Stay With Me, Johnny

Catherine’s last words to me were, “Stay with me, Johnny.”

The phone call was one of many we had over the last year of her life, as she bounced in and out of hospitals. Sometimes it was hard to track Catherine down, as her state-appointed caretaker seemed indifferent to my inquiries.

Catherine was my mother’s older sister.

“She’s a little bit crazy,” Mom told me, adding, “She fell off her bike when we were kids, and she hit her head. It caused some kind of injury. She used to be sweet, but after that, her moods could swing, and sometimes she got nasty. One time she made my father cry.”

She made my father cry.

I never knew my maternal grandfather, but from the photos, he appears to have been a kind, Irish gentleman who enjoyed playing the violin and smoking his pipe. Mom said he was easygoing and loved to joke with folks in town.

I suppose his gentle nature made it easy for Catherine to wound him.

Turning the dimmer switch on their lives

When my father was alive he used to look after Catherine.

Dad knew she mostly lived alone, although there were occasional boyfriends over the years. We were in California and Catherine lived in Colorado, but that never stopped my father from tracking her down and making sure she was alright.

My mother and Catherine were somewhat estranged, so the task of looking after Catherine fell to my father.

After Dad passed away, I asked my mother about Catherine. “Have you heard from her?” My mother said no, that they don’t really talk. So I made some calls, eventually connecting with a woman in Colorado who was perhaps Catherine’s only friend.

When had they started to talk about booking into a retirement place? Was it in their early sixties? Starting to worry about places being full? Peer pressure? Turning the dimmer switch on their lives. — Anne Schlebusch, Bloomer

The woman told me that Catherine had become a ward of the state since she was no longer able to properly care for herself.

Then she told me how wonderful my father had been to Catherine. He always sent birthday cards, and money for Catherine to celebrate her favorite holiday, St. Patrick’s Day.

“He even bought Catherine a television,” the woman told me, adding, “He was a light in the darkness for her.”

I think our elderly are forgotten sometimes

I picked up where my father left off, becoming Catherine’s only family lifeline. Her only benefactor.

A light in the darkness.

I connected with Catherine’s state-appointed caretaker and learned more about Catherine’s needs. We coordinated. I sent her a new television, as the one my father bought years before wasn’t working well.

And I sent her St. Patrick’s Day cards with some money a few days before March 17th, so she’d have the funds to celebrate in her favorite Irish pubs.

I shared what I was doing with my mother, who smiled and said, “Oh, Johnny, you’re just like your father. I’m glad you’re helping her.”

My father often spoke about the elderly, and how important it was for us to look after them. To be a lifeline for them, when frailty and infirmity steal so much of their independence and confidence.

The only time I ever met Catherine was back in my university days. Dad had flown Catherine to California for a visit, and they drove up one weekend to my university dorm.

Catherine was a sight to behold.

She wore a huge blonde wig, with the bangs swinging like windshield wipers over her large, pointed sunglasses. And her outfit consisted of an orange and blue jumpsuit, complete with white sandals and a large handbag. She looked like a character from Gary Larson’s comic panels, “The Far Side.”

But I remember, even back then, there was an aura of sadness about Catherine.

I think our elderly are forgotten sometimes. –Ricky Gervais

She was sweet to me, cracked jokes, and ate ravenously at the restaurant Dad took us to. Catherine asked me about my studies, but then there were moments she seemed to stare off.

She looked out the restaurant window, then back at me.

“Oh Johnny,” Catherine said, “How I wish I could stay here with you all. But tomorrow I fly back to my little apartment in Colorado. Back to my little world.”

And back to her little world she went. I never saw her in person again.

Watching their whole world fall apart

My wife and I recently moved into a new neighborhood, and I often meet folks in the area while walking my dog.

One of my new neighbors is Chuck, who walks his dog along the same route I explore with my dog. We’ve bumped into each other several times now, and I learned that he’s retired and lives nearby with his wife. Their children are grown.

“She’s my second wife,” Chuck told me. “My first wife died years ago from cancer. It was awful.”

“That must have been hard,” I offered, adding, “But at least you’ve been able to find love again.”

“Yes,” Chuck said, “But you see, she’s got dementia now. I can’t leave her very long when I walk the dog. I might have to get hospice or some kind of in-home care, soon.”

The loneliest moment in someone’s life is when they are watching their whole world fall apart, and all they can do is stare blankly. — F. Scott Fitzgerald

I mentioned that my wife is a hospice nurse and that there are wonderful hospice programs that provide care for in-home patients.

Then we spoke of other things. Chuck’s career in telecommunications. His volunteer years with the local police department. His grown children who live out of the area and seldom visit.

For a moment, he looked away, at the horizon. I imagined what his world must feel like. As if he sensed the beginnings of an ending.

“Well, I better get back to her,” he said.

I will stay with you

Near the end of Catherine’s life, she battled a constellation of health problems.

Her friend called me one day at work, late in the afternoon. “John, Catherine’s back in the hospital. I think you should phone her tonight. I’m concerned.”

After work and dinner, I phoned Catherine.

The hospital receptionist took a moment to track down Catherine’s room and then said, “Okay, I’m connecting you now.”

I heard the phone fumbling against the receiver. Catherine’s voice was weak, but her feisty spirit was still there. “Oh Johnny, it’s you!” She talked about her poor appetite, and how much she disliked “that awful nurse with those pills.”

“The nurse is just trying to help,” I reassured Catherine.

I’m here. I love you. I don’t care if you need to stay up crying all night long, I will stay with you. If you need the medication again, go ahead and take it — I will love you through that, as well. If you don’t need the medication, I will love you, too. There’s nothing you can ever do to lose my love. I will protect you until you die, and after your death I will still protect you. I am stronger than Depression and I am braver than Loneliness and nothing will ever exhaust me. —Elizabeth Gilbert, Eat, Pray, Love

There was a brief silence.

Then she said, “I don’t want to be buried here in Colorado. I want to be buried with my parents. Someday, when the time comes, will you help with that, Johnny?”

“Of course, Catherine. Of course,” I said. “Your parents are buried in a beautiful private cemetery here in California. It’s where Dad is buried. It’s peaceful there. Oak trees, lawns, squirrels. I always bring flowers on their birthdays.”

“That sounds grand,” Catherine said.

We chatted a bit longer. She asked about my mother. I said that Mom sends her regards. I told Catherine to take it easy and get better. She said how much she appreciated my call. She grew silent again, and I waited.

“Johnny?” she said.

“Yes, Catherine?”

“Stay with me, Johnny.”

I told her I would. I said that I’d stay with her. Keep an eye on her. That I’d call in a few days, to see how she was doing. And then we said our goodbyes.

She died a few hours later.

Before you go

I’m John P. Weiss. I write elegant stories and essays about life. If you enjoyed this piece, check out my free weekend newsletter, The Saturday Letters.