As a biographer, I have the privilege of meeting many interesting people, some of whom have had an impact on my life in ways I never expected. John was one of those people.
I met John at St Vincent’s Sacred Heart Hospice in Darlinghurst, where I was volunteering my time to write his biography. When I knocked on the door of his hospital room, I was greeted by a scene that surprised me. He was casually sitting back on his bed with friends, looking completely relaxed—no sign of illness. He seemed so young and carefree, which put me at ease. For the first time in a while, I felt relief; I was about to meet a patient who didn’t appear sick. I instinctively knew I’d enjoy working with him.
Meeting John at the hospice wasn’t as difficult as I expected. When his friends left, he reclined back on his bed and asked me what would happen next. I explained that I would meet with him for about an hour each week or shorter if he preferred. In between sessions, I would transcribe our conversations to work on his book.
John began speaking. Like most people, he started with the basics—his birth, his family, and where he grew up. I was surprised to learn he was only 50, yet had already lived so many chapters of his life.
The more he spoke, the more I felt connected to his story—his jobs, his sons, his wife, and the deep love he had for his parents. Before long, our first session extended to 90 minutes. I was hooked and wanted him to continue, but I knew I had to be patient and stop our session. He was tired.
He looked at me, and we both knew it was time to wrap up. He asked when he’d see me again, and I told him I could come back the next day, Sunday, if he felt up to it.
That night, I left the hospice eager to get home and transcribe our conversation. His life story had already captivated me.
The next morning, I was surprised by how eager John was to see me. When I called him, his voice was different—more upbeat. “Mona,” he said, “It’s the first time in so many months that I could sleep the whole night! I felt like I’d been talking to a counselor.” Hearing that, I knew more than anything that I wanted to dedicate as much time as I could to help John complete his life story, to ensure he would hold his book before he passed away.
I was determined to "beat death." The past few patients I’d worked with had passed before seeing their completed books. But not this time, I thought. This time, I would finish the book and see John’s face when I gave it to him. What I thought was determination, I later realized, was my ego pushing through.
So, my journey with John began. I ate, slept, and breathed his story. I began visiting him every weekend—both Saturday and Sunday. When he left the hospital and invited me into his home, I felt like we were becoming friends. He’d show me his house, talk about the renovations he was working on, make me a cup of tea, and we’d chat briefly with his family before getting to work in his study. We laughed like old friends, talking about whatever came to mind. He shared stories of his life, and I listened. It was hard to believe he was sick because he didn’t act like it.
There were moments when I struggled not to cry, especially when he talked about the proudest moments with his sons. There were times when we both laughed uncontrollably at his embarrassing moments.
Still, a part of me tried hard not to get too attached, but I knew it was already too late. I really liked him and his family. John even talked about taking me out to dinner with his wife to thank me for volunteering my time to help write his biography. We both looked forward to our sessions.
I loved hearing about his life, and he seemed just as comfortable sharing it with me. I felt honoured to be there, week after week, with him.
But one Saturday afternoon, we reached the point of choosing pictures for his book. I was excited because it meant his book was close to completion. But seeing him that day, I realized for the first time how unwell he really was. The feeling between us shifted, and I left his home with a deep sense of sadness I hadn’t felt before.
We agreed to try to meet before I left for Melbourne to finish his book after he’d reviewed the draft I’d given him. He was going to have his son scan pictures for me, but I never received that email.
For the next two weeks, we struggled to meet. John wasn’t feeling well, and I couldn’t find time to see him during the week. I was torn about leaving for Melbourne, but I had family commitments I couldn’t ignore. Deep down, I felt something was wrong and hoped he would be okay when I returned. When I tried calling him from Melbourne, there was no answer.
When I got back, I messaged him immediately to check-in. I was relieved to see his name on my phone—but when I opened the message, it was from his wife. John had passed away the night before.
Tears flooded my eyes. I couldn’t believe it. I had just been walking home from work, and within moments, I found myself in tears, unable to stop. It took me 45 minutes to get home, my emotions overwhelming me.
I was devastated. I thought I was upset because another patient had passed before the book was finished, but it was more than that. I felt like I had failed John—not just as his biographer, but as a friend. I had been so determined to "beat death" and complete his story, only to realise that my ego had clouded the true purpose of why I was there in the first place.
Not long after, I began reflecting on my time with John. Something he had said every time we met came back to me: “It felt like I was talking with a counsellor.” He hadn’t felt so good in months; he had been sleeping better and looked forward to every single session. To John, it wasn’t about finishing the biography—it was about the connection we shared.
Through that, I learned an important lesson: “It’s not about the destination, but the relationship you have with someone that matters.” For John, the journey of healing was the most important thing. And for me, it was the privilege of sharing the end of his life and being a part of it for those last few months.
Even though I didn’t get to see you one more time and say goodbye, thank you for coming into my life, John. You reminded me why I do what I do. Rest in peace, my friend.
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