Donald Lee Wayman
September 28, 1946 to May 23, 2013
Per Don’s wishes there will be cremation – No services planned
Don spent more than a year of his life in a Centennial Hospice Center in Greeley. Inoperable cancer had wrapped itself around several vital pathways for the liver and gallbladder to operate efficiently. Stage 4 liver cancer was diagnoses in November 2011. His brother Tom, took care of all arrangements to move Don from his apartment to the Hospice.
According to Beth, Don’s Certified Nurses Assistant (CNA), when Don arrived at the Hospice with a prognoses of a few months to live he was angry at most things and the situation. Early on Don introspectively evaluated his situation and discovered he had two choices: 1) To become the grumpy old man at the center or 2) Embrace the situation and make a shinning light for all he met. He choose to make the best of a bad situation and took time every day to help others.
In the last days I was witness to the results of that year and a half. As he lay quietly in his bed with death lingering at his doorstep, a steady stream of staff and residents came in his room to say their last good-by’s. From nurses, CNAs, administrators, therapists to the clean up crew I learned of the impact he had made to each of their lives. He showed a genuine interest in their situations, offering a fresh perspective to their lives while making each of them experience their special place.
I was touched when we met Amy, Don’s music therapist. She said she visited with Don each week that he had been there. Although she was a music graduate, it was Don who taught her the nuances of music and performance that only a keen intellect could discover. That last day she bought in her smart phone connected to a device that stored music of all types as she had done so many times before. Don loved Vladimir Horowitz playing classical music. You could see the video of him playing on the smart phone. On these last days Amy held the phone close to his ear as Don lay quietly listening with eyes shut. His fingers gently moving at his side as if he were playing along to Moonlight Sonata. Amy leaned over and thanked Don for the time he had spent with her and told him to say hello to her dad when he sees him. It was such a touching moment of unconditional love. Amy turned to us and said her dad had passed on a few months ago and Don had helped her through her grief. A glance at Stan revealed our tears welling up in our eyes as we learned her story.
Don and I were born the same year in 1946, the first of the baby boomer generation. Our moms were sisters and best friends. Our families often visited. As a youngster I played with Don in his room and learned the many things that were interesting him each time. One day he had tanks lined up around the room filled with guppies and other tropical fish he was breeding. Another he had African violets, some in full bloom and some just leafing out from a cutting. One time he had orchids of every variety. He knew and could pronounce all the sub-species names. He always took things to the infinitesimal detail with ease.
As we both went on to college our pathways led in different directions. We would meet on fourth of July to watch the parade in downtown Greeley from his parent’s porch on 9th Avenue and 10th Street. I remember the summer after my freshman year at CSU and Don’s at CU walking in the crowd during the parade. Don was chatting with me about religions and philosophy he was studying. I on the other hand were more interested in boys and clothes and didn’t really have a clue. During that conversation he was talking with me and also talking with others on another plane. This was the first apparent exposure to Don’s mental illness with schizophrenia. This was 1965 when mental illness was not discussed in private, with families or in public. I thought it a strange behavior and asked who he was talking with. Of course, Don didn’t understand my concern. Over the years and struggles, Don received help and associated government assistance. His talent blowing in the wind with no direction.
That same summer Don asked me to come inside the house where he showed me he had learned to play the piano. Most of us take piano lessons as a child and learned over years to play a few simple songs. Don did not learn music as a child. He started in college and went from zero knowledge to accomplished pianist in a few months. Next time I saw him he was writing classical music and played a piece for me. I found one of his music scores maliciously written tucked into a book in his top dresser drawer the last day I visited him. I hope to find someone with the musical skills to play his creation.
Don could hear us when we visited those last couple days. When we arrived at Don’s room, he struggled to sit up then recognizing Stan and greeted him cheerily. He had little strength to sit up, so the nurse helped him lie back down. His speech was difficult to make out probably due to the drugs they had given him for final bouts of pain. Don had a couple bowls of soup and ice cream for lunch right before we came. I tried to ask what flavor of ice cream, but was unable to discern the answer. Don was probably thinking, “What does this person want to know what flavor of ice creme I ate, while I’m on my march toward death?”
Don will be missed and memories will be cherished.