Going Out Talking---Remembering John McCarthy (Terence Winch)

Left: Doug Lang, Myron Bretholz, John McCarthy, Terence Winch, Beth Rake, Bernard Welt, Becky Levenson, Susan Campbell, late 1970s, 1920 S St NW, DC

 

 

 

 

Nine years ago this month, I got a call at work from Beth Rake, my friend John McCarthy’s wife, informing me that John was in the hospital with a diagnosis of liver cancer.  He died about a month later, at age 60. In that last month, however, he showed such unbelievable courage and good humor that those of us close to him still marvel at the way he died. John & I grew up in the same neighborhood in the Bronx and became friends when I was about 14 and he was 17. He was the only child of a father from county Kerry and a mother from Tipperary. He was also an amazing storyteller, comedian, mimic, singer, and spoons-player. With John’s permission, I recorded 3 or 4 of our final phone conversations. When Beth asked me to write something for the funeral program, I proposed instead that I put together a “poem” taken from some of the words John spoke during those conversations. Here is that piece:

Going Out Talking

I’m not gonna get better, barring a miracle,
which I don’t close the door on. But at the same time,
I can only deal with what’s on the table.  It’s strange
enough to die, but it don’t even seem odd to me anymore.
It just seems to be my time.

My appetite hasn’t left me, but neither has
my appetite and need for spiritual nourishment.
I like the Pope personally.  I have no problem with him.
However, there is the fact that he’ll meet with terrorists
before he’ll meet with gays.

Doctors all say the same things. 
“Roll over” is one of their big ones.

Today I feel fine.  Yesterday I o.d.’ed on codeine.  It was terrible.
I called them up and told the nurse, “You know these Tylenols with codeine?
If I had the strength, I’d throw them out the window.  I’ll never take another
one again.”  I said to her, “I want morphine.”  Which I don’t have a severe
reaction to.  They brought me morphine, man.  There’s enough here
to start a business. I got morphine in the fridge, and some here by my bookcase
in case I have a problem during the night.  So far, I haven’t had much pain.
I got a new pain the other day: the inside of my liver feels like there’s a finger
pointing in it, which I began to refer to as “The Finger of Doom.”

It’s all about death.  It’s all about time, and making you comfortable,
and dying at home. That’s the deal: the doctors are out, the pain management
people are in, the nurses come to monitor the progress.  The cards are stacked
for a peaceful death. I have stuff for aggravation—if I get aggravated,
I have stuff I put on my tongue. Maybe I could get some for you. 
You could keep it in your desk at work.

The nurses were saying, “This must be terrible pain.”  I immediately
and deliberately told them—I repeated it three times, so I hope they got it—
“This is okay.” I keep saying to them, “It’s okay, it’s okay, don’t you understand? 
It’s really okay.”

I’ve become part of you.  You’ll remember things we did together. 
Things will come to you.  Stories.  In a mysterious, spiritual way.
You’ll say something that’s a McCarthyism.  You want me to haunt you? 
I’ve even thought jokingly of threatening people if I didn’t get my way
on what I was demanding on my deathbed: “I swear I’ll haunt you.”

I like the idea of flying.  I’m beginning to really like the idea
of joining my mother and father and meeting God.

Pressure’s coming from all angles.  Got a tumor coming down from the top,
liver cancer from the side.  After a short time sitting down,
I get nauseous and dizzy. A few times I ran from the table to vomit.
I can probably still run faster than you. 

I’m built low, dark, and blocky.  That’s what the woman said to me in Ireland:
“You’re like all the McCarthys—they’re built low, dark, and blocky.” 
Kerry people are odd.  They look at you suspiciously. But I got along well
with them.  She took me to the stone with an old plaque that said,
“Here’s lies Sean O’Connell, the Seanachie [the Irish word for “storyteller”].
His stories will live forever.”   I read the plaque, I was looking at the stone,
and she said: “Your grandmother and the Seanachie were first cousins.”
I didn’t feel like a tourist there anymore.

They took me to a ruin that’s so beautiful, and so obscure, and so lovely,
and the man says, “This house was built as a present to your grandmother
and grandfather. And if you took it, we’d be grateful. 
We’re certainly never going to sell it to the Germans.”   

Turning a dollar was never one of my talents. 
Turning away money I’m pretty good at.

I reached a new station. I call it a station on the downtown train.
I’m not hungry, but I have hunger.  Everything is reduced to halves,
and I’m sometimes not even interested in the halves. 
It’s not gonna go any other way.  Meanwhile, I’m here. 
Just like my plan: that the last thing that will give out is my voice.

My life is full of blessings. 

You know what it is?  You get tired of this.  Tired of this routine.
This medicine I drink is rough—they never had anything like it in O’Grady’s.
Even just taking the pills becomes hard.  I don’t want to take no more pills.
All these constant throughout-the-night visits to the bathroom. I just get tired.
After a while, more distance is created.  You’re further away from life.
Further away from life’s concerns.  You drop the reins. 
You get to the point where you’re dead, and people say: “How serene.”

We’re here on this big rock traveling around a ball of fire, and you’re talking
about security.  You’re talking 401Ks.  We’re out in space, hurtling around
a ball of fire.  All my life, I really believed that, but when the time comes,
it’s startling.  I didn’t think I had cancer.  Never mind to such an extent.
But I’ve been okay since the second day in the hospital, and I’m okay today. 
These days count. I woke up the next day in the hospital in a good mood—
I can’t understand it.  There’s only one thing to do: you got to live till you die.

I got what I wanted: to talk my way out.

I found a funeral card that says, “Grieve Not.”  I like that.
It says what I want to say.

----John McCarthy in the fall of 2003

 below: John McCarthy on the roof, W. 16th St., NYC, 1970s; photo by Jesse Winch

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sonnet in Memory of John McCarthy

You are smiling at us for eternity
but we don’t see what’s so funny.
You are up there on the roof, chest bare,
and you will not come down again, not ever.
We have a cup of tea on 16^th Street in your name.
Once when you were drunk, you almost broke
my thumb. Failure was your great success.
You hated authority and hypocrisy, loved dogs,
cats, Irish songs. You were a hundred percent excess.
Fearless, ballsy, brilliant. Around you, I felt brave. 
You made fun of me, I made fun of you.
No one ever died with such grace and humor
as you, my dear. You told us not to grieve.
I can hear you joke, “I thought he’d never leave.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

John McCarthy & Terence Winch, mid-80s, DC; photo by Jesse Winch

Comments

[Mariah]

One word: Beautiful. "There’s only one thing to do: you got to live till you die."

[Bernard Welt]

John McCarthy, of blessed memory. Not sure I needed to get quite this sad with an evening's work still ahead of me, but it got my priorities straightened out, anyway. That's a lovely piece of writing, thanks.

[eileen reich]

What a deeply moving, loving poem. Friends and family are so special and never really leave our thoughts even when they leave this world. Love this. Eileen

[beth joselow]

Thank you for this, Terence. I have been thinking about Tom Green daily-- another amazingly graceful man. I have always thought it harder to be left than to die, and you have captured that with John's words, and with yours.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, M.

[Terence Winch]

Do you have any memory of who may have taken that photo in front of the Chateau?

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Ei. I definitely believe that friendship just goes on forever.

[Terence Winch]

Yes, Tom seemed extraordinary---I wish I had known him better.

[[email protected]]

Lovely, indeed. I knew McCarthy just slightly through you, Terence and our mutual friend Michael Lally. Lal went on and on about McCarthy toward the end. How peaceful he sounded, how serene, and how sober. Sober's a good thing, I think. I was accused of being sober once. Someone was trying to insult me but I felt perceived.

But to read John's words in your poetic assembly I see he was something else entirely. He was transcendent. Thanks, M. O'K.

[Terence Winch]

MO'K: John spent the last 20 years or so of his life in that well-known recovery program. In fact, when I visited him in his last weeks in his apartment in Chelsea, the place felt like an impromptu AA meeting-block party-family reunion in one, with John presiding over it all.

[lally]

Oh man, you captured the man and his spirit. And O'Keefe's right, the word is transcendent. And you didn't even mention that near death's doorway, as the old folks used to say, he had a friend with connections get a gurney and a van to take him to a tattoo parlor for his last one, a giant green Celtic cross that went from wrist to elbow. When I walked into his apartment and saw it I was stunned. I said something like, "John, what the hell?" trying to figure out how a bedridden dying man could have such a fancy, large, gorgeous brand new tattoo. John just smiled up at me and said something like: "Michael, we can do anything."

[tom clark]

Ah, what is there to say, TPW?

Wrenching.

[Terence Winch]

MDL: I had forgotten the tattoo. There are many McCarthy stories, one of my favorites being the time J & I got in trouble for unwittingly drinking and smoking in the vestibule of the ladies' room on an Amtrak train long ago. You can do anything, but sometimes you get caught.

[Caitlin Hotaling]

Absolutely what it felt like in the end! Love the sonnet, love John, love you for putting it in words. We visited in hospital while Elizabeth was a little bitty thing and she lit up the ward, sweet ray of sunshine that she was then. It was beautiful to be a part of his life to the end.
Caitlin

[Caitlin Hotaling]

Aw crap, that bit in the beginning was in response to your meeting, block party, reunion, etc. comment.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Cait. John felt very connected to you & Miles.

[Doug Lang]

Thanks, Terence. This comes at a time when the love and loss of friends is very much in the foreground for me.

I always remember you line about John and your friend (and John's), Willie Farrell: "John sees the lies; Willie sees the truth." You all were such a fabulous trio of Irish American spirits.

I miss John. Your line about him in that wonderful sonnet, "You were a hundred percent excess," resonates for me. Add me to the mix and you have two hundred percent excess, as you well know. John and I were kindred spirits, no doubt about that. I did not get enough of him in my life, and I thank you so very much for bringing him back to us with this post.

I remember that John tried out once for SNL. The fact is that SNL would not have been big enough to contain him. He was, as they say, larger than life. He still is.

[Doug Lang]

sorry about the typo, "you line" for "your line"

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Doug. And I always remember your line: nothing exceeds like excess. You and John are indeed kindred spirits.

[Doug Pell]

Thank you Terence. I think of him every October. And yes, he does look down on me from above. All I have to do is close my eyes and look for him and there he is confident and reassuring, caring more about the entire damn world than he cared about himself. Never saw anything like it before or since the way he went. Fearless. He was ready to meet his God. He knew what he wanted to say. I'm guessing he has and he did.

[Terence Winch]

He had obvious affection for you, Doug. You were clearly one of his special projects.

[Terence Winch]

Tom---I can safely predict that, had you known him, you would have loved John, who was in all respects a unique and self-invented man. Plus, you'd have that crazy Kingdom of Kerry connection wiring you together.

[Dan Gutstein]

Terence Winch, Sir, I enjoyed the article very much. Good to see the DC Poetry scene represented here, and especially to see your friend remembered with such a warm tribute. Cheers, Dan Gutstein

[Jesse Winch]

A great tribute to an unforgettable old buddy. Nice work brother.

[Terence Winch]

Thanks, Mr. Gutstein, for taking time away from your STOUT obsession.