The Greatest Gift

I heard from my mother yesterday that her second-younger sister, Louise, is swiftly approaching the end of her life. Aunt Louise, who has always been my favorite of the four Gleason girls, has Parkinson's and has been in a hospital bed in her home for, probably, six months. Mother lives 150 yards away from Louise, but only goes to visit when my sister-in-law, Molly, or I harangue her. My last successful urging went to Mother in the form of, "Put yourself in her shoes. How would you feel if you were lying there in your bed and no one came to visit?" Mother walked up the hill that afternoon.

Thinking this morning about Aunt Louise, who always understood me and the little-adoptee hole in my soul when no one else could understand, I remembered John's deterioration toward death.

Our friend, Bill Elcome, lived on 16th Street a mile north of the White House. He loved to take long bicycle rides through the Washington area. His path would take him across Rock Creek Park and onto Irving Street, past our hilltop house overlooking the National Zoo. He knew he didn't need to call first. If he was riding by, he would drag his bike up on the porch, ring the doorbell, and be welcomed into our home.

John would be sitting in his recliner in the second floor family room. Bill would go up and sit with him. They'd talk—about golf, about sailing, about singing with The Washington Chorus. Or they'd sit quietly and watch some sports on television. I never knew exactly what went on, as this was their guy time.

These unannounced visits were the most precious time of John's final three months. Bill gave him the greatest gift that could be given: Bill treated John like he was a normal guy. He treated him like he was the same old John that Bill had known and sung with in the bass section for 10+ years. He treated him like he was a normal person, not a Cancer Victim.

To my dying day, I will be grateful to Bill for this gift. And I will try to pay it forward to everyone I know who is dying.

I wish I were in North Carolina so I could go sit with Aunt Louise for an hour. She would tell me again, as she does every time I visit, about the time when I was seven or eight years old and my cousin and I were playing hide-and-seek. They couldn't find me anywhere and finally looked up to see me on top of the refrigerator.

She lies in her bed now, twenty-four hours a day, alone with her memories. I hope they are all happy. And I wish her a smooth and easy passing.