Mom and I would wait for John every Wednesday afternoon.
He was as reliable as Big Ben, always on time, climbing up the back steps and into the TV room. Slender of body and sturdy in character, he would sit for two hours with dad so we could catch a breath.
But John was more than a hospice volunteer, more than relief for mom and me as caregivers.
He was a comforting presence, planting himself on the couch next to dad’s hospital bed, pulling out a book, usually Clive Cussler or John Grisham, while dad slept.
John exuded the presence of a grandfather, kindly with a bit of acerbic realism in his voice. In his 80s, he seemed the type of man not to sugar coat life. Despite any hardships he may have been experiencing, he had a deep, steadfast devotion and humility for the dying he cared for.
I would chat with John for a few minutes before I took my two hours of down time. I’d ask about his wife. She was ill and he had been caring for her, so he knew to the core the arduous journey of the caregiver.
He’d often tell me that she had good days, then she’d end up sick again.
We seemed to speak the same language of all caregivers as he told me about hospitalizations and doctors’ visits and test upon test.
“And how are you?” he’d always ask me. “Make sure to take care of yourself. It’s hard. I know.”
******
Dad had now been bed-bound and in hospice in the home for eight months. Declining, not opening his eyes, eating pureed foods. Watching his legs thin to bones and his face often contorted in suffering, I found my heart breaking.
But the time John sat next to him, I could allow myself a two-hour reprieve to take a walk or nap, inhale and exhale, simply sob out all the sorrow stored in my soul.
Every week we always knew that if an emergency arose, John would be there to help us.
Mom took a liking to John. Isolated in the house with dad now dying, she found company and a peer. Both avid readers, she discussed books with him.
They chatted about the 1940s and World War II and the way life “used to be” when people were kind to one another, cared for their loved ones. Bowed their heads to pray.
The good old days.
*******
The first week of June, John came on his usual Wednesday. At that point, dad was not eating much or drinking. He was sleeping most of the time. John sat on the couch next to dad’s hospital bed, as he always did, and before he could open his book to read, I asked about his wife.
“About the same,” he said. I told him I was still praying for her — and for him. Then I said good-bye.
*****
The next Wednesday, reliable John never came.
The hospice volunteer coordinator called and told us he had had a heart attack and was in the hospital. Mom and I were stunned. We prayed for John. We prayed for dad. We waited.
Then dad died on June 16 — Father’s Day — and life turned upside down. We had a funeral and reception to plan, make sure out-of-town family had places to stay.
We buried dad and the grief in my heart smothered me, leaving room for little else in life.
*******
We lost track of John. Our lives continue to steady into the wrenching loss, into a life without dad, but we wanted to thank John for all he gave us. His time. His presence.
Mom finally asked me to call the hospice volunteer coordinator to find out about John and how he was doing.
When I spoke with the coordinator, she told me that she had hesitated calling.
“You’ve been through enough grief.” Then she took a breath and said, “After his heart attack John went into a coma. He died 10 days after your father.”
*******
We make deep connections on the care giving journey. These are the people who care for our dying loved one in the most horrific of times and strangely, become part of our family. The hospice aides and nurses, the doctor.
John.
Then we lose them all. And it’s like another death.
I wish now I had known John better. Asked more questions. I wish I could thank him with all my heart for the time he gave us.
But this I believe: Somewhere in heaven a special place of welcome and delight is reserved for all caregivers.
In that space I see John, reading a book. Dad is no longer bed-bound but standing, smiling his winning one-and-only smile.
He interrupts John from his reading, and asks him to take a walk with him. They are side by side, joking, healthy and well.
Talking about the good old days.
Free at last.
***********
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Just beautiful. I briefly met John once. How amazing to add all these new layers to his story from my vantage. Thanks for writing what you saw of John’s story for all of us to know, too. Such power in that.
Thanks, Tom. John was such a good man and we were so blessed to have him help us through the final part of dad’s journey.
Marielena, beautiful story about John. Obviously I didn’t meet him, but your tribute made me feel as if I knew him. Definitely a kind kind soul. I’m sure God has rewarded him as He has your Dad.
Thanks for reading my blog, Lisa, and your kind words. John was such a good person and he supported our family so much as dad was dying. I know he is with Dad in heaven and they are both rejoicing!!!