Reflections on Dobie

Dragon Mood? -- the anticipatory waiting is past; now, it's sadly waiting

Earlier this week, I had contemplated writing a blog post about waiting. I was in a waiting mode about a prospective job. S and I were in a waiting mode, wondering about Dobie.

Dobie, Jeanne's father, aged 102, was beginning to decline. Jeanne's partner and our good friend, Joanne, had called us Sunday to forewarn us. He had stopped eating, his breathing had become erratic and the family had called Hospice for intervention. Today Joanne called again to say that Dobie had "passed on," this morning around 7. Jeanne and Joanne and all of Jeanne's family, all of their waiting was over. Our waiting was over. Most importantly though, Dobie's waiting was over.

S and I had the privilege over these past three-and-a-half months to have a number of meals with Dobie, Jeanne and Joanne. It's remarkable to see someone who is that aged, to watch their eyes, to look at their skin, to hear them engage in conversation and interact with others. They have lived so long, have witnessed so much, experienced so many things, from a common-sense standpoint, you would think you'd feel some aura or wellspring of fullness, completeness, overflow -- you know?

But I didn't experience that sensation around Dobie. He felt small, frail and rather diminished. Though his mind was generally quite sharp, he had lost much of his hearing which in turn, inhibited conversation and was quite isolating for him, I imagine. I never saw him walk further than from his bedroom to his Lazyboy chair and then onto the dining room table. He went from walking slowly to walking tentatively to sometimes shuffling.

Rather than having things to look forward to, virtually all of Dobie's conversations centered around the past and past events. Most of my conversations with him were focused on events of the 1920s, 30s and 40s. We rarely spoke about current events. He seemed disinterested in politics or social issues or even the weather. If we talked about the weather, it prompted him to remember some past weather event.

What is that like, to grow so old, to become so "used up" that there's very little left? Is it painful or simply boring? Do you care or is it easier to disengage? Do you patiently bide your time, waiting your turn to die? Better to wholeheartedly ignore the inevitable? Is that what old age is about?

S and I tried several times to "get inside" Dobie's head, but typical of many elderly people, particularly men, he was not given to personal reflection or observations. One time, S asked him point-blank for some general advice and Dobie's response ended with, "Keep your mouth shut!" We were a bit stunned at the harshness of his words, given that he appeared such a gentle and unintimidating individual. Perhaps we never knew the real Dobie. Maybe, that part of him had already disappeared, already used up?

Dobie's life, his very personhood remains something of a mystery. We can neither add to his life nor take anything away. It is what it is. And it is not ours to embellish, to diminish, nor to judge.

Good-bye Dobie. Godspeed. It was great to know you.