by C McGivern
During the night of May 13 he was sick every few minutes and was in tremendous pain. He could get no rest and admitted, “I don’t know how much worse this is going to get.” The next morning he agreed to see Father McGrath, an old friend who had called in from Panama. That day was the first he did not go for his customary walk, sitting in a chair in his room instead. Michael said his father received the last rites from Father McGrath but that remained a matter open to conjecture as no one else was present at the meeting.
Even though he had finally accepted defeat, and had possibly made peace with his maker, he continued fighting his corner like a tiger and, still unprepared to let go, he commented, “What a beautiful day,” every morning he woke up. He never forgot to ask each child or grandchild how their day had gone, how school had been, how their cold was, how they felt. He still laughed and still tried to make those around him laugh too, he still felt the need to protect his children from what was happening to him. And no one could have carried the burden of image as faithfully as he did during those days. As he lay close to death he truly became John Wayne at last, his endurance then, the stuff of legend. The endeavor of Marion had long been merged with Wayne’s endurance, creating a man of “Clay, baked hard, like Texas!”
By the end of May his oesophagus had closed up again and though the surgeons tried, there was nothing more to be done. The tumor completely blocked his insides. When he sold The Wild Goose, it broke his heart, he was hardly able to put his signature on the bill of sale, and he cried in despair.
From early 1979 letters flooded into Government offices, demanding that something was done to honor him and it was obvious that whatever was to be done had to be done quickly. Fellow Americans wanted him to know they acknowledged what he had done for their country. Congressman Barry Goldwater placed a proposal and Congress held a special meeting at which Maureen O’Hara spoke, “Please let us show him our appreciation and love. He is a hero and there are so few left.” She suggested the title for the Congressional Medal of Honor, “John Wayne: American.” President Carter quickly agreed to the legislation for a gold medal to be struck. On Duke’s seventy second birthday he received a letter from the White House telling him about it. He woke feeling miserable; it was one of his worst times despite the letter and the efforts of his family to make it a special day. They all brought presents and cards but he hardly noticed. He was given the strongest painkillers and left to sleep. The cake prepared by hospital staff was left in the fridge. His gifts lay around the room, unopened.
He slept most of the next day too, but woke late in the afternoon feeling a little happier. He and his children celebrated his birthday then, and although he did manage to laugh, he still couldn’t face opening the presents. They were eventually sent back to his home to await his return!
On May 29 he was put on a permanent morphine drip. He stopped shouting at the nurses and merely turned onto his side to allow them to treat him. The hallucinations started and he began drifting from this world, going to strange lands peopled by men and women from different times and places. He walked in parades amongst horses and laughing children. Bright lights flashed in his eyes and memories sprang into his mind of so many premieres, ceremonies and functions. He was used to flash bulbs going off in his face. He could see bright lights in the distance … the lights of a film set perhaps … or something else entirely. He didn’t know, but he was accustomed to arc lights, he felt at home and the vision of brightness held no fear. The pain eased.
“Hello Duke.” It was Alice. He didn’t have the strength to mumble a reply. She was holding his hand. “Are you OK ?” He squeezed her fingers and closed his eyes. He wasn’t on his own and that was all that mattered. When he allowed himself to drift toward eternity he saw the welcome company of so many of his friends and ancestors. He wasn’t alone after all; he would never be on his own again. His hold on life slackened. He lay still, concentrating. He could hear someone pottering around the room. Decisions had to be made today. He’d borne enough, he was not getting up again… “Whether you like it or not, you’re a man, you’re stuck with it. You’re gonna find yourself standing your ground and fighting when you ought to run, speaking out when you ought to keep your mouth shut, doing things that seem wrong to a lot of people, but you’ll do them all the same… you’re gonna spend the rest of your life getting up one more time than you’re knocked down…” The words rang in his ears. Well he simply couldn’t get up again.
Alice noticed how hot and dry his hand felt, a huge paw that retained its strong grip. He smiled, “I once asked my boy, Ethan, to draw a picture of a valley. When he showed it to me he had written underneath, “The Valley Beyond by Ethan J Wayne, for my wonderful father.” That’s all. That’s how I want them to remember me. He once told me I was his hero.” Alice had not been a John Wayne fan, but she loved him dearly, “He was the same man in hospital that he appeared in his films. He was as polite as could be reasonably expected, given the circumstances. He was gentle and laughter was never far from his lips. He remained full of pranks, right up to the end. I knew he had to be scared; no man could die as he was without fear in his heart, but he got on with living each day in the most dignified way he could find. He was a brave man.”
“Let’s get you scrubbed up and ready for action.” She used his own soap and when she had finished he felt better, clean and fresh. He had been watching her carefully, he had reached a decision. “Alice, I had a strange dream during the night. I was talking to someone about the kids. My family has been so important to me. There’s no thrill in the world like a little daughter or son loving you… it’s too bad they have to grow up and lose that warm, gentle approach to life… but I guess the world’s a rough place. There was never enough time for us as a family; I really wish I’d taken a little more care about allowing myself to become involved in public affairs. It was too much. Having so little private life sometimes broke up my own personal relationships. I never wanted it to happen, they were precious to me. You haven’t met my wife… I loved her so much, I still do, tremendously… I wish I’d held on more tightly, not let go.” His mind was wandering but he suddenly asked to see the doctor.
“Doc, I’ve had enough. I want you to stop trying. I’m ready.” Alice smiled in relief, glad it would soon be over for him and the doctor nodded his approval, “I think we should just leave you alone now.” On May 31st his intravenous food supply was stopped. Not many days before he had been struggling along the hallways, talking to everyone he met, now the urge to walk faded rapidly.
Katharine Hepburn had written an ode to his body, “Massive, all of a piece, rugged, a man’s body… a face alive with humor…” He now weighed one hundred and sixty pounds, there was no fat or muscle left and the only thing left of him that Hepburn had so admired were the extraordinary blue eyes. The rugged, leathery skin was white, thin and lined with pain. She had mentioned his massive hands, they appeared bigger than ever now, compared to the rest of his thin, scarred body. The 1964 scar from his lung cancer operation was still raised and thickened, partly because he had been operated on again through the same incision. The 1978 heart surgery scar ran from just below his neck to the centre of his chest. It crossed the one from the lung operation. He had a fresh, dark purple scar running the length of his stomach, and another one close to it from a second operation. He was covered by deep red radiation burns and black bruises from the tests, IVs, and morphine injections. So much for Hepburn’s ode to the wonderful body!
Once the treatment stopped he wanted Pat there with him. He kept jumping suddenly, telling her that bright lights kept flashing and he asked, “Did you see that one?” He often seemed to be half asleep, dreaming, but with eyes wide open as he followed some action going on before him. When he woke he knew he had been dreaming and was still able to distinguish between what was real and what wasn’t. Pat was afraid, knowing he was preparing to leave.
The day after he told her about the lights she left him in Alice’s care so she could go to bathe and
change at the motel. When she returned Alice informed her that his blood pressure was falling rapidly. The newspapers immediately ran stories that he was losing his battle and the nation held its breath, waiting and praying with Pat and the rest of the Wayne family. Pilar came from Newport to stay close by in a local hotel, and although he constantly asked about her, she was not allowed to visit him. All through the first week of June he slipped in and out of consciousness. He was thirsty but even water would no longer go down. The morphine was increased to combat the extreme pain although he continued to demand that it was reduced when his children were due to visit.
And still, into the second week of June, he waited for the end. His family gathered at the hospital and doctors told them that June 9th would be the day. He slept peacefully as his respiration and blood pressure dropped alarmingly, all day his vital signs fell until he was scarcely alive. The longest day slipped past like so many others and suddenly at 9 o’clock in the evening his eyes flickered open.
For the next three hours he was alert, laughing and joking. He knew where he was and recognized everyone there, he talked happily with them all, keeping everyone amused, just like in the old days. He sounded and acted like his old self. He watched TV with his children for a while and was completely lucid, pain free and best of all, he was happy. The bright blue eyes shone and he enjoyed those three hours as though they were the most important ones in his life. The kids recognized all his familiar seething, restless energy and Pat later called it his final burst of life force. She believed he consciously made that one last effort in an attempt to give his family something positive to hold onto and remember him by in the days, months and years to come.
He fell asleep and didn’t wake or rouse all through that night or the next day. His personal effects were removed from the room. A nurse placed a shroud in a drawer. Everything was prepared and ready. All Duke’s business was taken care of.
On the morning of Monday June 11th his blood pressure dropped again and his breathing started coming in quick, shallow gasps. Pat stood next to the bed, afraid to move away and she talked to him without knowing if he could hear.
He sank into a heavy coma and when Alice came on duty she knew he would not regain consciousness. She refused to leave him and sat watching him closely as he labored to breathe. She finally paged his children and when they got there he was gasping. There was an increasing interval between each breath but each time they thought he had given up; he suddenly drew in another great gulp of air …
… Finally, at 5:23 pm on June 11th 1979 the room fell silent.
“No man knows the hour of his ending, nor can he choose the place or the manner of his going. To each it is given to die proudly, to die well, and this is, indeed, the final measure of the man.”
Louis L’Amour Hondo