A Son's Farewell

Copyright © 2007 Stevie Joe Payne
Reprinted for PayneStakings from the book “Pawhuska Kids’ Stuff” (Outskirts Press) with permission of the author.

Image: Stephen William Payne (1967-2003)

A Son’s Farewell

“Dad, I’m scared!” Stephen said into the phone. I could hear the fear in his voice, sense the anguish that gripped him. My entire intellectual life flashed before me, all the things I had learned from books, movies, the Bible, management seminars, counseling, my college career, the Navy, all the things I should say as a father: “Chin up!” “Keep a stiff upper lip.” “There is nothing to fear but fear itself.” “A good soldier does his duty,” “Never give up!” I opened my mouth for one of those gems and heard my voice saying “Son, I’m scared too.” It was the right thing to say.
Stephen, at thirty-six, prided himself on not breaking any bones—so far—unlike me; I had broken seven before I was twenty-one. Diabetes had blinded him six years earlier and trips and falls were just part of his life but so far he had suffered only skins and bruises. He always counted the thirty steps of the stairs between his apartment and the taxi waiting to take him to his thrice weekly dialysis sessions. That morning, he miscounted.
In spite of the broken bones in his left ankle, he managed the three hour treatment and was even planning to return home and rest before going out that evening. That was his anti-psychotic medicine talking, medicine that helped him get through dialysis. A nurse made him go to the hospital where surgery reconnected the shattered bones.
His mother called me that Friday evening, letting me know that I did not have to rush the three hundred fifty miles to Tyler, Texas. She would keep me informed, and I was grateful. I talked to him over the weekend and then again on Monday, the day the doctors conceded that the device joining the bones was failing.
Years of diabetes had left the bones too soft. He was so upset that he had his mother place the call for him, the one when he told me he was scared—about the amputation. It wasn’t certain, but it was likely and he would not know until he regained consciousness. He would go to sleep with two legs, one badly broken, and he would awaken with either two legs or just one.
Or he would not awaken at all; it was a possibility. I hurt for him then as I had never hurt before, wanting to trade places with him as any father does. I prayed hard. He kept his leg, for which we were all grateful, but it never really healed. He seemed to settle into the hospital routine, and we called each other often, and I traveled to see him as soon as I could. I stayed in a motel and spent what time I could at his side in the hospital. He was drowsy from the medications, so our talks were short and intermittent but just being with him was enough, for both of us.
I couldn't stay for all of his long hospital time, so I drove home and returned later. My younger brother Charles, who was close to Stephen as only five years separated uncle and nephew, drove from Pawhuska to Tyler to be with him. And Stephen had his mother and many friends right there in Tyler. He was not alone, yet he was all alone; alone with the things he had to go through. No one could do it for him. No one could do for me what I was going through either.
His fear was not of the pain, not even of the dreaded amputation; it was of losing his independence. He had seen my mother lose both of her legs and her independence to diabetes and it had left hopeless images for him. That was not how he wanted to end up.
He was considering an option that he had touched upon but not discussed much. He might go off of dialysis. He had talked with his doctor about it and she told him that he would take about two weeks to die, that a hospice would take care of him with analgesics. (We don’t use the word painkiller in a family of Paynes).
The selfish father in me did not want him to do that, yet I understood both his reasoning and his wishes. He had suffered more than he should have. He had suffered more than I could have born to suffer. He had been diabetic since he was thirteen and I could not argue with the logic he had for letting his life end. An earlier heart attack had removed him from transplant candidacy, so living longer just meant more organ and tissue failures. There was no hope of getting better, only worse, only sicker, and then dying. This decision gave him some feeling of control in his life, and there was little left that he could still control.
Diabetes wasn’t Stephen’s only fight. There were also those with drugs, and his need to feel loved. He was loved but I know that there were times when he didn’t feel like it, and sometimes it was my fault. Sometimes I had been too stern, too much a disciplinarian; sometimes I had yelled when I should have spoken softly; sometimes I had said no when I should have said yes and sometimes I had said yes when I should have said no.
Still, I always felt loved by him, even when I was more a father than a friend, even when he was angry with me. When you have a child who has problems, some people consider him less worthy to live, that his life has less value and sometimes, he saw himself that way and sometimes that was my fault.
Sometimes it was his mother’s fault. I tried to counter that as much as I could by telling him that I loved him every time we talked, by giving him the things that he needed and wanted that I could give and, surprisingly, these were often simple. He needed batteries for this guitars and tape recorders. He needed lots of blank tapes and I had learned to skip the Christmas and birthday wrappings as he needed them already opened, one less thing for his blind eyes to struggle with.
When we were together I took him to the movies he loved and listened to the remarks of people who did not understand. “Is that kid blind?” “He’s using a cane so he must be.” “Why would you take a blind person to a movie?” Because he was worth it, because it’s what he wanted to do, and movies were still one of the special bonds that we shared; Movies and music.
On a September day in 2003, Stephen lost the final round in his long fight. “I’m tired” he had said to his Tyler friends Eric and Mike. Between Thursday and Friday Stephen saw his Uncle Charles, his childhood friend Pete, and me. He asked me to talk, to say anything, just to hear the sound of my voice. He loved my voice, he said. I talked for a while and he slipped into a gentle sleep. I was stepping out to let him rest when he stirred for a minute, rose up on his pillow a little and his voice became strong, surprisingly so since he had been speaking so softly. “Dad”, he said, “I’m so proud to have had you for a father.” I stood at the door for what seemed a very long time, feeling his words more than thinking about them. It was the most magnificent thing anyone had ever said to me, and it made it difficult for me to speak; I didn’t know what to say. Against my will tears forced themselves from my eyes and I looked at him, saw him on the verge of tears himself and I struggled to find words equal to his. My voice was weak from talking, weak from the illness in my vocal cords and I felt the shakiness in my overtired voice as the simple words, “Thank you son” croaked out of my throat. A son’s farewell: “I’m so proud to have had you for a father.”
Stephen died about 5:30 Saturday morning.
Stephen J. Payne