by C McGivern
Standing around, waiting nervously, he had vivid memories of the other times he had done exactly the same thing, usually with his hand wrapped around a large glass of tequila. Tonight there was no tequila, no party planned for after the show, and no guests to entertain. He spoke to Johnny Carson who was hosting the show that year. They’d been friends a long time. Carson appreciated Duke’s sense of the ridiculous and the liveliness that had frequently caught him unawares when he was a guest on his show. Tonight was different, Duke was more serious and Carson sensed the significance of the evening for him.
The show progressed too slowly for the impatient Duke who was tiring fast. Before he was called out on stage a re-run of part of the 1978 Oscars ceremony was screened for the audience. Duke had been in hospital having his heart surgery that year, it had been one of the few occasions he had missed. Johnny Carson took everyone’s minds back, “Last year at the fiftieth anniversary presentation of the Academy Awards an American institution stood on this stage and said some very heartfelt words about another American institution. Tonight we’d like to relive that moment with you.” The clip showed an emotional Bob Hope, “Before we get to the big one here’s a word to one of Hollywood’s biggest. He’s in Boston right now and we want you to know Duke, we miss you tonight. We expect to see you amble out here in person next year, because nobody else can walk in John Wayne’s boots.”
Carson then introduced “Mr John Wayne.” Duke half ran down the stairs and out onto the stage. He then ambled across it with a slower, more deliberate Wayne roll, hand outstretched in greeting to Carson. As he sauntered into the brilliant lights, there was an audible gasp from the audience. He looked graceful, slim, upright and strong, better in many ways than he had looked for the last few years and yet at the same time, nothing could hide the fact that he was close to death. Lawrence Olivier stood up, hands clasped tightly together in front of his face, he was scarcely able to breathe. Gregory Peck clapped and cheered and the distinguished gathering of stars refused to be seated.
The newly ordered tuxedo had arrived several weeks before the show. By the night of the awards it hung loosely on his emaciated frame, and in an effort to give his body some definition and to hide the weight loss he wore a wet suit under his shirt. He was pure elegance, tall and broad shouldered, but he fooled no one who saw him. The audience already knew he had cancer, now they knew he was dying.
They rose as one to salute him, and they continued clapping, many in tears, delaying his speech for several emotion-packed minutes. He stood in shocked amazement, and rubbed the side of his nose with a gesture straight from Red River. He fidgeted nervously and ran a hand lightly across his stomach before putting both hands up to demand silence. The reception, the standing ovation, and the genuine warmth he felt coming at him from his peers thrilled him and somehow he managed to stand up long enough to receive their heartfelt good wishes, though at one point he rested his hands on the podium for support. When the audience quietened he began with difficulty, “Thank you ladies and gentlemen. That’s just about the only medicine a fella’d ever really need. Believe me when I tell you that I’m mighty pleased that I am able to amble down here tonight.” He paused for a long time before continuing, swallowing hard and painfully, “Well, Oscar and I have something in common. Oscar first came to the Hollywood scene in 1928. So did I… We’re both a little weather-beaten, but we’re still here and plan to be around a whole lot longer.” The audience understood they were witnessing the final performance of “one of Hollywood’s biggest.” He was saying goodbye in the grandest style, at the most fitting of occasions.
He had prepared a statement for the Press that was never issued, “I would like to make one comment about the tribute of affection for me last night. It was the result of the dedication of many people. Decades of men and women who entered our business in the 20s, the 30s, the 40s, the 50s and the 60s, and brought our art form to flower by revealing intimate flashes of greatness, of nobility, of humor, of fineness of the inner soul against a growing tendency of today for realism and vulgarities without the relief of the aforementioned beauty and respect for human dignity… but I plead for the guidelines of good taste, so that our peers may be proud of the product carrying the Hollywood seal, rather than have it represent an alphabetical gradation of vulgarity in our pictures.”
The effort he put into attending the ceremony left him exhausted but the following weekend, despite all Pat’s protests, he went out on The Wild Goose with old friends, Ralph and Marjorie Wingfield. He had a special reason for sailing to Catalina that weekend and he even persuaded his doctor to allow him to miss his regular radiation treatment. He had said goodbye to his adoring public, now it was time for the private ones to start. He would never see his beloved island again and he had also taken the heart-breaking decision to sell The Goose, his proudest possession.
This was to be the final voyage. The sailor was going home from the sea. He took time to look at everything as he remembered the old days. Throughout the trip he talked almost non-stop, telling stories about the times he had gone buffalo hunting on the island with Johnny Weissmuller, about John Ford of course, and the wild trips with Ward Bond, Harry Carey and Victor McLaglen, about days when they’d all been so drunk no one could remember what they had done. He insisted on going for a walk although he was extremely weak. He was desperate to see it all again, and neither Pat nor his friends could dissuade him from making the effort. He kept stopping to look at things that obviously held a special memory, things he had seen a million times before. He became distant, lost in the past. When they finally docked back in Newport he walked away from The Wild Goose without looking round at her again. He placed his favorite stetson on Ralph Wingfield’s head and murmured, “Looks better on you,” the traditional cowboy farewell.
He continued going for his daily walks but on April 18th he failed to ring Pat at 7 o’clock to see if she wanted to go with him. When she woke later she knew something serious must have happened. She called him to ask what was wrong.
“I’m not walking today, I’ve been coughing up blood all night.”
“Duke, are you out of your mind? Why didn’t you call the doctor or me?”
“I thought maybe I’d just die instead.”
Pat raced to his house and drove him straight to hospital. Blood poured from his mouth all the way there, and he assumed the cancer had spread to his lung. In fact he had pneumonia again and was inconsolable when he had to be admitted into hospital to be pumped full of more antibiotics.
“Pat, I want you to go home and bring my Smith and Wesson thirty eight.” She was tidying his room and thought he was sleeping. His words turned her blood to ice. She didn’t turn to face him and acted as though she hadn’t heard. “I want to blow my brains out.” She continued to ignore him. “Goddammit, are you deaf? Do what I tell you, go home and bring my gun.” Finally, when she refused to look at him, he cried in rage and desperation until he collapsed exhausted back against his pillow. He never mentioned the gun or said that he wanted to die again. Suicide and John Wayne did not make good partners.
To him now, true grit, courage, honor, and all the things he believed in with all his heart meant dying this horrible, pain filled death, it meant putting up with hell and misery until it came for him. The values that had generated his life now carried him toward his end. In the room next to his Pat sat reading the thousands of letters that continued to flood into the hospital offering support, encouragement, and many prayers. Every day they arrived by the sack load from all over the world. He was too tired to reply to them now but Pat continued to read them to him. How could he let the people down who took the trouble to send him their prayers? He found some of them so moving that he was reduced to tears as he listened. It was tough, but he knew he had no option but to carry on.
When any of his family or friends were going to be visiting, either at home or in the hospital, he still took the greatest care with his appearance. He valued his looks now, not because he had any vani
ty, but because they continued to emphasize the image he had created, he was weak and feeble perhaps, but doing his best to look hard.
Not long after he’d been discharged he was rushed back to hospital once again, suffering acute pain. He was soon in theatre undergoing further surgery to prevent his oesophagus closing up. The doctor was encouraged to find that the problem was only a side effect of the radiation, not the tumor he first suspected. Although the urgent need for further treatment shocked Duke he still demanded to go home again, he would do anything rather than stay in that ward and he was discharged once more. The doctors may have been pleased with themselves but Duke knew the end had come a little closer when no mention was made of continuing his radiation therapy. The doctor said it wasn’t worth carrying on; it was doing him no good and was only prolonging the pain. He was happy not to have to continue his daily drive to the torture chamber.
Many friends arrived on his doorstep during the final countdown. When Maureen O’Hara came for the day she ended up staying three and was unable to tear herself away from him. She hadn’t seen him for a while and gasped with shock when he opened the front door. They talked non-stop, as though nothing had changed. He roared with the laughter they had always shared. She was a great tonic and he was grateful that she stayed.
As her car pulled away another turned in. Out stepped Claire Trevor Bren, his co-star from Stagecoach, and several other films. She and her husband, Milton, had been his close friends for many years. Milton was suffering from a brain tumor and he had come to say his own last goodbyes. As they parted Duke whispered, “Take care of yourself.”
All that week a steady stream of guests arrived. He didn’t want any of them to leave and he clung tightly to each, unwilling to let any of them go. Time was running out, there were so many friends to see, but those days were all he was given. In early May he collapsed in agony in his kitchen.
He was rushed to his old suite at UCLA where x- rays showed an intestinal blockage. On May 1st another operation revealed there was no further hope, little healthy tissue remained. There was no cover up and the Press was immediately informed, “The probability that cancer has spread throughout his body is now greatly increased … I suspect he feels like he just fell off a horse.” The doctor who made the statement also told reporters, “John Wayne has volunteered to remain at the hospital where he will join the program of experimental treatment.” Duke would not be leaving the hospital alive. Although there was no further regular treatment available for him, he refused to give up, “I have to try. Pat and my kids talked me out of killing myself. Now I have to try to live for them, don’t I?” He remained alert, bright and full of unrealistic hope.
He had gone to the most extraordinary lengths all his life to surround himself with people, delighting in company. Now, as the days dragged remorselessly by in UCLA, loneliness and the detached feeling of isolation were the things he hated most about his dying. He sent a forlorn and heart wrenching note to one of his well-wishers, “Your thoughtfulness was very much appreciated. The further out you go, the lonelier it gets. Yours affectionately, Duke.” He was a film star, used to the press of the crowd, the surge of bodies against his, and to the very fact that he never could be on his own. Now there was nothing he could do about it, he was going to die and he was going to be on his own. So he hung on as best he could, clinging tightly to loved ones, stubbornly refusing to let go.
The doctors did what they could for him, staggered by his continuing survival. They had no idea how long he could go on like this, they had not treated anyone who gripped so tenaciously to the last vestiges of life. He kept asking, “How long? When?” They had no answers because he wasn’t following any of the laws of nature they understood. All they knew was that they had not successfully removed the tumor, that radiation had not worked and that it was extremely unlikely that chemotherapy would be successful either.
The new drugs they tested on him were highly toxic and had drastic and severe side effects. They pleaded with him to stop the program, telling him that the treatment would kill him before the cancer did. Perhaps that was the idea! Then at the last moment they asked him if he wanted to try a radical new drug to boost his own immune system. It was not known at the time if interferon would make any difference to stomach tumors, but Duke agreed to try it anyway. On the day he began receiving the drug a Press release stated, “There has been no mention in any way to Mr Wayne of how long he might live… it is strictly experimental medicine that we have come to… The treatment was suggested to him and he said “Yes.”
He received uncomfortable injections, twice daily, once between the fingers and once between the toes but, almost docile now, he no longer complained when nurses attended him. On the second day of the trials he went for his customary stroll, and when other patients asked how he was doing he breezed, “I’m doing just fine thanks. How about you?” In fact the cancer was spreading so rapidly that no treatment made any difference, he had no chance and very little fight left. The doctors badly wanted to keep John Wayne alive. They allowed him to continue with the tests, needles, more tests, examinations, and even, further surgery. Pat believed it would have been fairer to let him slip away and he even began to feel sorry for himself. He could find little peace, but when anyone asked him to stop he told them about the children he had seen receiving the same treatment, if they could cope so could he.
Few people now had access to his room but he was heard laughing the day Ollie Carey visited. She had been so special in his life for so long, becoming almost the mother he had longed for. She had shared his ups and downs and had always been there, offering help and advice. It had been the wife of his boyhood hero who made him accept that he couldn’t ever play the role of the bad boy, the coward, or indeed anything other than the man he was, “Duke, you are just an ordinary man… but you have a rare gift. You make unimportant people feel very special.” He had cherished Ollie’s words and loved her colorful truck-driving use of language; it was what made him laugh that day. He had never understood the gift she talked about, it wasn’t something he worked at or developed, it was natural and unconscious, but he had accepted it and used it along the way. Going to the movies, that great American habit, was a collective, almost spiritual experience, and yet that wasn’t the level he ever worked on. He only connected to his audience in an individual, personal way, holding private conversations with everyone there about the things that interested or worried them.
He shared his most intimate secrets and his love with each one of them. And it was a two way communication. He exposed himself to the camera and, at the same time, touched the rawness in their hearts and minds. The massive John Wayne image hit the audience as a whole, but Marion Morrison saw to it that every unimportant individual left the theatre feeling special, warm, and extraordinary. Jean Luc Goddard had wondered how it was that he could hate John Wayne so bitterly and love him so tenderly at the same time. He hated the political dinosaur, but loved the ordinary man he found hiding behind the multi-layered image. Mark Rydell explained, “I never anticipated we’d be friends. We stood at opposite poles both politically and emotionally. But he’s an individual, and a very fair man. He only functions on a one-to-one basis, and his politics become irrelevant when he is talking directly to YOU! Somehow you’re vulnerable to his nature. His magnetism is so powerful that the individual can’t help but be drawn into his orbit. He opens up a lot of warm and connective feelings, and I have to tell you, I really like him as a man. He’s generous, sympathetic and easily moved.” It was exactly the same thing that Katharine Hepburn had termed his, “Subtle capacity to caress the audience.” What the audience saw on the screen actually had little to do with image, and everything to do with one human being talking to another.
Duke confessed, “I never analyzed any of that stuff, but I’m glad they find me warm. I think I have a deep and real feeling for people, I guess that’s what they recognize. I hope my fans forget most of my pictures, and remember maybe five good ones… I don’t kno
w… I just hope they remember me as a good person.”
After Ollie’s visit he was never left on his own again. Someone stayed in the room with him around the clock; it was usually Pat. They watched the news together, and he tried to stay awake for the Carson Show, he rarely made it, but Pat liked to listen to the peaceful and regular snoring that told her he was comfortable at last.
Duke said he believed in God but he’d never felt the need to go to church, at times calling himself a “Presby-goddamn-terian,” at others, a “cardiac Catholic.” Whatever he considered himself to be he had stubbornly refused to go to any formal place of worship. He did not understand sectarian argument, nor why the church insisted on interfering in a man’s private life, condemning all the things he loved most, sex, alcohol, and gambling. He was a deeply religious man, who did not believe in religion. In 1971 he had been asked if he’d have liked his life to have been different, he replied, “If I had it to do over again, I’d probably do everything I did. But that’s not necessarily the right thing to do. But I hope my family and friends will be able to say that I was an honest, kind and fairly decent man.” Honesty, kindness and decency had been his religion, he had cleaved loyally to it, he had few worries on his conscience and he didn’t go looking for forgiveness now he knew himself to be dying.