Don't be a Stranger

*contains themes of death* --Inspired by a true story--

Fresh out of college, I worked as a nurse at a community-funded nursing home and hospice center in the suburbs of Queens. It was always quiet, a place of warmth for those who needed it. It was one of the first jobs I applied to and was accepted within the same week. Being the new girl, I was assigned the shifts that no one else ever wanted to take.

Graveyard. Early morning. You name it.

All day. All night. Five days a week.

But I didn’t complain. When I clicked “apply,” I knew what I was signing up for.

These people needed me. I wasn’t about to complain or make them feel as if they were just another weight being placed on my shoulders. The least I could do was ensure that I treated every single one of my patients with empathy, kindness, and acceptance. I didn’t know all their stories, but I could help carry them to the end, with dignity and care. The way God intended for us all.

I worked in the East Wing of the facility, under the head nurse, Greta. I cared for many patients, but there will always be one man whose memory still haunts me to this day. His name was John Walters.

If you were from Floral Park in Queens, you knew John.

He was a dedicated Christian and a veteran who served in the Vietnam War. After his time in the military, he worked to support and advocate for other veterans who were dealing with PTSD, as well as those in need of housing assistance, whether or not they were involved with the military.

My notoriously stubborn father was one of the many people John went out of his way to help.

“Swallow that pride and ask for help, young man,” he advised my father. “Your little girl looks up to you. What do you want to teach her?”

Like I said, John was dedicated.

Sadly, despite all he had accomplished, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease at age 67.

A disease I knew all too well and have sadly worked with.

John’s daughter, Jane, left him in our care before leaving for her deployment.

Thankfully, before she left, Jane observed her father’s behavior during his lucid moments and episodes of confusion. She sat us down, walking Greta and me through everything to ensure we knew what we were getting into.

I remember reassuring Jane that her father was safe and well cared for here with us, even through all the hardships.

“He took care of us,” I reminded Jane. “Let’s take care of him now.”

She thanked me, shaking my hand as she did so. Then, she looked down at her father, hugged him, and whispered in his ear. “I love you.”

John’s hands tightened around her, not wanting to let go. “Don’t be a stranger, Jane,” he muttered to her, tears threatening to pour out of his gray and tired eyes.

Jane laughed softly. “You know I won’t be, Dad.”

Then, she walked out of the room, closing the door behind her.

Jane managed to keep her promise: calling on the odd days of the week and video chatting with him for as long as she could. And I would never stop them.

You’d never know he had a devastating disease eating away at him every minute of every day, with how he always found a way to find the good in any situation. Including his own.

He was just John. The King among Queens.

Fast forward only a few months to March 2020, the year the world stood still. A highly contagious virus known now as Covid-19 spread like wildfire across the planet, burning through every safety measure and protocol we thought would protect us.

Stores closed, the roads were empty, and everyone was trapped in the loneliness of their own homes.

It was unlike anything I had ever seen. Despite the horrors taking place and the rising death rates all around the world, four nurses and I volunteered to go back to work.

Most patients opted to carry on with their treatment at home for personal reasons. Only a small number chose to stay at the care center, leaving us with only five patients to care for.

One of these patients was John. I knew John had no one in his corner, so I made it my mission to keep my end of my promise to Jane: care for John as he once did for us all.

Whenever I had time, I would invite John to a morning prayer at the small chapel located in the back of the facility. We would sit in the first pew together, six feet apart, masks on, and exchange stories and jokes until it was time to have breakfast in the cafeteria.

After one of our morning prayers, I walked with John back to his room per his request. As we did so, he held my hand tightly and smiled at me.

“I’m so happy you’re here with me, Jane,” he beamed.

I laughed. “Jane is in Qatar, John. She got deployed a few months ago.”

“That’s right. That’s right,” he jokingly stomped his foot in frustration.

“Don’t you remember me?” I teased. “Don’t tell me you forgot already.”

John laughed heartily. “No, no. I’m not ready to forget you, sweetheart. Give me a minute.”

Then…

“Nancy!” He snapped his fingers.

“There you go!” I roared with pride.

He chuckled briefly, then grew quiet. “But… do you know when Jane’s coming back?”

“Soon,” I fibbed. “You know how long those missions take.”

“Don’t I know it?” He quipped with a slight grin.

I laughed, “She’ll call soon, though. Don’t you worry.”

Months later, his disease had been progressing faster than most, and Jane’s calls, once John’s favorite part of the day, began to fade into rare occurrences.

“Maybe she’s just busy,” he would say. “They get real busy out there.”

I knew somewhere in John’s mind, he was worried that Jane had turned into someone she had promised she would never become: a stranger.

Yet in his heart, he never gave up hope.

For weeks, his memory and confusion grew worse as he continued to wait and hear the sound of his little girl’s voice.

But, unfortunately, the call never came.

One morning, I had just finished organizing John’s medication and was ready to give it to him when Greta stopped me just before I entered his room. She had been wearing a mask, but even then, with just the look in her eyes, I knew it was bad news.

“I just got a call from one of John’s sisters,” Greta said lowly as we stood outside John’s door, keeping our distance from one another. “You know the one he doesn’t talk to in Minnesota. Margaret?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Is everything okay?”

Greta struggled to say the next few words.

“Jane passed away this morning,” Greta whispered.

I clutched my chest, almost dropping John’s blood pressure medication. I did my best to hold back the tears that were threatening to spill.

“Do they know what happened?” I asked, to which Greta exhaled a large breath, trying not to cry herself.

“Covid complications,” she revealed. I looked over at the small window that allowed me to see inside John’s room. He sat comfortably in his bed, enjoying a good book.

Or at least trying to.

“Margaret said the Army will do its best to bring Jane back to Minneapolis, but who knows how long that will be.”

“Minneapolis? Not New York?”

“I don’t know right now, Nancy.”

There was a long pause before I spoke again.

“Should we—”

“Sister says we shouldn’t,” Greta interjects. “He already gets agitated with what he doesn’t understand, Nancy. We can’t do this to him now.”

I whip my head toward Greta.

“But that’s not fair,” I argued. “He deserves to know. Maybe we can tell him when he’s lucid?”

“And what happens when he forgets?” Greta questioned. “What are we supposed to do then? Remind him over and over again that his child has passed. We can’t do that to him or you.”

I was conflicted.

How could I call myself a nurse, a person who is supposed to care for those who ask for help, if I were keeping things from them?

“We should respect Margaret’s wishes, Nancy,” Greta told me.

“She’s not here,” I spat back, growing upset. “She doesn’t know what’s best for him now.”

Greta pointed her finger at me, “She is still his family. We can’t do anything about it until she says otherwise.”

I had to ask one of my co-workers, who occasionally helped me with John, to administer his medication before breakfast as I struggled to maintain my composure.

“Stop crying. Stop crying. Come on, Nancy,” I begged, the tears streaming down my face as I sat in the room that I thought would give me the comfort and strength I needed in this moment.

The chapel.

But it only made me feel worse.

I was raised to believe that God always had the answers. That he had a plan for us all and that everything happens for a reason. “We must never question him,” my pastor said once.

But today, I found myself asking God. Why?

Why is God punishing John this way?

Why must this happen to John in his most vulnerable state?

The sound of someone walking into the chapel knocked me out of my thoughts. I wiped my eyes and placed my mask back on. I stood up to excuse myself, only to see John, cane in hand, staggering into the chapel.

“I ain’t forget my mask,” John said. I sat back down, making sure he was okay.

“I didn’t see you this morning,” he mentioned. “I was waiting for you.”

He’s lucid, I realized.

“Yeah, I just came in a little late.” I lied. “Sorry about that.”

He took a seat in the corner of the pew like he always did when he noticed my eyes. "Everything okay?”

The tears came rushing out once again. I hid my face in my hands.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I’m sorry,” I muttered, wiping my eyes. “I’m just…”

I hate that God's allowed this to happen to you, of all people, John, I wanted to say.

Instead, I looked up at Jesus's statue. “I’m just really mad at Him right now.”

John followed my gaze. “What makes you say that?”

I avoided John’s eyes. “I thought I could trust in Him. But, how could I after all the things he’s allowed to happen,” I confessed. “It feels like a punishment.”

John took this in and looked up at Jesus and leaned back against the pew. “If there’s anything I’ve learned after Vietnam, it is that some things are out of your control.”

I turned to look at him.

“Don’t be so quick to blame God,” John advised. “For He is the same one who grants us mercy, love, and kindness."

“Then, why give anyone problems at all? No one deserves that. You don't deserve that."

John took this in, nodding as if to say I was right.

“That's true. No one wants to get sick or have a loved one die, but those are things we can't control. It's part of life. It's part of being human. It comes with hardship. Without it, we will never learn how to cope and push through the hard times,” John said, pointing to Jesus. “He gives us strength. Instead of looking at things as a punishment, let it be a moment where you ask yourself, What is God trying to teach you?”

What is He trying to teach me? What kind of plan could he possibly have that would require me to lie to my patient, who’s already suffering enough?

But then I realized, John was right. His disease was out of my control, but the least I could do was make John happy and guide him through the hardship that was his disease. If not telling him that Jane has passed will help him, then that's what I have to do.

After a few moments of silence, I got to my feet. I still have a job to do. Be a nurse.

“Claire gave you everything you need, John?”

"I think so," he muttered, his eyes staring longingly at the statue before him. He was no longer lucid.

“How about some breakfast?”

John looked up at me. “I can’t. I have to pick up my daughter from school. She's only six."

I smiled. “We’ll be quick. Don’t worry. Maybe we can get her something."

He nodded. "She'll like that."

John passed away just a few months later with his sister beside him via a FaceTime call. It was a surreal experience, but at least John had some comfort knowing his family was there, one way or another.

To protect his heart and dying mind, he was never told about Jane’s passing. But I imagine they are together now. No longer strangers. It was a devastating sight seeing the paramedics take John away to the funeral home. I almost wanted to drive after them, wanting to seek John’s advice one last time.

On most days, I think back to that morning with John. For the longest time, I thought I would never know the answer to John’s question.

What was God trying to teach me in my entire experience with John Walters?

But I know now.

We cannot control the outcome of events around us, but only how we respond to them.

With empathy? Mercy? Compassion? Anger?

That’s up to you.