In Memory of John
- Fernanda Fisher
- 6 days ago
- 7 min read
It’s been a while since John died. I needed to gain some space from his death before I could write about him.
How it Started
John was a 70 year old admittedly gay man who suffered from Parkinson’s when I met him during the Covid-19 Pandemic. We were connected through the Sisters of the Hermitage of Saint Mary Magdalene, they are Orthodox Christian Monastics who run Paws Awhile Pet Motel in Warrenton, Virginia. Our family refers to them as "The Nuns".
My dogs Winston and Maisie are frequent flyers at The Nuns and I love the Sisters who run the facility. When they called and told me about John and his young Welsh Buster Brown the Second, they asked me to check in on him and see if he needed help rehoming his dog.
John lived about two miles from my home at the time, and I was happy to help out however I could. What resulted was my first rehoming of a Welsh and the start of a wonderful friendship.
John was an extreme introvert when I met him. He also was very uncomfortable around women and he readily admitted it to me very early in our friendship.
When I came over to visit and learn more about Buster, his young Welsh dog, he would announce it was time for me to leave after about thirty minutes . Knowing he was uncomfortable with females and people in general, I would get up, shake his hand, and go home.
But those thirty minutes were filled with smart and probing conversations. He asked me pointed questions and I gave him frank and honest answers. I could also ask him questions and, as our friendship and his comfort level with me grew stronger, we expanded our talks beyond the initial subjects of dogs and our surroundings.
As the conversations grew deeper and his comfort with having me around increased, the time I spent with him also expanded. It was not unusual for me to stay close to an hour and then have him call me later in the day to tell me something he had been thinking about.
John the Person
John was a quirky fellow, whose emails and texts rarely made any sense at all. Standing around 5’8” tall, he wore faded blue jeans and a Hanes t-shirt every day.
Having grown up in Northern Michigan he was fine with the cold and would frequently leave his patio door open in the winter to let in the fresh air.
John's gait was jerky, and his hands shook when he needed a dose of his medicine.
He was a terrible speller and loved Minion Emojis more than anything else. Some days I would get emails from him with pictures of Greta Garbo and a Minion coupled with a string of sentences I could barely decipher.
My favorite story about him was when he wrote an email to his retirement community. Though he wasn’t supposed to send out community-wide emails that didn’t stop John. He saw a problem and he had the perfect solution.
I didn’t save the email he cc’d me (I should have) but it went something like this:
I have noticed the older women in the building have a lot of facial hair which is very unattractive. I would like to suggest that we have a person come in to wax their faces.
He got in a lot of trouble for that email and I had quite the stern discussion with him afterwards.
“John, you cannot send an email like that. It is hurtful to these older women who might not be able to see the hair.” I said to him.
“Exactly Fernanda! That’s what I mean. It would help them to not look like bearded ladies!”
“John, you cannot call these women bearded ladies. Would you like it if one of the ladies said that all the men with big bellies were embarrassing to look at and needed to have gym memberships?”
“I do have a belly and I should look better but let’s talk more about these ladies Fernanda.”
“Oh John.”
“Yes?”
“Never mind. Just don’t send out any more emails because you will get in deeper trouble, okay?”
John made me smile, laugh and feel vulnerable. As he opened up to me about his life, I too opened up to him about mine. We shared many thoughts and feelings with each other and I always felt heard by him. He was my big brother on so many occasions, telling me I was amazing and encouraging me to be me, and to try new things.
Parkinson’s
John refused to admit for quite some time that he had a disease with no cure. When we first became friends he wouldn’t even admit that he was ill.
As his hands shook and he lurched while walking Buster I would worry that the dog would pull him off balance. He also insisted on eating lots of sweets and other foods that are not smart when trying to stave off Parkinson’s.
After several issues with his medicines and reactions from his preferred lifestyle resulted in him feeling very badly, I asked him pointedly if he wanted to live or just keep doing what he was doing. This may sound cruel to you, but I am a caring person and it was killing me to see him doing things that were counterproductive to living.
He called me sometime later and said he wanted to live and that he knew he needed to learn about his disease rather than pretending nothing was wrong. Our relationship veered from one of complaints about his health to a dialog of how he could fight the effects of the disease.
He enlisted my daughter Roberta to help with his physical therapy. Over one summer, the two of them worked together on ‘heel-toe’ walking to improve his gait. They worked several times a week and he felt more confident after every session. He loved spending time with her because her no nonsense behavior was something he adored.
John wouldn’t beat his Parkinson’s diagnosis, but he could push himself to stay on top of it. Countless conversations centered around how he was ‘beating the odds’. I knew he wasn’t defeating his disease but was so proud of the change in his attitude. He even started a Parkinson’s group where he lived (after getting permission to send out another global email).
For a man that disliked crowds and people, he was changing quickly and he was actually enjoying himself more too. Several times a week he had lunch with a group of women playing the consummate gentleman. He had meetings with his ‘Parks’ group where those affected by the disease and their loved ones would come together to chat.
John’s determination that he could beat his Parkinson’s made me appreciate his grit and attitude. Instead of feeling sorry for himself, he greeted each day with a positive outlook and a smile on his face. I miss that slightly lopsided grin of his and those twinkling eyes.
The End of the Fight
In the end, it wasn’t the Parkinson’s that took him from me, but a failing heart. I never knew that he had heart disease. He never wanted to talk about his health, preferring to discuss Gaza, his love for Saudi Arabia, and his frustration with computers.
He went pretty quickly but he did suffer. John always wanted to die with dignity and he was prevented from doing so by the laws in the Commonwealth of Virginia. As his brain was deprived of the oxygen it needed he began to hallucinate and pace. It was excruciating to watch him swiftly lose the independence he so fiercely fought for.
I know it was hard for both his friend and I to watch the man we knew wither. At night I would prey to God that he be saved from this terrible end. And when the day came that he did pass away, a mixture of feelings washed over me.
Feelings of sadness and relief are the best way to describe how I felt. Gone was his pain and confusion but gone too was the man I had grown to think of as my crazy big brother. My Welsh Terrier loving, Emogi writing, always smiling friend.
Remembering John
For Christmas this year, Roberta gave me a photo of John. She took it when the two of them were having lunch at a PotBelly sandwich shop near his apartment. In the photo, he is looking directly at the camera as if he is looking into my eyes and telling me ‘all is okay’. That photo sits on my writing desk to remind me to never give up fighting for what I believe.
Not a day goes by without a thought of John. Yesterday, while cleaning out old phone messages, I saw several from him. It was bittersweet to listen to them again and a flood of memories came pouring back into my head.
I don’t know that I will ever be lucky enough to have another friend like John. But I do know that every time I get a call to re-home a Welsh Terrier I will remember him and the bond we shared.
Rest easy big brother and enjoy a place with Buster the first and Zoe your two Welsh companions. I hope to see you again many moons from now when my time comes.
In memory of John, a man of great kindness and strength.
To learn more about Parkinson's
Welsh Terrier Rescue