One of the last private conversations she had with Elvis before his death. Here is an excerpt from this perhaps a little sad conversation between Kathy and Elvis that took place in late May 1977.
Kathy Westmoreland shares “One conversation keeps coming back to me. It was in Baltimore and I was setting aside the banana split that he wanted, but couldn’t eat. Elvis was sitting up in bed. Suddenly, he began to wonder aloud.
“What’s it all about, Kathy?”
I turned and looked at him and realized just how serious he’d gotten all of a sudden. “What do you mean, what’s it all about? Are you talking about life, us, it, what?” He said it again. This time very slowly, emphasizing each word.
“What’s it all about?”
He had traces of a smile, but I knew he was waiting for a sincere and meaningful answer from me. I thought about the question for a while and then said, “Well… I guess that’s for you to realize yourself.”
He laughed and replied, “Aw, you’re just like me, Kathy…you’re just like me. That’s the same answer I’d have given!”
Perhaps it was the answer Elvis himself had taught me to give. Then, he got serious again. “Don’t they know, we’re only human?” I thought it odd that he included me, that he said ‘we’ instead of ‘I’. And I sat there and thought about how many problems I’d had with people expecting me to work miracles, simply because I worked with him.
Elvis spoke again. “Don’t they know we’re only human?” He shook his head. “It’s hard to live up to this kind of image.”
Elvis took a deep breath, looked me right in the eye and said, “All this, and it don’t make me happy. Don’t make anyone happy – you know it and I know it. And you and I know what does.”
I knew that it was God, Love and Health. He knew that what he had was not what it was all about. Then Elvis was morose again. “How will they remember me? They’re not going to remember me. I’ve never done anything lasting. I’ve never done a classic film like I wanted to.” I held his hand and told him: “I think you’ve already done it.” But I sensed his immediate disappointment and I quickly added, “But there is always a new goal…. there is always a new goal,” I emphasized. He nodded his head in agreement.
We talked about some of his plans. Elvis always knew he could have been a terrific actor and he never liked the roles he had played in over 30 motion pictures. One of his goals was to find such a role, to find a film that, as he put it, “would establish me as a credible actor.’
Another one of his goals was an autobiography he had always wanted to write. “I could get started on the book. I even have the title. I’m gonna call it, ‘Through My Eyes’, what do you think of that?” I agreed that writing a book would be a wonderful idea and he should do it. Then he abruptly changed the subject. “My mission in life is to make people happy with music. And I’ll never stop until the day I die.”
During that tour, going on stage every night was really difficult. I didn’t sleep much, because Elvis was so restless. And I thought he was dying a number of times in the middle of the night, which was an absolute nightmare. I honestly don’t know where he got the strength to do his show. The strange thing is that he was on very little medication at the time. I felt that somebody should take him to a hospital, but Elvis refused to go. he was determined that he didn’t want to die in a hospital.
And during all these days, I kept telling the bodyguards and the rest of the guys, “Somebody has got to help me…if he’s left alone for one minute he could be dead. To show how unaffected they were by my pleas, I have to tell a story about the time he was sleepwalking and then he fell, hitting his head on the dresser. I pulled and tugged and pulled, trying to get him off the floor and into bed. I called the bodyguards for help and one man, who remains nameless, not because I’m afraid of him, but I don’t even want to give him the honor of a mention in this book. He said: “Leave him there.” He simply didn’t want to be bothered with it. He added, “I’m not coming to the room–you’ll have to call somebody else.”
“My eyes”, he constantly complained, “my eyes …they hurt so bad.” He was in and out of sleep and when he was awake, he asked me, “Kathy, would you Rub my legs? They’re killing me!” He would choke on fluid that filled his lungs and he seemed to have pains everywhere. I recognized the rattle in his lungs. Several members of my family and friends of mine had that sound shortly before they died.
It was more noticeable when he was lying down, asleep. I fought to stay awake to watch over him, thinking, “If I fall asleep, I’m afraid he’ll slip away. God help me stay awake! I felt at any moment he might need immediate attention.
Elvis had mixed feelings about his condition. On the one hand he believed he was going to die. On the other hand, at times, he couldn’t figure out why he couldn’t heal himself. He believed in healing with laying on of the hands and that God had given him the gift of healing. I never saw him do it, but others did. I was very much aware of the power in his hands. But it truly frustrated him that he could not heal himself.
One night as we were preparing to retire, Elvis noticed my nightstand was very crowded with items. “What is that stuff?” he asked. “Vitamins, minerals, protein powder, seeds and nuts,” I replied. He acted as though he’d never seen anything like it before. He asked one of his aides to please get him some for the rest of the tour. But the man said, “Aw, c’mon, Elvis,” and ignored his request, not wanting to be bothered.
During the next tour, a network filmed some of the concerts. They skipped certain cities and did segments in others. Although it ended up being called, “The Last Concert,” it was a compilation of various performances, which did not include the actual last performance. We were in Rapid City, Iowa, as I recall, and Elvis had some health food with him this time. He was going to wear a light powder blue suit for the taping. He looked at it hanging on the drapery rod in his room while we were lying in bed, and said, “I’m gonna look fat in that faggy little blue suit.” And then with a strange little smile, he added: “But I’ll look good in my coffin.” Then he looked at me. I didn’t say anything. We just stared at each other.
He ended up wearing a very handsome white sundial suit instead, but I will never forget that remark.
Throughout the pain of his ordeal Elvis continued to find solace and comfort in the Scriptures. We prayed together and read aloud from the Bible together. His was worn from years of use. I followed along in a Bible he handed me to use
