On this day, he was performing a rare, complicated procedure he had developed decades earlier. The room was unusually quiet, so I took the cue to strike up another good conversation.
I was particularly passionate at that time about a book written by Doris Kearns Goodwin centering on the White House years of Eleanor and Franklin. So, while continuing with my work, I decided I would share the fascinating information I had gleaned with anyone who might want to listen.
After (reportedly) "droning" on for a while, I was suddenly blinded by a light. Dr. Cooley had taken his attention off the surgical field, aiming his bright Luxtex headlight directly into my eyes.
Astutely realizing he needed my attention, I asked,
"Is there something I could do for you, Dr. Cooley?"
He responded by mumbling good naturedly,
"Robert, do you ever shut up?" (The room erupted in too much laughter and applause.)
Since the day I received my very first report card, an apparent passion for "talking" has been an issue for me.
Over the past year or more as I have spent time with Mother in the nursing home, I have finally learned to temper that passion. At least to a degree.
Proverbs have long expressed the belief that saying nothing is generally preferable to speaking.
The French famously wrote, "speech is too often not the art of concealing ... but of stifling and suspending thought."
In religious circles, silence has also been considered laudable. From the 14th century, Psalms of David, Rolle wrote, "Disciplyne of silence is goed." Wycliff's Bible (1382) includes the dictum, "Silence is maad in heuen (made in heaven)."
Most famously, perhaps, is a Swiss inscription which reads,
"Sprecifien ist silbern, Schweigen ist golden."
"Speech is silver, Silence is golden."
We have seen a great deal of change in Mother during the fifteen months since she first came to GVM. As the calendar moves forward, more of Mom's time is spent in veritable silence coupled with a wide-eyed, vacant stare which seems to have her looking at everything and nothing. There is no gold in this silence.
As a physician, when I first encountered this behavior my mind began to race in kneejerk fashion through a mental list of the differential diagnoses so as to discern a cause and possible treatment plan. Reality slowly reinforced the fact that there is nothing in the collective medical arsenal which could greatly improve her situation. This represents yet another cruel manifestation of her progressive disease.
I do still try to engage Mom in conversation when she goes into one of these trance-like states. Sometimes I am successful. More often, I am not.
A few months ago, however, I inexplicably took a turn onto that "road less travelled (by me)," electing to simply sit with Mother in silence.
I had learned it is true when people speak of silence being "deafening." At first, I would often find myself slowly being lulled into the mantra of the void, then just as suddenly I would awaken, acting on a natural and over-riding compulsion to engage her in conversation. But I soon confounded my natural instincts by stifling the impulse. This came as a shock to me.
Sitting silently at her side during these fugue-states, I was left to wonder if I was witness to an actual moment when some internal neurological wiring was being usurped; if she was suffering a small stroke; if she was in "micro-sleep" which has people sleeping with eyes wide open; or, if she was simply taking time to herself ~ a commodity in short supply in a nursing home ~ to collect her thoughts or mood.
Whatever the cause, I eventually found I could enjoy ~ if you will ~ the silence shared during these hours alone with Mom.
Perhaps I came to develop a better understanding and appreciation of the "majestic beauty" of silence written of by men greater than I. Perhaps Mom, in her silence, had goaded me to finally learn the literal and literary lessons from my callow youth; in particular, the adage which assured, "holding my tongue for one day; tomorrow how much clearer my purposes and duties will be."
I have slowly accepted the fate that awaits Mother. I have also learned to simply enjoy whatever we may share along the way. Whether she talks, laughs, or rests in complete detached silence, she and I are engaged in a "dialogue" that will surely live on in my heart forever.
Mom and I recently found ourselves alone again in her silence. Ten minutes soon became an hour ~ with nary a word spoken between us. Mom suddenly emerged from her trance. Turning to look directly into my eyes, she smiled and cradled my face in her small hand. After a moment, she softly said,
"You need to shave."
Her speech IS golden.
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