June 11th, 1979, John Wayne died at UCLA Medical Center with his daughter Aisa holding his hand. [music] When the nurse handed over his personal effects, inside the bag was something no one in the family had ever seen before, something he'd carried in secret for 15 years. Here is the story. UCLA Medical Center, June 11th, 1979.
2:15 p.m. John Wayne takes his last breath. Stomach cancer, 72 years old. His daughter, Aisa, sits beside the bed, still holding his hand, even though he's gone. The room is quiet now. No more labored breathing. No more pain, just stillness. A nurse enters after a respectful pause. I'm sorry for your loss.
Would you like his personal effects? Aisa nods. Can't speak [music] yet. Tears are still coming. The nurse hands her a small plastic bag, the kind hospitals use for belongings. Aisa looks inside. Wedding ring. Heavy gold band scratched from [music] decades of wear. Watch. Rolex. The one he wore in a dozen films. And something else.
Something unexpected. A rosary. Old worn. [music] The beads rubbed smooth from handling. The metal crucifix tarnished, the string holding it together frayed at the edges. Aisa stares at it. She's 23 years old. She's known her father her entire life. She's never seen this rosary before. She looks at her siblings gathered in the hallway.
Did any of you give Dad a rosary? Head shakes. No one knows what she's talking about. Did he carry one? Did you ever see him with this? More headshakes. >> [music] >> confusion. This is new to everyone. Aisa turns the rosary over in her hands. It's clearly old, clearly used. The beads aren't just worn.
They're smooth from years of fingers running over them. Someone prayed with this rosary for a long time. But who? And why did Wayne have it? 3 days later, Wayne's home in Newport Beach. The family is sorting through his belongings, painful work, going through a life reduced to objects. [music] Aisa is in his study, personal papers, letters, documents, the private [music] parts of a public life.
She finds a folder, miscellaneous correspondence. Opens [music] it. Among the letters, fan mail, business notes, and personal messages. One catches her eye. Different handwriting, older paper. [music] The ink faded, but it was still readable. The letterhead reads "St. Mary's Catholic School, Los Angeles." Dated December 1964. Aisa reads, "Dear Mr.
[music] Wayne, I heard about your illness. I'm a teacher at St. Mary's, and I want you to know that my students and I are praying for your recovery. I'm enclosing something personal. This rosary belonged to my mother. She carried it through the Spanish flu epidemic in 1918 and survived when so many didn't. I've kept it all these years as a reminder that faith can carry us through the darkest times. I know you're not Catholic.
You don't have to be to hold this. [music] Just hold it when you're scared. When the pain is too much, when you need to remember that you're not alone. May God bless you and keep you. [music] With prayers, Sister Katherine Murphy. Aisa looks at the date again. December 1964, 15 years ago, right after Wayne's first cancer surgery, the lung removal that nearly killed him.
She looks at the rosary in her hand. This is the one, the one Sister Catherine sent, [music], and Wayne kept it for 15 years, carried it, never told anyone. Have you ever held on to something small because it represented something bigger? Sometimes the objects we carry matter less than what they remind us we can survive. Isa starts asking questions.
Hospital staff, Wayne's assistants, [music] people who were around him in those final months. The night nurse, Patricia Morgan, remembers something. Your father, in his final weeks, when the pain was bad, I'd see him reach into his [music] pocket. He'd hold something. I never asked what it was. It seemed private, but it calmed him.
Whatever he was holding, it [music] helped the pocket. He kept it in his pocket. Isa realizes her father was dying of cancer, battling [music] constant pain. And in his darkest moments, he reached for a rosary sent by a nun he'd never met. A rosary that survived the Spanish flu. A rosary that represented survival, hope, the possibility of making it through.
And he never told anyone, [music] kept it completely private because that's who Wayne was. Public in his toughness, private in his faith. Isa wants to know more. She contacts St. Mary's Catholic School. Asks if Sister Catherine Murphy still works there. She retired in 1975. The secretary says [music] she's in a care home now, St. Joseph's in Pasadena.
She's 81. Isa drives to Pasadena, finds the care home, and asks to see Sister Catherine. An aide brings her to a small room. Sister Catherine sits in a chair by the window, thin white hair, rosary in her lap, a different one, newer. Sister Catherine, my name is Aisa Wayne. I'm John Wayne's daughter. The old woman's eyes widen.