As He Lay Dying

They gathered on a cold Monday in a garden area at a Ukiah retirement home to say hello to John Duffy, and goodbye.

Duffy, who went by the name “Duffy,” had been turned loose following a medical procedure that did not augur well for longterm viability. It was, by one attendee’s estimation, the 16,000th medical procedure Duffy had undergone in his lifetime.

On this day, with more than a dozen old friends standing beneath a backyard canopy, Duffy himself remained upstairs, tubes in his nose, snoring gently, patiently waiting for the A-List guests to show up. Or the end, whichever came first. 

My money would have been on the Angels of Mercy arriving well in advance of Lady Gaga, but it was no sure thing. Duffy had friends in high places (Senate Majority Leader Tip O’Neill) and low places (nameless) and even imaginary places, as in his oft-mentioned ties with “The Boys,” a batch of local lawyers who did his bidding upon demand. Take bows, Tom Mason, Tim Morrison, Dave Nelson, Dave Riemenschneider, for your many years representation without compensation.

Meanwhile, the short, ragged ceremony resembled a memorial service except Duffy kept on breathing. Gatherers were guided by veteran mourner J Holden, whose remarks began with nods in the direction of Buddhism, Baba Ram Dass and Christianity, then shifted to poignant, funny stories about life with, and soon without, Duffy. There was an acknowledgement that the patient upstairs was, using current-speak, “in transition.” 

Among the laymen the most eloquent speaker, or at least most deserving of sainthood for his years devotion to Duffy, was the altogether honorable Scott Miller. He choked a bit, coughed a bit, and delivered funny, spot-on Duffyisms.

 (NOTE: At his physical best Duffy was a patched-together marvel assembled from spare parts bins at whatever hospital he happened to be passing. By 2021 he’d had most everything fixed or replaced except his eyeballs; he was blind at birth.)

It was worse than you’d think, he’d occasionally remind his friends. Never drove a car or had a license. Dating girls in high school was a challenge bordering on impossible. Independence by any reasonable definition was unattainable. He relied on the courtesies and friendship of friends, which he had in abundance.

His physical limitations were compensated by his personality, and a memorable personality it was. Plus his roly-poly gait, penguin-like, but a penguin who dressed better than Duffy and had better vision. You could spot him a block away. 

So it was never difficult to avoid Duffy if your schedule required not spending the next 15 minutes talking to him, and all afternoon if Duffy found out you had a car parked within half a mile. That meant you’d taxi him around town, which gets us back to seeing him coming from a block away. 

Not that I ever dodged him, but everyone knew he only recognized friends by their voice. Knowing of Duffy’s highly sharpened voice recognition skills, there were stories of those who held their breath when they tiptoed past him.

Full Disclosure: Yeah, I sometimes sidestepped him or spoke in a falsetto if he was across the street, but massaged away my guilt by driving him, once weekly, shopping. So Monday lunches involved our stopping at the Grocery Outlet, Safeway’s pharmacy, Post Office and maybe a laundromat from which Steve Caravello would pick him up and drive him home. I went back to work.

He was a longtime Democrat, an easy thing in California, and he and I were able to co-exist amiably for months at a time without probing one other’s gender fluidity or creative ways to censor free speech.

Duffy also loved sports. Back when the Oakland Athletics were shoving other teams all over the diamond, Buddy Eller finagled excellent season-long handicap tickets in Duffy’s name (free!). 

Buddy gloated at his good fortune, though grumbled at the price: A three hour ballgame sandwiched between traveling to Oakland and back with Duffy’s nonstop worries about imaginary car wrecks and bridge collapses due to Buddy’s supposed terrible driving.

The alternative was having him over to watch games on TV. Here’s Duffy, front and center, leaning far forward on the best chair in your living room, peering intently as the pitcher delivers a bullet of a fastball. “Strike!” the umpire calls it. Duffy, blind mind you, loudly disagrees. 

“It was low and away!” he growls. A slo-mo replay proves Duffy right, the ump wrong, and my suggesting, not for the first time, that Duffy has been faking his supposed handicap so he can soak hard-working taxpayers for more benefits and free tickets to A’s games.

“Heh heh heh,” chuckles Duffy.

At the memorial-ish gathering, Jane Eller deftly mimicked Duffy watching a game on TV, seated but bent over to the point his nose inches from the screen, squinting and grumbling. Lots of laughs, lots of nods in recognition.

 (NOTE II: Readers might judge Duffy’s friends harshly for a lack of sensitivity to his disabilities. They could be right. True, we never treated him with deference or catered much to his disabilities, never showered him with pity or sorrow. We treated Duffy as an equal, and believe he would have resented being considered anything other than one of the guys.) 

There is a happy-ish ending to the life of John Duffy, and Scott Miller tells it well. The dark veil that had cursed Duffy through the course of his life was, amazingly, lifted. 

An amazing medical breakthrough, and roughly 10 years ago the gift of eyesight was bestowed. No more Coke-bottle eyeglasses; Duffy could see! Soon after Miller’s phone was ringing. It was the middle of the night, and the voice was Duffy’s.

He was wobbling and weaving, unable comprehend the world, and he thought Scott ought to come over, probably hoping he’d bring along a nice bottle of red. 

Scott Miller declined and instead suggested Duffy was experiencing, for the first time in his long life, side effects from the astonishing and sudden Miracle of Sight. His words were enough to calm Duffy.

Shortly thereafter he was able to see his lovely daughter, Sarah, for the first time.

Life is good, and then you die.

And early the next morning, John Duffy did die, Sarah Baker Duffy at his side. 

(A genuine memorial for John J. Duffy, age 75, is contemplated. He is not expected to attend)