ROANOKE TIMES
Copyright (c) 1996, Roanoke Times
DATE: Thursday, February 15, 1996 TAG: 9602150096
SECTION: NATIONAL/INTERNATIONAL PAGE: A-1 EDITION: METRO
DATELINE: CHATTANOOGA, TENN.
SOURCE: MICHELLE WILLIAMS ASSOCIATED PRESS
THE JOYFUL REUNION may be only a chance to say goodbye. The subject of the miracle is dying of pneumonia. The family waited 7 1/2 years, sometimes sitting vigil at the bedside of the police officer who had taken a bullet in the forehead and drifted all that time in the shadows of coma.
They never gave up hope that Gary Dockery somehow would pull through. And this week, it seemed all prayers were answered when he woke up, spoke to his sister and cracked jokes as if no time had passed.
``I looked up at him, and he had a look I had never seen before,'' Lisa Dockery said through a hospital spokeswoman Wednesday. ``He seemed so at ease, and his eyes were wide open.
"I'm your sister," she said.
"Uh-huh," he responded.
"You're talking!" she exclaimed.
"I sure am," he answered brightly.
``There's not but one way to describe it,'' said family friend Tim Thompson. ``It's a miracle of God.''
But the miracle may prove an ending rather than a beginning: one last chance to say goodbye. Doctors tell the family that the pneumonia now racking Dockery's lungs will kill him without surgery, but anesthesia may well sedate forever the last working parts of his brain.
``This isn't a success story,'' said his son, Sean, a little dazed from the emotions of the past several days and an onslaught of calls from reporters who learned Wednesday of Dockery's apparent recovery. ``He's very sick.''
On Sept. 7, 1988, Patrol Officer Dockery answered a trouble call in Walden, a mountain town 15 miles north of Chattanooga. He was shot point-blank with a
The gunman, Samuel Frank Downey, now 68, told officers he'd placed the bogus call to get back at police for reprimanding him about noise after neighbors had complained. Downey was sentenced to 37 years in prison and will be eligible for parole in May.
When he awoke Monday, Dockery remembered neither the shooting nor taking the Walden police job just three months before. He does recall his divorce, working as a security guard for the University of Tennessee at Chattanooga, and the eight years he spent with the Lookout Mountain police.
After all those years in a coma, Dockery communicated occasionally by blinking ``yes'' and ``no'' answers to questions. But he has no way of knowing Ronald Reagan no longer is president. He was spared O.J. Simpson's murder trial. He has no concept of the compact disc player or the Internet. He'd likely be mystified to learn that the United States had waged war against Iraq and has thousands of soldiers keeping the peace in a place that was called Yugoslavia when he was shot.
Now is not the time to bring him up to date, say family members.
``That stuff is not as important as us getting to talk to him,'' Sean said. ``It was like we got a last chance.''
Never surrendering hope, his family had kept him on life support at a nursing home. Last week, seriously ill with a lung infection that had worsened to pneumonia, he was transferred to a Chattanooga hospital. His family, expecting the worst, posted someone at his bedside around the clock.
On Monday, the fever broke. Without warning, he started to mumble. Then he spoke distinctly to his sister.
Dockery began asking questions and telling jokes. He telephoned his mother and brother and asked for his sons, Colt and Sean, whom he had not seen since they were 5 and 12 years old.
``He talked himself to death that day,'' said Sean, now 20. ``It was unbelievable.''
Dennis Dockery flew back from a vacation in Nevada when he got the news about his younger brother.
``My knees started shaking and tears came when I heard my brother say, `Hi, Buddy,''' Dennis Dockery said.
But Dockery spoke less Tuesday and not at all Wednesday.
His family faces a dreadful choice: Let the pneumonia run its course, which doctors estimate will kill him within three days, or let surgeons operate on his weakened lungs.
Even if Dockery survives surgery, Sean said, his gunshot-damaged brain may never recover from sedation.
No matter what the coming days and months hold, Dennis Dockery said he's thankful he got one more chance to tell his brother he loves him.
``This is one of the biggest blessings that's ever happened to me,'' he said.
LENGTH: Medium: 87 lines ILLUSTRATION: PHOTO: (headshot) Dockery.by CNB