John Wayne

by C McGivern

  One by one his many and wide pleasures had been stripped away, “I keep thinking I am well again, and then when I try to do something, I realize I am not,” but it was rare for him to admit weakness and he carried on doing as many TV specials as he could all through that summer.

  Other film stars had feared the advent of the small screen, he had been more tolerant because it never touched his pulling power, “Damned little intimidates me.” He had never needed to work in TV but the producers had never given up the chase and they remained determined to get their man. After finishing The Shootist his intention had been to get back into films but his prolonged ill health drained him and he finally had to admit that any work was better than nothing and he signed his two year deal with ABC, “They really weren’t sure what to do with me, I think they signed me to keep me off the other networks rather than for any other reason.” Still it gave him something to look forward to and helped him accept there would not be too many new film roles thrown his way, “I held out from television when everyone else went in because I felt I owed the fellas who stuck by me in the movies the same loyalty… Television was hurting the theatre owners and the studios. Whenever I appear on TV I will only play myself, never a role. But what the hell, they re-run so many of my old pictures I guess it really doesn’t matter. Things have changed. Movies are no longer the major entertainment medium. When I was in the business it was an American habit. I enjoyed being part of it. Bad taste in movies produced by pseudo-intellectuals changed all that. I’m no prude but dirty films aren’t my style. Never were. So now I figure it’s time to get my feet wet in the other field. I’m not sure what ABC has in mind… we’ll just see what happens.”

  In September he began suffering severe abdominal pain. He felt full and uncomfortable and one morning, as he breakfasted with Pat, he complained that he couldn’t finish, his stomach hurt too much. He knew there was something seriously wrong; food tasted bad, he had indigestion and was beginning to have difficulty keeping even small amounts down, meat seemed to settle high in his throat. He was in big trouble and knew he should go back to the doctor. Instead he brushed the discomfort aside, “I can’t keep running to the doctor every time I have a little pain. I’m OK.” Nevertheless he altered his will to ensure that Pat would be looked after when he died.

  By October the pain had become acute and he confessed it felt as if he had swallowed broken glass. He pushed food away in disgust and lost weight with alarming speed. Sleep was impossible and he could find no relief. Pat often caught him wincing in pain and reaching for his stomach when he thought no one was watching. On one of his early morning walks he doubled up and moaned that he had a razor sharp pain across his stomach. Of course he suspected the worst but also said that he couldn’t stand the thought of further surgery. Images of John Ford’s face as he suffered the torment of stomach cancer were etched in his mind and all his old fears rushed back in. Eventually when he did consult a doctor he was told it sounded like gall bladder trouble, that he would probably need further surgery, but that it wasn’t serious. He roared his anger and at first refused to even consider it; nevertheless he was relieved to think he might only be suffering from gall stones …

  … Christmas evening 1978 had been eventful and by the time Duke’s guests finally arrived for dinner his mind was full of the old days. He had decided to postpone any operation until after the holiday. His doctors didn’t suspect cancer, and although he knew differently, they had given him the opportunity to put on this last show, “Stomach cancer is rare Duke. There were less than eight cases per one hundred thousand people in America last year. In white males it’s even less likely, and the chance of it striking both John Ford and yourself is, statistically, almost impossible.” Deep down he knew the truth and statistics meant nothing to him. He saw no point in surgery and continued to tell those concerned with his health, “I don’t have time now.” When Pat, his friends and family begged him, he answered, “I have too many engagements. I can’t cancel. I promised. Just don’t keep pushing me. What the hell is all the hurry anyway? I’ve put up with these pains so long -I can put up with them a bit longer.”

  The first guests to arrive at the house were deeply shocked when he opened the door. The effort of preparation had left him washed out. He no longer felt like entertaining and he could hardly be bothered talking to his children or grandchildren when they burst in. Early in the evening Dave Grayson rang to ask how he was feeling and Duke answered baldly, “I think I have cancer again. Well… you can’t win ‘em all.” It was the first time he had voiced his fears. Whenever any of his friends had mentioned the possibility of cancer before he had yelled a furious denial, repeating over and over, “I don’t have cancer.” But on Christmas Eve he retired from acting altogether; the role was too difficult to maintain. Before dinner was served he excused himself, “I just don’t feel good. I’m really sorry.” He looked dreadful and everyone present felt the first stab of anxiety.

  He had spent the last ten years of his life telling people that if they were worried they should see their doctor, but he had stubbornly refused to get himself checked out this time. He knew that if cancer was diagnosed everyone would expect another dramatic fight back, he would have to live up to the expectations of others, would have to be the hero again, not for himself, but for friends, family and fans who carried their own image of him in their hearts. He didn’t think he could do it, “I’m a dying man, afraid of the dark.”

  On Christmas morning he was in a terrible state but still got up early, knowing this would be the last one he ever shared with humanity. It felt strange and the enormity of what his body was telling him took his breath away, he was “living on the raw edge,” not wanting to consider what death might mean to the image.

  The man was up but he didn’t bother getting dressed and he sat, unshaven, in his robe instead. He was trying to stay calm but it wasn’t easy, there were so many dark, sombre thoughts milling around. He felt annoyed with himself, jumpy and on edge, and when he shouted without thought at one of the kids he decided everyone would have a better day if he went back to bed. He sprawled out and stared blankly at the ceiling. He got no rest but made the most important decision of his life instead.

  He had cancer and he had to go back to hospital. He was going to start the fight to the death. His Dad had told him long ago, “Don’t pick a fight, but if you find yourself in one, make sure you win.” He wasn’t sure he could win this time but he had to put up some kind of resistance, not for him the JB Books way perhaps, he couldn’t go out all guns blazing, but neither could he just give up and lie down to die. He was more than image, he was flesh and blood and he’d always done the best he could with everything at his disposal. The only decision that John Wayne could make was taken in bed on Christmas Morning 1978.

  He got up, showered, dressed and re-joined his family, suddenly very calm. He thanked them for putting up with him and again tried to be the perfect host, serving champagne and doing his best to create special memories.

  He had continued to visit Pilar regularly and, although she knew he was having some kind of relationship with Pat Stacy, she also believed he wanted her back in his life, “Not being together broke both our hearts.” She had long since regretted leaving him and had tested the water on a number of occasions, frequently asking Mary if he was in love with Pat. Mary assured her it was nothing serious, but added, “I don’t think you realize how much Duke was hurt by your separation.”

  He had tried to talk things over with her when he first got back from London some years previously. He had been unable to put his feelings into words then, and when he flushed vividly and withdrew Pilar said, “I knew he needed comfort. I wanted to hold him. But he did what he always did in times of trouble, he turned and ran. The best chance we’d ever had for an honest and open communication evaporated when he fled that day.” She later wrote to him to explain how much she still loved and cared about him.

  A few days later he walked back into her restaurant, “I g
ot your letter. I want you to know it meant a lot to me. I know it wasn’t easy for you to write all those things. You’re still a young woman. One of these days, you’re going to need more than I can give you and then…” he added quietly, “I can’t do that to you, or to me. Please leave it be now, Pilar.” He had told her many times, “You can take everything a man has as long as you leave him his dignity.” He fought tooth and nail to hang on to his. In the past he had begged her to go on location with him, to go out on the boat with him, not to leave him. And, knowing how much she hurt both him and his dignity, she had still insisted on living her own life. He was simply too tired to beg any more, he wanted her home but refused to ask, “When you keep giving people chances and they don’t take them, you begin to lose your dignity. That’s the time to draw the line.”

  He had learned to let go of the thing he cherished the most, reluctantly allowing Pilar to go her own way. They continued to meet as friends, and he frequently popped into the restaurant to chat about the children and her new life. And she never entirely gave up on him either. She began ringing all the time, pleading with him to see his doctor. Her nagging brought a nostalgic smile to his lips, “This is like old times. I promise honey, I’ll go soon.”

  After the newspapers scented his new relationship he was asked if he had any plans to remarry; they all knew he was the marrying kind, but he never had any intention of divorcing Pilar. Mary St John said, “By that time he no longer cared much about anything, least of all about divorce or marriage. He was too ill to care about what anyone else might or might not want. He needed female company and Pat gave that to him, he didn’t care about anything but the comfort she brought.”

  By New Year those closest to him noticed how pale he had become and were worried. He’d promised them that as soon as the holiday was over he would go back to hospital, now he was given no opportunity to renege. The doctor took one look at him and advised him to get straight to UCLA for gall bladder surgery. And Duke knew, though no one confirmed his suspicion, that he had been right all along, he did have cancer; gall bladder surgery was routine and could easily have been carried out locally, there was no reason to go back to UCLA unless he had a tumor. Duke knew the doctor had seen it.

  He was scared and felt an urgent need to talk things over with his wife. When he returned to the restaurant just before going back into hospital she was shocked by his appearance and was aware that, even though he had told her he wanted her to move back home, he could not take any sort of strain right then. Pilar was stunned by the changes she saw in him, “He was thin and there were new lines of pain drawn into his face.” She was surprised when he reached his hand out toward her, “His skin felt hot and dry, but his grip was as strong as ever. I’d missed his touch so much.”

  “We had a lot of good times didn’t we?” he asked, eager for reassurance.

  “Yes, sweetheart, and we got three wonderful children to show for it.”

  “I’ve been thinking about my life. I guess I’d do it all over the same way except for these last few years. I wish we’d found some way to change that.” He held on to her. “It was as though he were hanging on for dear life.”

  “I’ve got to tell someone… I’m sick again… I can’t eat anymore. Hell I can’t even drink. Take care of the kids; they’re going to need you.” He pulled her closer.

  “I felt like I’d gone home, but I never saw him or felt his touch again.”

  Even at that late stage he postponed surgery to do an interview for Barbara Walters and ABC News. Walters had never met him before but suspected she was going to like him. In 1977 she had been having a rough time after leaving NBC, and had been heavily criticized by the media. For some reason Duke sent her a telegram, “Don’t let the bastards get you down.” She had been delighted to receive such a boost from the icon, and she had wanted to interview him ever since. Now he had agreed to talk to her and he invited her to his home and boat. He planned to go into hospital immediately after he had finished taping the program. She had no idea he was ill nor that he was going into UCLA the next day for major surgery; on his better days he still looked remarkably well. They instantly hit it off. He was excited and wanted to prove he could still do the business. The Walters Show was being called a “special” and he fully intended it to be just that, he had no idea how many more such interviews he would be able to do. Not until the cameras stopped rolling did he casually mention he was going into hospital and Walters was shocked. When she realized how ill he was she worried about some of the questions she had asked and recognized that his answers had been hauntingly open and honest, reflections of his gnawing suspicions.

  “What’s your idea of a very good day?”

  “Well, getting up in the morning. Being still here. As far as I’m concerned I’ve had enough experience to know that if I open my eyes and look outside and it’s a nice, foggy day, it’s great. If it’s a sunny day, it’s beautiful.”

  “If it’s any kind of day, it’s OK, huh?”

  “If I’m there.”

  Walters asked, “Are you worried?”

  “Not in the least bit. I’m kidding… No, I’m not worried. I’ve been around for quite a while, enjoying the fruits of capitalism.”

  “When you read now, people call you the legendary John Wayne… Do you feel as if they’re writing about… a man who isn’t here anymore?”

  Duke drawled slowly, “Well, yeah, that’s kind of scary… They talk like you’re part of the past or something. And rightfully so. I am part of the past. But I also want to be a little part of the future too.” Today and the future were what mattered to him, he had said so on many occasions.

  “Do you plan to make any more films?”

  “I think so, yeah.”

  “Do you think you’re a good actor?”

  Duke answered laughing, secure at last, “I know I’m a good actor.”

  “Are you, you? Is John Wayne, Marion Morrison, the guy that we see on screen, is he now you? Are you rough and tough, and a hard drinker, and soft with women and hard with men, and…” “Yeah, I think so. Yeah I like to drink. And I like women, and I’ve probably been a lot softer than I should be on occasion with them. And a lot tougher on some men, mainly myself.”

  “Can we talk a little bit about women? There was a quote in which you said, “Women scare the hell out of me. I’ve always been afraid of them.””

  “True.”

  “Women scare the hell out of you? Still?”

  Duke laughed, “Yeah. I’m scared to death.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know… you know… It’s just…”

  “Are you romantic?”

  “Very much. Very much so. Easily hurt. Easily hurt.”

  “You’ve been separated for five years.”

  He nodded agreement, “Um-hmm.”

  “Is that difficult for you?”

  He looked less happy, “I probably would have stayed with it if I’d thought there was any …”

  “Hope of reconciliation?”

  “Or any respect back and forth, you know. I just… it just actually… she’s a fine woman. She’s the mother of my children. We just lost contact. Completely lost contact. It’s sad… that’s what happens.”

  Walters changed the subject, “Do you think of yourself as a sex symbol?”

  “I wasn’t a sex symbol but there was, I’m sure, a feeling of sex in… in the minds of audiences. I wasn’t milk toast in any form. So I suppose there was that.”

  “Do you watch your old movies on television?”

  “Occasionally, when there’s a real oldie.”

  “How do you feel?”

  “Well, it’s kind of irritating to see I was a good-looking, forty year old man, and suddenly, I can look over here and see this seventy-one year old.”

  “You’re not a bad looking fellow now.”

  “ … But I, and I’m not squawking, but you know, it’s… you know, you kind of think, “God, I was pretty wonderful then.” He co
ntinued, “I just want to be around for a long time.”

  When she asked how he felt about life he answered seriously, “I have a deep faith that there is a Supreme Being. There has to be… The fact that He has let me stick around a little longer, or She’s let me stick around a little longer, certainly goes great with me, and I want to hang around as long as I’m healthy and not in anybody’s way.”

  “Has it been a good life?”

  “Great for me.”

  “Do you fear death?”

  He hung his head, “Well, I don’t look forward to it, because, maybe He won’t be as nice to me as I think He will.”

  Walters begged, “Stick around for a while longer will you?”

  “I sure want to!”

  On January 10th 1979 he was admitted to UCLA Hospital. He had delayed as long as possible and even on that morning he messed around, putting off his departure, shouting at those trying to hurry him, “Don’t rush me.” Eldest son, Michael had taken charge of his father’s admission and he protected his interest from that day on. The doctors would talk only to him and he passed any news on to the rest of the family and the media. The Press were not informed when he went into hospital, but eventually the news that he had gone in for gall bladder surgery leaked out. Michael said he was in fine health and was strong and fit following his earlier heart operation. Duke was willing to leave things in his son’s hands and had no further personal words for any reporter.

  John Wayne would, of course, be receiving the very best cancer treatments available but before surgery he was put through a series of exhaustive tests. One of his nurses watched in awe as he began the fiercest of struggles, “He came to us determined that whatever lay in wait would be faced with courage and dignity. We never did rob him of that and whenever I was giving him any treatment, whatever I had to do to him, he would make jokes. He was always laughing. It was so strange to be in a room alone with him and hear that most famous of laughs. He noticed everything, even somehow when he was drugged, he even commented if I wore a new necklace; he noticed everything going on. To hear that voice never failed to move me. Sometimes I wanted to cry. Sometimes we cried together. Mostly though he laughed. I once asked him where he got his courage. He said he just didn’t want to die yet. He told me, “When I contracted this damned illness I decided the only thing I had ever really believed in was truth and life; in living. Mostly I have told the truth. I want to live. I can’t give in now just because the enemy might be stronger than I am. I look at my grandchildren when they come up. I have to put up some kind of fight for them. When they start playing around, up to all kinds of stuff in here, I feel alive, they are life… they’re important to me and I can’t give up on them. As long as I have a breath left in me I will be fighting for them.”