sons Zach and Jake also spoke. They are magnificent embodiments of everything Donna stood for: character, kindness, and decency. These two brothers my friend raised so well both live in Brooklyn. I included their eulogies, too. My friend Wendy and I remarked that after they read it, we hoped that we could be half the mothers Donna was.
Rest well, my sweet Donna. I know there was so much you still wanted to do, but know you will truly live forever in our hearts.
My Eulogy
I am profoundly grateful and honored to be able to talk about my friend Donna today. I think I’m speaking on behalf of so many of you — because this I know to be true: Everyone loved Donna.
Ever since I heard the news on Saturday morning, I find that several times during the day, I stop and shake my head in disbelief. How could it be that Donna — this vibrant, radiant light — is gone? Somehow the shock of it all has inured us from the deep grief and heartache that we know will only intensify in the days, weeks, months, even years to come.
As I sat down to write this, I realized how difficult it would be to describe this exquisite human being. Because what Donna emanated every day of her too-short life is almost impossible to put into words. She was a feeling — an essence — a life force. Donna’s uncanny ability to listen, consider, care deeply, love unconditionally, and simply be there — was perhaps the greatest of her many gifts. People often describe someone’s “generosity of spirit.” Often it’s BS. But with Donna, it was true. So many of us here were the lucky recipients of that generosity. I know I was.
Donna and I first met when we were young, ambitious women in our early 20s, interested in embarking on a career in TV news. This was 1980; to give you an idea of how long ago that was, it was the year that Post-it notes, the Rubix cube, and Pac-Man were introduced and we were all watching to see who shot JR.
Donna, Wendy Walker, and I all worked in the Washington Bureau of CNN when it was a fledgling new enterprise, imagined by a guy named Ted Turner who famously said to a group of executives, “We’re going to beam this shit all over the world.” So inspiring…
To say it was a rag-tag operation may be an understatement. We had to do pretty much everything. We put make-up on the guests, ordered office furniture, bought the Mr. Coffee machine, and fetched the legal pads. Donna worked for CNN’s first hire, Daniel Schorr, whose title was Senior Correspondent. We used to call him Dan Schorr, Senile Correspondent because we thought he was so old…He was 66.
Dan, of course, was a journalistic legend so working for him was somewhat of a master class in the art of reporting, although by then, Dan was doing less reporting and more bloviating.
Donna’s unflappable nature and quick wit made her the perfect producer and counterweight to Dan’s portentousness. They developed a relationship of mutual respect and affection; Donna stayed in touch with the Schorr family for years after Dan retired.
Back then, It wasn’t always easy being a woman in TV News. I’ve often said we worked in the industry when “harass” was two words instead of one. You can only imagine how often our Donna was hit on. My favorite story was when NBC’s bald, bespectacled bow tie-wearing Chief Economics reporter Irving R. Levine tried to kiss her in a car and she pushed him away. Good Lord.
After Dan, she became a producer on Capitol Hill — that’s where she met another young journalist working for the Associated Press named Louise Schiavone. Louise couldn’t be here today, but sent me this email about Donna:
“When we met, Donna was a CNN producer covering the United States Senate. Hardworking, energetic, intelligent, inquisitive, and beautiful, her sparkle could light up the room. We became fast friends and had a million meals together — from the reporters’ table in the Senate to Roy Rogers to wonderful Georgetown restaurants. I could tell you today what she loved — pasta in a lobster champagne sauce from Chef Testa, chicken wings at Roy Rogers, and chicken pan-fried noodles at an M Street Chinese restaurant.”
Wow, she and Donna did a lot of eating..and Donna really liked chicken!
Louise recalled Donna’s utter inability to tell a joke, matched only by her ability to laugh at herself. But what stuck out for Louise was the unrestrained affection Donna showed her close friends.
Louise was right. Unrestrained affection. And I know for a fact that Donna was one of those rare creatures who was happy, truly happy, without one scintilla of jealousy or resentment when good things happened to the people she loved.
Sometimes life would get in the way, but Donna and I stayed close through the years. We marked the milestones in our lives — as the cartwheels turned to car wheels through the town. We bitched about politics, gossiped about the news business, kvelled over what was happening with our kids, and bemoaned what was happening to our necks as they started to look more and more like Ronald Reagan’s. She called me Katrina, I called her Donnala. She was there for me through good times and bad. When I miraculously got the job anchoring The TODAY Show, Donna was there. When my husband Jay was diagnosed with colon cancer, Donna was there. When I was having a difficult time at CBS, Donna was there. When I dove back into the dating pool and got dumped (more than once), Donna was there. There was a period of time when I would often call her at 4 in the morning (I’m sorry Bernie). She’d whisper, “Just a second,” tiptoe out of her bedroom, and go to another room to comfort and console me and explain what terms like “delayed grief” meant.
Donna was a healer. So it made perfect sense when she moved seamlessly from journalism to clinical psychology. Think of how much money we all saved in therapy bills! We were so proud of her. She never stopped learning and growing and expanding her mind and her heart and most importantly, helping others. It’s ironic that the best person to navigate the trauma of this loss would have been Donna herself. And although she had transitioned to a new career — a new calling, really — she never stopped being engaged in the world and what was happening. I’ve thought about her so much as the horrifying events in Israel and Gaza continue to unfold. WWDS, I wondered. What would Donna say?
As many of us know, Donna was focused on the future. She was so excited to write a book — using all her hard-earned wisdom — that would help people, especially young girls, understand their worth in a world that often values all the wrong things. She loved her little apartment on upper 5th avenue overlooking the park — it had a calming and invigorating effect on her. She was thrilled to be a grandmother…I’m just sorry I never really saw her in action, but from what we’ve heard, her Nana Donna skills were next level, and the bonds she formed with Eloise, Seb, and Izzy were unbreakable. Meanwhile, Zach and Jake, you know how fiercely she loved you. When she described your latest career moves, she was bursting with pride. She was so proud of your extraordinary wives, Alysha and Laura, and the lives you’ve created. And Bernie. Bernie, Bernie, Bernie. She adored you. Through it all, the ups and downs, the challenges that were thrown your way, you were her person. She not only loved you, she understood you. And to be known and loved so completely, that’s more than any one of us could ask for.
I’d give anything to have just a little more time with Donna. To look into those sparkling eyes, to listen to her slightly husky, yet mellifluous voice, to hear that high-pitched laugh that was more like a trill, to watch her as she would knowingly nod with her head slightly cocked. To bask in the warmth of her love. To tell her how much she meant to me. I still can’t believe she’s gone.
Wendy has spent the last few days reading old emails and texts between her and Donna so she can feel connected to one of her oldest and dearest friends. It’s amazing how our phones contain a digital history of our lives.
This is what Wendy wanted to say today:
Donnala, the last three days have seemed endless. All I keep thinking is…I wish I had the chance to share one more laugh, one more brilliant idea on how to save CNN, or one more conversation about our kids, just one more moment to share with you.
So I’m going to send you one last text so I can tell you exactly what you have always meant to me. I hope you can hear me:
Dearest Donna, our 40-plus years of friendship have brought us from kids to seniors. And throughout those years, there is one word I would use to describe you, and that is a Giver. There has never been a time that you haven’t done everything you can for everyone in your life. You would spend endless hours on the phone or on a walk with loved ones just to simply listen. Your silence and your calm advice were profound.
I have never heard a negative word about you. Of course, we know you’re brilliant and a deep thinker, but your kindness and your heart are what will stay with me forever. I will honor your memory by trying to be more like you. The devotion you had to your work and to helping others heal is magical. But you always remembered what was most important to you, and that was being a mother, a grandmother, and a wife. Your family is your biggest accomplishment and they are the luckiest family in the world to have had you.
My heart breaks for all of us left on earth without you. But I want to thank you for your love and your laughter. I’m going to miss you quietly every day. I’ll pick out a star in the sky and look up and smile at you for the rest of my life. I know you’ll be watching over all of us, guiding our lives with your gentle touch and loving heart.
So my dear Donna, thank you for being such a bright light in my life, our lives. You will live on forever in our hearts and in our smiles. I know that’s what you would want.
Love, Wendy
I did the same thing. One of my last texts from Donna was this:
Hi Katie! I’m in NYC for two weeks. I’m staying with the kids in Brooklyn this week as Jake and Laura are away. Around next week, too. Let me know if you want to go for a walk in the park next week.
I was traveling so I didn’t get to see Donna when she was in New York for the last time. We both thought there would be a next time.
She ended that last text this way:
Please remember that I’m always here to talk, no matter what’s bothering you, thoughts you might be thinking, or issues you need to address.
She signed off with two emojis: a heart and a kiss.
That was Donna. Always there.
I guess in a way, Donna left us a blueprint for a life well lived. To always make time. To remember what’s important. To be present. To cherish the ones we love. God, we will miss you.
Thank you, Donna. How incredibly lucky we were.
To better articulate the impact Donna had on our lives, I’m sharing her son’s eulogies.
Jake’s Eulogy
Hi everyone,
I’m Jake, Donna’s youngest son and I’d like to tell you a few stories about my mom if you wouldn’t mind.
My mom was a private person who in a lot of ways kept out of the spotlight that my dad created. But off stage, she was incredibly busy, touching a remarkable number of peoples’ lives — from fleeting encounters to decades-long relationships.
She had a traumatic childhood that brought her from the Jewish communities of Northern New Jersey to distant beaches and unpaved roads in Barbados. In New Jersey, she witnessed a lot of broken relationships and heartache. She often sought refuge in the quietness of the woods behind her house. And in those woods, in those quiet moments she had to herself, she learned how to appreciate being alive and present, hearing rustling trees and feeling the breeze. She learned how to take control of her own situation and she learned how to be in charge. She learned how to take a deep breath. And she learned how to take care of herself which enabled her to care for others.
In Barbados, she learned that there’s peace on the other side of inexplicable pain.
My mom loved deeply. And she took the lessons of pain from her broken family and made them right in her own life.
She took great pride in looking after her younger sister Leah and crying alongside her brother Josh.
She loved my Grandma Rita and Grandma Elen for all they were capable of loving in return. She found the warmth of Barbara Helton and called Barb “her mother by choice.”
From the moment she first met her future daughters-in-law, Laura and Alysha, she showed them unparalleled love and deference. Some of my fondest memories of late were my mom confiding in me about how amazing of a mother she thought Laura was. If ever my flight home from a work trip got delayed, she’d savor the chance to have dinner with Laura just the two of them.
She built real and lasting relationships with Zach and my in-laws — her machatunim, as she would say.
And she took such pride in the close friends in my life — always sure to use their nicknames when asking about them like the cool mom she was. She loved her Eloise. And her Sebby. And her Izzy.
She loved my dad beautifully and deeply for 43 years. She made him laugh more than the rest of us — except Zach, sadly Zach was first.
But more than anyone else, she loved Zach and me. She cared for a lot of people in her life but Zach and I were her masterpiece. Truly her life’s work as she saw it. The three of us were as close as three humans could be. She treated us with a profound sense of mutual respect that made us the men we are today.
She taught us about the breeze, how to cook, and how to treat women. She taught us about eastern philosophy and cable news. She taught us to do something right or to not do it at all.
She recently told me about how “lucky” she was to get all of those years “learning” from us as kids — learning about life all over again through our eyes.
As a friend put it in a letter yesterday, “I always admired your mom growing up. The ultimate boy mom with a cool career and an amazing family.”
My mom’s nickname for Zach and me was “Two Brothers.” When we’d get in our twin beds as kids, she’d say, “Two Brothers.” When we posed for photos at each other’s weddings she was standing on the side saying, “Two Brothers.”
“I’m not the point,” she’d say. “Someday I won’t be here and all that will remain is the bond of the two brothers.” She insisted that we never fight, that we were never competitive, and more than anything, that we root for each other’s success and be there for each other always.
A family friend texted me this yesterday: “Your mom was championing young women of late but she learned everything she was espousing from raising two strong boys — ‘Two Brothers.’ Two Brothers must and will be your legacy to your mother.’”
The worst part of that closeness was having to say goodbye. I remember the night she and I dropped Zach off at college and I was a mess the whole ride home — If you can’t tell, I’m a crier. We got home and stood in the garage holding each other, just sobbing in each other’s arms. She told me “Jakey we’re going to get through this together. I promise you that we will.”
I really wanted to tell a story that summed up Mom but there really isn’t one — which I kind of think is the point. She excelled at the quiet moments and all the in-between times that the rest of us miss. Cooking dinner with her on weeknights were the best moments of my life. All the time I’d cuddle up next to her as she edited my school papers and taught me how to write are the best moments of my life. When she showed up at the hospital the night Eloise was born with a suitcase full of Gatorade was the best moment of my life.
As everyone knows, my mom was in great health up until this terrible tragedy occurred.
She watched our four-year-old daughter and two-year-old son for a week by herself just three weeks ago.
Afterward, she texted me and I’d like to read her text out loud:
“Jake! Thank you for the amazing memories I got to create with your beautiful children these past few days. It was just the best. I will cherish my mornings with Seb before the sun was out and watching him smush berries at lunch. I’ll cherish my adventures with Eloise going to school, ballet, piano, and everywhere else. But most of all I’ll cherish the quiet moments just coloring or watching the rain with them. I’m just so appreciative of it all.”
Mom, we’ll cherish all the quiet moments we got with you, too. And every time we get sad about all the quiet moments we’re now going to miss, we promise to take a deep breath and appreciate all the times we did have. I love you. Thank you.
Zach’s Eulogy
Hello everyone.
It’s funny to try to tell this room “who Donna was” since being in her presence for five minutes would tell you everything you needed to know. But I’m so grateful to say that I got to be with her for 36 years. And over the last three days, I’ve come to understand that she will be with me for the rest of my life.
She had the most brilliant mind and the sharpest wit and was the warmest, most decent human being to everyone and everything. She taught me how to see the world and how to see myself. She taught me about Sondheim and Ed Murrow, and she taught me that what you do in life only matters when no one is looking.
Mother
The first thing I knew about this world was that I had the most special mother. When I was in first grade, we went to see a live production of The Wizard of Oz at the Birmingham Theater, and at intermission, all the other mothers made their sons go home because it was bedtime or whatever and I remember turning to my mom and asking if we had to go to and she said, “of course not.” I always thought that was for me, so that I didn’t lose the catharsis or meaning of the show but later she told me she just really wanted to see the ending. And that’s how she raised me and Jake, who I will get to in a moment. She raised us like she was raising herself, at least that’s what she told me many many times.
Thinker
We talked about death a lot. It was our favorite topic of conversation. She studied mindfulness for 30 years. She studied with Pema Chödrön. She became a Shambhala Buddhist meditation instructor. She lived according to a mindfulness practice before she even had a word for it.
One time, the Dalai Lama was in New York and she wanted to go see him speak, but we couldn’t get tickets, so we somehow snuck in. And we ended up near the side of the stage where he was speaking and the entire row leading to us was Tibetan monks. So it was Dalai Lama speaking to a whole bunch of monks and then Mom and me.
She took me to China and we traveled through Tibet together. At every stop, I would go take a picture or something and come back and Mom would be hearing our guide’s entire life story. She was so deeply interested in people, in suffering, in joy, and in kindness — whether it was our guide in Tibet or me. She lived so presently, so in the moment, so openly and empathetically. But little stories can’t do justice to her ocean of warmth and presence. She would be upset with me for even suggesting it was some kind of decision and not just the way she wanted to live, which is true.
Funny
Donna was also funny. The funniest, wisest person I’ve ever known. To be funny I think is to be smart. It’s having an understanding of the world and having a take on it. And at its core, it’s being a pissed-off humanitarian who wants the world to be different. And that is who Donna was. She loved to laugh, which is part of why she married TV’s Bernie Smilovitz, as I call him. And that’s why I wanted to be funny — to hear her laugh. I also suspect she wanted that, too, since she gave me George Carlin and Steve Martin albums before I could use the monkey bars. Well, I still can’t use the monkey bars.
Family
Donna was an incredibly career-driven woman with enormous promise and TV presence, then she decided to become a mother and give that up. I always apologized to her for that; I still feel guilty about it. But she told me that she always dreamt of being a mother, it was part of her plan. She was a mother figure to my incredible Aunt Leah and Uncle Josh, who are warm and kind. My wife Alysha found a kindred spirit in Donna — they had 10 beautiful years together. Alysha says she saw into her soul as much as any person in her life and my mother felt the same. Donna also raised TV’s Bernie Smilovitz into the man he is today: a present, genuine decent man whom Jake and I are so proud to have as our father and has handled this impossibly horrible week with such openness and tenderness. I can only assume that’s the work of Mom.
And Jakey. I remember before Jake was born, Donna sat me down and told me the bad news that there would be another. Actually, she told me that a very special person was coming and he would be my best friend for the rest of my life. And although every parent says that, she was right. My first memory in life is of Dad and me driving to the hospital, walking into Mom’s hospital room, and seeing her there in bed. She told me to lie down next to her and then she introduced me to Jake. And from then on the three of us were inseparable. Like Jake said, there was no fighting. If we started scuffling, she would threaten to make us have a tea party. Or she would say, if you two can’t get along, how are Israel and Palestine supposed to get along? To four-year-olds. But we always knew we were on the same team. Jake, you are my best friend, and you and I will be together forever.
I have thought about my mom’s death for my entire life. My greatest nightmare. And Mom and I talked about her dying a lot. Mostly because Donna likes talking about stuff like that. She said monk and peace activist Thích Nhất Hạnh said that meditation on death makes us more appreciative of life, and there was no one more appreciative of life than my mom.
And she taught me something else: to leave nothing left unsaid. And she and I left nothing unsaid. I think she left nothing unsaid with a lot of people in her life. She wanted me to understand that we’re born into this world, which is a miracle, and that the price of that miracle is that someday we must die. Or to put it another way, nothing is born and nothing dies.
Mom, I will do my best to live honorably as you would see fit. I will try to carry your love and light throughout my life and to my daughter Izzy. I will miss you more than I can bear to imagine right now. And I will love you always. Thank you, Mom.
