"Standing By" by Jo McElroy Senecal

[Music] Welcome to Six Minute Stories, where you hear the writing of new voices of experienced writers who submissions appear in the anthologies of the Personal Story Publishing Project. In our new season, you will hear stories from our 13th collection "Free." Find links to six minute stories into the Personal Story Publishing Project at RandallJones.com. Everybody loves a good story. We hope you enjoy this one. [Music] Standing by, by Joe McElroy-Centricall. I know this journey of yours has nothing to do with me, your hospice volunteer. It's your journey, your illness, and all that has come with it is yours, your personality, yours. Your energy, your pain, your fears, your tiny, surprising joys, all yours. And yet, how excruciatingly exhausting and exhilarating this past year has been for me on the sidelines. Having you greet me from your couch in the cramped condo, you didn't much care for. Until one final fall determined you were done living solo, and you were transported to a group home where you became a member of a tribe of truly lonely, colorful, gentle, wild people. And now, in so much pain, thrashing pain, ungodly amounts of uncontrollable pain and suffering as your tumors pop up and grow like feral mushrooms, spreading and torching your body without mercy. Even as you beg for all this to end, you fight with your world-owned fire mind as your collapsing body searches for the tiniest foothold, the merest hint of oxygen, the outline of respite offered an offental patch held all morphine at a van. "Nothing helps," you moan and to sleep the medicine's bringing forth deep snores, and still your eyes snap open as you waken into pain, where you cry until dreams catch you again for a spell. And I sit with your sleep watching the air, I can smell your rotted illness through my mask. I smell it from the hall, I smell it on my clothes when I leave, I can't scrub my nostrils of it, so it remains unseen yet known inside my face. There are flies and that's no matter how many times your room is scrubbed clean, the that's use your body as a trampoline, your wound, their garden, my homemade natural deterrence hardly help, we blast the fans and air conditioner, whisk away your food, trays quickly, swap the walls, the air, being careful not to jostle you, everything hurts. The other day I came in and you'd fallen asleep in the middle of wound care, your spindly arms were stretched out high in the air solid as if frozen. Inside each clutched fist was a clown nose, I'd given you a year ago. The nurse said you'd been delirious, begging for something from your drawer, and it wasn't until she brought out the noses that you finally said, "Yes, them." When you woke up you continued to put one on, not realizing you'd fallen asleep before a nose reached your face, we smiled then, your eyes remembering. Last year we celebrated your birthday when I was in Spain on a pilgrimage. I'd videotaped the view from a mountaintop, whipped out my clown nose and sang your birthday song. You'd text and call me often, ignoring the time difference. I would leave a group of Spaniards and Irishmen singing Elton John songs to take your call. A random group of traveling pilgrims sang to you in different languages. They didn't hesitate when I asked them to sing into my phone for you, a stranger, in another country. It still makes me cry. We were certain this would be your final birthday. Not so fast, my slowly dying friend. This time the nurses doated again, your family cheered you again, you ate a big piece of chocolate cake. I came later and sang to you, blue bubbles. You wept into my left arm while I hugged you gently. When I went to South Africa recently I knew for sure you'd be gone when I returned. I didn't want to leave you of course, but that safari was magical, necessary. Out there my heart easily held you with the thrum of ancestral music, song and dance, as consistent as air. Since back I have seen you seven days a week, you defy rock bottom as you keep finding more space to fall and somehow stay. It's your journey, not mine. I look forward to being able to miss you knowing you are finally free from this level of suffering that I do not understand that I do not want for you or for anyone. Your journey, not mine, not mine. I love you. PS and on my birthday you gave the perfect gift. Eyes closed, your hand steady on my chest. You whispered, "Happy birthday." The last thing you'd say. That wasn't a gift. It was what happened shortly after. I'm so glad at last I finally get to miss you. Copyright, 2026 Joe McElroy, Sen. A native fish taco loving Sandy Agan, Joe McElroy Sen. Ales spent decades on the East Coast blending professional stage and clown credits with various roles at magical power houses like the hole in the wall gang camp and the big apple circus clown care. Now healthy humor. Her New York Times article hints at her passion for pediatric pallet of care, which Joe continues to do along with adult hospice care throughout Charleston, South Carolina. Joe has been a member of the Lunas, six actors turned writers for over two decades. Read more about this writer and background on this story and a special feature of six-minute stories called "Althors Tongue." Thank you for listening to another six-minute story. You can read them all in the 13 anthologies of the personal story publishing project. Find a link to our own online store at rambljones.com. That's R-A-N-D-E-L-L-Jones.com. There you can listen to over 500 stories shared through 13 seasons of our six-minute stories podcast. And remember, everybody loves a good story.