I went through several concepts of what I could possibly say at my brother's memorial, ranging from inspirational to quirky and anecdotal, but deep down I knew there would never be a single speech that could possibly do Sam or that event any justice. I finally realized that I had to keep it fairly simple - to address things that Sam and I believed in, and to acknowledge the love I had for him. Anything else at that time would have been superfluous. In hindsight, I wish I could have worked an amusing anecdote into the speech anyway, but as I was closing the ceremony, I had to take a different approach:
I shared a movie with my dad after Sam passed away called “Jerome Bixby’s Man From Earth.” For those of you who don’t know, Jerome Bixby was an accomplished science fiction writer who penned what are now considered the best episodes of Star Trek and The Twilight Zone that were ever written. Man From Earth was a concept that Bixby had in his youth that he got to complete with his son as he lay on his deathbed – a final project to wrap up his entire life’s work.
The Man From Earth is about a college professor who attempts to convince his fellow collegiates that he is, in fact, an immortal who has been in existence since before recorded time. The entire film is a slap in the face to skepticism, and a chance for the most ruthless Spock among us to admit that anything, actually, is possible.
So is that faith? I think that’s an important question to address. If I took ten people here now and asked them to explain faith to me, I’m quite certain I’d get the same elements, but I’m also quite certain I’d get totally different answers. Is faith believing that anything is possible? Is it believing without seeing? Is it so personal and subjective that Oxford can’t do the word justice?
I listened to a doctor tell me that my brother wasn’t going to survive two weeks, and then watched him live for three and a half months. Based on all the facts, it seems like a medical implausibility. What can I do to explain it to myself? Jerome Bixby’s main character, when confronted with a mountain of doubt and impossibility, would make the claim, “Pretend it’s science fiction. Make it work.”
Science tells me that the universe exists in multiple dimensions. It tells me that I am swimming in particles that both free and restrict my movements. I believe these things, but I have no idea how they work. You could explain the mechanics to me until you’re blue in the face, but truthfully, there’s no need to. For one, I have no idea what you’re talking about, and for another, the hard work is done. I believe you, man. It’s real. It’s happening. I took what little knowledge I had, and the rest of the blanks were filled in by my imagination. It’s like a baseball game that I couldn’t buy tickets to. I’m not going to hop the fence and get in trouble when I can listen to it on the radio.
Three and a half months. Was it time that we treasure – time with someone we love that we never thought we could have? Yes. Was it enough? No.
But we have it. We have our time with Sam. That’s our realm of fact – our body of knowledge. People tell me I knew my brother better than anybody. Maybe I didn’t. Maybe I just knew him well enough to fill in the blanks.
Time is going to keep on going. Pretty soon it’s going to be a week later. And then a month. And then, somehow, a year is going to pass. And I’m going to look back at this time, right now, and say, “I did this. I survived this. I don’t know how in the hell I did it, but I did. I remember my brother, and he was beautiful. He will always be beautiful.”
And it happened because I made it work. The concept of faith is not owned by anyone. No organized religion can claim that their version of faith is the only one. Faith is what we make, and we make it because it is necessary.
We can do this.
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Joe and Ryan's Memorial Speeches
Joe and Ryan emailed me short speeches before Sam's Memorial Service and asked if I would read them on their behalf. I felt at that time that my friend Colt should be extended the same courtesy, and he at once acquiesced, and then declined, and then agreed once again. Had I known that Colt would be so overcome with emotion when he took the podium, I never would have insisted that he stand in front of everyone, but that's just the level of dedication Sam tends to bring out in people, whether they realize it or not.
Joe's Words:
I first met Sam after we started hanging out at your house, and at that time, he seemed like a shy, stand-offish type kid. Of course, I'm the same way around people that I've never met before, so I knew that we were pretty similar. After time went by, Sam starting hanging out with us more – or at least he would try to. I recall on multiple occasions Lee would have to ask "Sam, can you go play in your room please?!", and of course he would always obey. It really didn't take that long before Sam was hanging out with the group on a more constant basis. We would always be playing videogames, watching movies, having nerf wars, or playing alone in the dark. It didn't take long for Sam to be part of the group because we all had so much in common. As time passed, I feel that we grew to be more like brothers than friends, and I would not have that any other way.
As college rolled around, I really only got to see Sam around summer break, or on the rare occasion when he would come to visit. I recall one time when he came up, and we decided to go to The Tap, a local College Station bar. Sam never liked to drink, but he was always happy to just come out with us and hang out. I always respected him for that - he didn't give in to the drinking peer pressure quite as easily as the rest of us inevitably did. He also didn't mind helping out whenever he could because he was just that kind of guy. He would clean up, or he would organize things for trips, or he would help us move. He was always available.
The most recent time where we got to hang out a lot was at the Frio, and those times were quite awesome. Unfortunately I wasn't able to make it the first time all of you went, but I genuinely wish I could have. The first time I joined y'all, the water was so low that your butt cheeks got a close shave on the rocks below pretty much every time. That sure as hell didn't stop us from having a blast though. I remember trying to sleep in a hundred degree tent, being woken up to Tejano music at 6:00 AM, and getting charred in the sun as we all tried to create a rock dam to try to get just a fraction more force out of the river. I don't know if it helped much, but it didn't matter because everyone had a good time out there. The water was better the next summer, but quite honestly it didn't matter what the water was like because we all got to hang out and have fun. It never mattered where we were, or what the conditions were like, because it was fun just to hang out with my brothers.
It ripped my heart out when I heard of the news. I don't like to remember how he left us, but how he lived. I know he would have wanted it that way. Sam didn't just have one brother, but he had many, and we will all miss him dearly.
Love you guys,
Joe Smith
Ryan's Speech:
I was truly in awe when I got to see Sam at your parent's home that Easter weekend. The courage and strength of spirit he displayed was astounding. I am now just reading the journal entries your mom wrote and the spirit your brother displayed brings tears to my eyes. Sam was a brother that did not have enough time with us, but in the time he did have, he showed character that exceeded anything I have ever witnessed. I cannot imagine the scale of this loss on your and your family, and how incomplete your heart must now be. I am sorry I don't have one of Sam's witty jokes on memory but as you know I'm horrible at remembering jokes. I just remember that with one comment Sam could turn a whole situation around for the better and leave us rolling on the floor laughing. I feel Sam will be a part of us forever, and our memory of him will not fade.
--Ryan Bay
Joe's Words:
I first met Sam after we started hanging out at your house, and at that time, he seemed like a shy, stand-offish type kid. Of course, I'm the same way around people that I've never met before, so I knew that we were pretty similar. After time went by, Sam starting hanging out with us more – or at least he would try to. I recall on multiple occasions Lee would have to ask "Sam, can you go play in your room please?!", and of course he would always obey. It really didn't take that long before Sam was hanging out with the group on a more constant basis. We would always be playing videogames, watching movies, having nerf wars, or playing alone in the dark. It didn't take long for Sam to be part of the group because we all had so much in common. As time passed, I feel that we grew to be more like brothers than friends, and I would not have that any other way.
As college rolled around, I really only got to see Sam around summer break, or on the rare occasion when he would come to visit. I recall one time when he came up, and we decided to go to The Tap, a local College Station bar. Sam never liked to drink, but he was always happy to just come out with us and hang out. I always respected him for that - he didn't give in to the drinking peer pressure quite as easily as the rest of us inevitably did. He also didn't mind helping out whenever he could because he was just that kind of guy. He would clean up, or he would organize things for trips, or he would help us move. He was always available.
The most recent time where we got to hang out a lot was at the Frio, and those times were quite awesome. Unfortunately I wasn't able to make it the first time all of you went, but I genuinely wish I could have. The first time I joined y'all, the water was so low that your butt cheeks got a close shave on the rocks below pretty much every time. That sure as hell didn't stop us from having a blast though. I remember trying to sleep in a hundred degree tent, being woken up to Tejano music at 6:00 AM, and getting charred in the sun as we all tried to create a rock dam to try to get just a fraction more force out of the river. I don't know if it helped much, but it didn't matter because everyone had a good time out there. The water was better the next summer, but quite honestly it didn't matter what the water was like because we all got to hang out and have fun. It never mattered where we were, or what the conditions were like, because it was fun just to hang out with my brothers.
It ripped my heart out when I heard of the news. I don't like to remember how he left us, but how he lived. I know he would have wanted it that way. Sam didn't just have one brother, but he had many, and we will all miss him dearly.
Love you guys,
Joe Smith
Ryan's Speech:
I was truly in awe when I got to see Sam at your parent's home that Easter weekend. The courage and strength of spirit he displayed was astounding. I am now just reading the journal entries your mom wrote and the spirit your brother displayed brings tears to my eyes. Sam was a brother that did not have enough time with us, but in the time he did have, he showed character that exceeded anything I have ever witnessed. I cannot imagine the scale of this loss on your and your family, and how incomplete your heart must now be. I am sorry I don't have one of Sam's witty jokes on memory but as you know I'm horrible at remembering jokes. I just remember that with one comment Sam could turn a whole situation around for the better and leave us rolling on the floor laughing. I feel Sam will be a part of us forever, and our memory of him will not fade.
--Ryan Bay
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
My Initial Written Thoughts
I originally wrote this for Sam's Caring Bridge site on July 08, 2008, a little over a week after his death. I felt that I needed to say something, and the concept for Memory of Sam was more or less complete in my mind, so I had originally hesitated in writing anything, assuming that I'd have plenty of time and space to pour myself out in this venue. However, I quickly realized that too much time would go by before anyone had a chance to hear me, and I couldn't bear the thought of removing myself from the process. As I read back over the material now, I realize it will go down in my mind as the first outward expression of guilt that I will likely continue to express for many years, as I'm not sure I'll ever be able to forgive myself for not being present in his final days. I sat down at my desk the moment I returned to College Station from taking care of family affairs in Tyler, and penned the following:
My father is a man convinced that he does not have the skills necessary to express himself. For whatever reason, call it social brainwashing, he thinks that he possesses the strict mindset of a male engineer - unemotional, calculating, and logical. A quintessential Spock. And so he is often loathe to write about, and even more so to openly discuss, his feelings. The entry previous to mine is an example of my father traveling outside of his comfort zone, and I can think of few other individuals he would be so willing to do this for besides his youngest son.
The sad fact is that despite the fact that I know my dad's belief in his personal stoicism is absolute bunk, and despite my pride at having such a loving family that can reveal their thoughts and feelings to one another, I often identify with that cold, resolute, stone-like mentality - probably moreso than dad ever has. When the heart surgeon first came out of the operating room at Scott & White hospital and told us that Sam was going to die and the only thing capable of stopping this occurence was a straight miracle, I freely admit that I fought back my tears to the point of very nearly choking on them. And back they went. When I received the phone call from my mother that fateful Saturday morning, I put down my moving box, picked up my phone, and just stood stock still in my empty kitchen, all alone, listening to the news.
I knew it was coming. Mom had called me a couple of times earlier, once even at 4:30 in the morning to tell me that Sam was not looking well, and that he'd like me to find the time amidst my moving to come visit. Just as soon as I pack these boxes, I'm going, I thought to myself. I have to make both of these obligations work.
But I couldn't. There just wasn't enough time, in the end. That's the amazing part. I heard a doctor tell me we'd be lucky to get two weeks with Sam, and then we wound up having three and a half months. And it's not enough. If you have ever attempted to time yourself performing a task, you know how disenchanting it can be to fail at your own goals. As horrid as I feel comparing this to a sort of puzzle, that's how it was beginning to feel. If I take this amount of time to do this, and then I can take this amount of time to see Sam, and then rush back....but then the sands in my hourglass ran out, and I just had to stand there. Tests to the front of the classroom. No do-overs.
I didn't cry then. I didn't even feel the stirrings of tears in my system. I felt like something passed right down through my body and left through my feet. Whatever it was, I needed it - this was certainly no appendix that just abandoned me. It was something vital. Vital to my ability to feel, maybe.
Sam and I have always been each other's best friend and worst enemy. On our worst days, we knew how to hurt each other, we knew how to wickedly play off of our feelings and addictions (I may never be able to forgive my brother for re-introducing me to the world of comic books, for instance, and his uncanny memory for my every mistake has often made us bitter). On our best days, we stood up for each other; we helped. Sam got me a summer job, once. I constantly reviewed and studied over his schoolwork.
Sam was hard to know because he so profoundly guarded his privacy. In fact, I have been told that I probably knew Sam better than anyone. This may be true, though I find no solace in that thought. My brother was a moody individual, and there were not many people who were able to get past his temperament to find the person underneath. My own family, on many occasions, found Sam's antics unbearable. We just couldn't feel things the way he felt them: Intensely, and without restriction. Sam would get depressed rather than sad; infuriated rather than annoyed; overjoyed rather than happy.
Was this what we were to each other? A balancing act? Me, with a neverending even temperament, and him, with a torrent of emotion? He lifted me up, and I pulled him down? All I know is that when Sam left, expressing any level of profound feeling is torturous and impossible. I simply just can't bring it out. Maybe we were on a playground, and now I'm that tubby kid on the see-saw without a partner; my end sits on the ground and there's an empty seat in the air.
Maybe I just miss my friend.
Ultimately I know I will torture myself. That's just my nature. It's the exchange of values, as Ernest Hemingway would put it. "I thought I had paid for everything," he writes. "No idea of retribution or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave something up and got something else. You paid some way for everything that was any good. Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it."
There's always a balance somewhere. We are so happy that Sam's suffering is over, but still there is grief, and that pain will be there in varying amounts for the rest of our lives. That is the payment for Sam's release into a better place. That's the currency we must continue to dole out. Knowing this is how I deal with my own pain and emptiness. If it wasn't me that hurt, it could be my brother. I will pay out a thousand times over for the people I love, just as I know Sam would do. The hard part, for so many of us, will be recognizing that our limited time was enough, and remembering that we had it.
Text is the only way I have ever been able to say anything, and that will be how I continue to work. I plan on opening a website dedicated to writing about Sam by the end of the summer. I hope everyone will bear with me as I pour out both the good and the bad.
--Howard Lee Starnes
My father is a man convinced that he does not have the skills necessary to express himself. For whatever reason, call it social brainwashing, he thinks that he possesses the strict mindset of a male engineer - unemotional, calculating, and logical. A quintessential Spock. And so he is often loathe to write about, and even more so to openly discuss, his feelings. The entry previous to mine is an example of my father traveling outside of his comfort zone, and I can think of few other individuals he would be so willing to do this for besides his youngest son.
The sad fact is that despite the fact that I know my dad's belief in his personal stoicism is absolute bunk, and despite my pride at having such a loving family that can reveal their thoughts and feelings to one another, I often identify with that cold, resolute, stone-like mentality - probably moreso than dad ever has. When the heart surgeon first came out of the operating room at Scott & White hospital and told us that Sam was going to die and the only thing capable of stopping this occurence was a straight miracle, I freely admit that I fought back my tears to the point of very nearly choking on them. And back they went. When I received the phone call from my mother that fateful Saturday morning, I put down my moving box, picked up my phone, and just stood stock still in my empty kitchen, all alone, listening to the news.
I knew it was coming. Mom had called me a couple of times earlier, once even at 4:30 in the morning to tell me that Sam was not looking well, and that he'd like me to find the time amidst my moving to come visit. Just as soon as I pack these boxes, I'm going, I thought to myself. I have to make both of these obligations work.
But I couldn't. There just wasn't enough time, in the end. That's the amazing part. I heard a doctor tell me we'd be lucky to get two weeks with Sam, and then we wound up having three and a half months. And it's not enough. If you have ever attempted to time yourself performing a task, you know how disenchanting it can be to fail at your own goals. As horrid as I feel comparing this to a sort of puzzle, that's how it was beginning to feel. If I take this amount of time to do this, and then I can take this amount of time to see Sam, and then rush back....but then the sands in my hourglass ran out, and I just had to stand there. Tests to the front of the classroom. No do-overs.
I didn't cry then. I didn't even feel the stirrings of tears in my system. I felt like something passed right down through my body and left through my feet. Whatever it was, I needed it - this was certainly no appendix that just abandoned me. It was something vital. Vital to my ability to feel, maybe.
Sam and I have always been each other's best friend and worst enemy. On our worst days, we knew how to hurt each other, we knew how to wickedly play off of our feelings and addictions (I may never be able to forgive my brother for re-introducing me to the world of comic books, for instance, and his uncanny memory for my every mistake has often made us bitter). On our best days, we stood up for each other; we helped. Sam got me a summer job, once. I constantly reviewed and studied over his schoolwork.
Sam was hard to know because he so profoundly guarded his privacy. In fact, I have been told that I probably knew Sam better than anyone. This may be true, though I find no solace in that thought. My brother was a moody individual, and there were not many people who were able to get past his temperament to find the person underneath. My own family, on many occasions, found Sam's antics unbearable. We just couldn't feel things the way he felt them: Intensely, and without restriction. Sam would get depressed rather than sad; infuriated rather than annoyed; overjoyed rather than happy.
Was this what we were to each other? A balancing act? Me, with a neverending even temperament, and him, with a torrent of emotion? He lifted me up, and I pulled him down? All I know is that when Sam left, expressing any level of profound feeling is torturous and impossible. I simply just can't bring it out. Maybe we were on a playground, and now I'm that tubby kid on the see-saw without a partner; my end sits on the ground and there's an empty seat in the air.
Maybe I just miss my friend.
Ultimately I know I will torture myself. That's just my nature. It's the exchange of values, as Ernest Hemingway would put it. "I thought I had paid for everything," he writes. "No idea of retribution or punishment. Just exchange of values. You gave something up and got something else. You paid some way for everything that was any good. Enjoying living was learning to get your money's worth and knowing when you had it."
There's always a balance somewhere. We are so happy that Sam's suffering is over, but still there is grief, and that pain will be there in varying amounts for the rest of our lives. That is the payment for Sam's release into a better place. That's the currency we must continue to dole out. Knowing this is how I deal with my own pain and emptiness. If it wasn't me that hurt, it could be my brother. I will pay out a thousand times over for the people I love, just as I know Sam would do. The hard part, for so many of us, will be recognizing that our limited time was enough, and remembering that we had it.
Text is the only way I have ever been able to say anything, and that will be how I continue to work. I plan on opening a website dedicated to writing about Sam by the end of the summer. I hope everyone will bear with me as I pour out both the good and the bad.
--Howard Lee Starnes
A Father's Lament
Written by my father, Floyd Starnes, and originally posted on Sam's Caring Bridge site on June 30, 2008:
Samuel Dean Starnes, Sam, Sammy, Sam-Mule, Sammy-Bear died at 8 am on June 28, 2008. He was only 23 years old and would have graduated from the University of Texas at Tyler in May had he not become ill. He would have graduated with honors.
I cannot stop crying and I am in pain. All of me aches for my son to come back. I am like a reverse Shane: instead of a boy running after a man calling out, I am a man running after a boy yelling “Come back Sammy! Please don’t leave me.”
Sam’s Journey:
Heaven and Hell! Two sides of the same coin.
Hell is having the surgeon at Scott and White Hospital announce that your son, Sam, has terminal heart and lung cancer and Sam will probably be dead within two weeks.
Heaven is having the surgeon at Scott and White Hospital announce that there is a group called Hospice that will arrange an ambulance so Sam can die at home and not in a hospital.
Hell is three and a half months of pain, nausea, drugs, blood, catheters, enemas, weight loss, bed sores, weakness and other problems related to cancer.
Heaven is three and a half months to spend with your son instead of just two weeks.
Hell is holding your son’s head as he vomits up blood and bile, bright red and bright green like Satan’s favorite Christmas ornament. (This is a horrific vision I will see till the day I die).
Heaven is holding your son.
Hell is seeing the fear in your son’s eyes and hearing him say “Dad, I don’t want to die.” And all you can do is hold him close, tell him you love him, and that you don’t want him to die either and that miracles can happen.
Heaven was being able to hold him close and tell him that I love him even though the miracle did not happen.
Hell is when your son is in pain and so drugged on morphine and fentanyl that he cannot string a coherent sentence together.
Heaven is when your son is relatively pain free and wants to reminisce in the wee hours of the morning about the good times he has had with his family.
Hell is when your son has a seizure and grits his teeth in pain as he shakes uncontrollably and loses bladder control.
Heaven is the pride you feel when you son demands his dignity and asks to be carried to the bathroom as he rebels at the bedpan.
Hell is when your son loses almost all his physical strength.
Heaven is when your son never loses his mental strength or his wry sense of humor. When he accidentally got some urine on his hand, he demanded a washcloth immediately to clean himself. His mother got one and cleaned his hands and the rest of him to boot. When they were talking a few minutes later, she reached down, held his hand, then pressed his hand to her lips. His only comment: “Aren’t you glad we washed that hand.”
Hell is when your strapping young son drops from 190 pounds to 115 pounds (his actual weight at the end was lower, but the hospice nurse, Miss Mary, quit weighing him after he could not stand upright by himself). He became a translucent, pale, and very frail skeleton of his former self.
Heaven was the per severity with which your son tried to eat even though he did not feel like eating and knew that most of the time he would vomit back what he had just eaten.
Hell is when your son is in the hospital recovering from open heart surgery and not expected to live and you spend a week at his bed side and cannot stop yourself from stroking his hair which he interprets as patting him on top of his head.
Heaven is when three and a half months later, your son rolls on his side, unable to talk due to weakness in his lungs and the constant oxygen he is on, at 3 am in the morning (just 5 hours before he will die) , looks his old Dad in the eyes and pats him on top of the head.
Hell is holding your son in your arms as he dies.
Heaven is being able to hold your son in your arms and tell him how much you love him as he dies.
Although my pain is great….my gratitude for your caring concern for my son and my family is even greater…Thank you…Thank you all.
Floyd Starnes
Samuel Dean Starnes, Sam, Sammy, Sam-Mule, Sammy-Bear died at 8 am on June 28, 2008. He was only 23 years old and would have graduated from the University of Texas at Tyler in May had he not become ill. He would have graduated with honors.
I cannot stop crying and I am in pain. All of me aches for my son to come back. I am like a reverse Shane: instead of a boy running after a man calling out, I am a man running after a boy yelling “Come back Sammy! Please don’t leave me.”
Sam’s Journey:
Heaven and Hell! Two sides of the same coin.
Hell is having the surgeon at Scott and White Hospital announce that your son, Sam, has terminal heart and lung cancer and Sam will probably be dead within two weeks.
Heaven is having the surgeon at Scott and White Hospital announce that there is a group called Hospice that will arrange an ambulance so Sam can die at home and not in a hospital.
Hell is three and a half months of pain, nausea, drugs, blood, catheters, enemas, weight loss, bed sores, weakness and other problems related to cancer.
Heaven is three and a half months to spend with your son instead of just two weeks.
Hell is holding your son’s head as he vomits up blood and bile, bright red and bright green like Satan’s favorite Christmas ornament. (This is a horrific vision I will see till the day I die).
Heaven is holding your son.
Hell is seeing the fear in your son’s eyes and hearing him say “Dad, I don’t want to die.” And all you can do is hold him close, tell him you love him, and that you don’t want him to die either and that miracles can happen.
Heaven was being able to hold him close and tell him that I love him even though the miracle did not happen.
Hell is when your son is in pain and so drugged on morphine and fentanyl that he cannot string a coherent sentence together.
Heaven is when your son is relatively pain free and wants to reminisce in the wee hours of the morning about the good times he has had with his family.
Hell is when your son has a seizure and grits his teeth in pain as he shakes uncontrollably and loses bladder control.
Heaven is the pride you feel when you son demands his dignity and asks to be carried to the bathroom as he rebels at the bedpan.
Hell is when your son loses almost all his physical strength.
Heaven is when your son never loses his mental strength or his wry sense of humor. When he accidentally got some urine on his hand, he demanded a washcloth immediately to clean himself. His mother got one and cleaned his hands and the rest of him to boot. When they were talking a few minutes later, she reached down, held his hand, then pressed his hand to her lips. His only comment: “Aren’t you glad we washed that hand.”
Hell is when your strapping young son drops from 190 pounds to 115 pounds (his actual weight at the end was lower, but the hospice nurse, Miss Mary, quit weighing him after he could not stand upright by himself). He became a translucent, pale, and very frail skeleton of his former self.
Heaven was the per severity with which your son tried to eat even though he did not feel like eating and knew that most of the time he would vomit back what he had just eaten.
Hell is when your son is in the hospital recovering from open heart surgery and not expected to live and you spend a week at his bed side and cannot stop yourself from stroking his hair which he interprets as patting him on top of his head.
Heaven is when three and a half months later, your son rolls on his side, unable to talk due to weakness in his lungs and the constant oxygen he is on, at 3 am in the morning (just 5 hours before he will die) , looks his old Dad in the eyes and pats him on top of the head.
Hell is holding your son in your arms as he dies.
Heaven is being able to hold your son in your arms and tell him how much you love him as he dies.
Although my pain is great….my gratitude for your caring concern for my son and my family is even greater…Thank you…Thank you all.
Floyd Starnes
Linda Kersh's Thoughts
Paraphrased by Linda Kersh at Sam's memorial service, 07/27/2008:
There are three things that stood out to me as I witnessed the last months of Sam’s life. They are:
Love, Respect, and Courage.
Courage doesn’t always look like what we expect…
A mother or father summoning the courage to tell their son he was dying – that’s courage. Penny and Floyd did that and then courageously did for Sam what Sam asked them to do. They brought him home to die. They allowed him to have dignity and privacy and the freedom to die his own way. These days that almost never happens because it is impossibly hard to do. Hard physically, hard emotionally, hard spiritually – I cannot imagine anything harder in this world. But Penny and Floyd did it. That’s courage.
Courage doesn’t always look like what we imagine...
An older brother standing by his younger brother, being for him exactly what is needed at exactly the moment it is needed. Lee did that for his brother. Lee had always, his whole life, gone ahead, shown the way for Sam to follow. And Sam did follow Lee’s footsteps - so much so that one of the concerns in the family was that Sammy wasn’t being his own person. In the end though, Sam was definitely his own person. In the end, Sammy was the one who went ahead. In those first days, weeks after the prognosis, Sam would panic if Lee took a few steps away from his bedside. “Lee!!” Sam would yell. And Lee, steadfast and patient, would always be right there. Later, Sam began to push Lee away. Now I’m not a psychologist, but it doesn’t take a Ph.D. to see that maybe the only way that Sammy could do what he had to do was to push Lee away first. Lee, as usual, provided for Sammy exactly what he needed at exactly the moment he needed it. Lee was a catalyst for Sam – hard as it was, Lee courageously played out his big brother role for Sam and gave him the courage to do what he had to do, to endure what he had to endure and the courage to leave when he needed to leave. It took real courage for Lee, courage beyond his years, to be there like he was for Sam.
Courage doesn’t always look like what we think…
What 23 year old man, could face his own death with the grace and courage that Sam showed. To say that Sam was not verbose is possibly the understatement of the year, but Sam spoke volumes in his actions the last days of his life. Those last days, Sam spent showing those he loved how much he loved them. He watched his mother’s favorite movie – a clear message to her that he loved her deeply and was going to go out courageously if not upside down in an airplane in a barn like in the movie “Secondhand Lions”. He asked to go to his father’s favorite place – Tyler State Park – because he knew how much it meant to his father to go there with him one last time and wanted to do that for him. He spoke volumes of love for his family in what he didn’t share because he wanted to protect them. In the last months of his life, he was still Sammy as his mother would say but grew in courage and grace and love until he could be the one who went ahead, showing the way for the others.
The love and respect each of the family members have for each other is abundantly apparent. Sammy loved his family, he loved them dearly and they loved him just as dearly. There's a saying - it's the space within a vase that allows flowers to be placed there.A teacher once held a silver dollar in his hand and asked his student to take it from his tightened fist. Of course the student could not. He then he opened his fist and asked the student to try again. This is one way to look at the life and at death of Samuel Starnes – Allowing, Trusting, Accepting. We can only let go and become more. I know Sammy would want us to. Spiritual healer Joseph Goldsmith called our lifetime a "parenthesis in eternity" and once the heart is broken, the parenthesis opens to eternity during this very moment. Would any one of us trade the love we felt that left us seemingly "broken" for this moment erased? Maybe, but I don’t think so. It's that very heartbreak that creates the space that allows us to continue in love and with a faith that reaches into Eternity itself.
With much love,
Linda Kersh
There are three things that stood out to me as I witnessed the last months of Sam’s life. They are:
Love, Respect, and Courage.
Courage doesn’t always look like what we expect…
A mother or father summoning the courage to tell their son he was dying – that’s courage. Penny and Floyd did that and then courageously did for Sam what Sam asked them to do. They brought him home to die. They allowed him to have dignity and privacy and the freedom to die his own way. These days that almost never happens because it is impossibly hard to do. Hard physically, hard emotionally, hard spiritually – I cannot imagine anything harder in this world. But Penny and Floyd did it. That’s courage.
Courage doesn’t always look like what we imagine...
An older brother standing by his younger brother, being for him exactly what is needed at exactly the moment it is needed. Lee did that for his brother. Lee had always, his whole life, gone ahead, shown the way for Sam to follow. And Sam did follow Lee’s footsteps - so much so that one of the concerns in the family was that Sammy wasn’t being his own person. In the end though, Sam was definitely his own person. In the end, Sammy was the one who went ahead. In those first days, weeks after the prognosis, Sam would panic if Lee took a few steps away from his bedside. “Lee!!” Sam would yell. And Lee, steadfast and patient, would always be right there. Later, Sam began to push Lee away. Now I’m not a psychologist, but it doesn’t take a Ph.D. to see that maybe the only way that Sammy could do what he had to do was to push Lee away first. Lee, as usual, provided for Sammy exactly what he needed at exactly the moment he needed it. Lee was a catalyst for Sam – hard as it was, Lee courageously played out his big brother role for Sam and gave him the courage to do what he had to do, to endure what he had to endure and the courage to leave when he needed to leave. It took real courage for Lee, courage beyond his years, to be there like he was for Sam.
Courage doesn’t always look like what we think…
What 23 year old man, could face his own death with the grace and courage that Sam showed. To say that Sam was not verbose is possibly the understatement of the year, but Sam spoke volumes in his actions the last days of his life. Those last days, Sam spent showing those he loved how much he loved them. He watched his mother’s favorite movie – a clear message to her that he loved her deeply and was going to go out courageously if not upside down in an airplane in a barn like in the movie “Secondhand Lions”. He asked to go to his father’s favorite place – Tyler State Park – because he knew how much it meant to his father to go there with him one last time and wanted to do that for him. He spoke volumes of love for his family in what he didn’t share because he wanted to protect them. In the last months of his life, he was still Sammy as his mother would say but grew in courage and grace and love until he could be the one who went ahead, showing the way for the others.
The love and respect each of the family members have for each other is abundantly apparent. Sammy loved his family, he loved them dearly and they loved him just as dearly. There's a saying - it's the space within a vase that allows flowers to be placed there.A teacher once held a silver dollar in his hand and asked his student to take it from his tightened fist. Of course the student could not. He then he opened his fist and asked the student to try again. This is one way to look at the life and at death of Samuel Starnes – Allowing, Trusting, Accepting. We can only let go and become more. I know Sammy would want us to. Spiritual healer Joseph Goldsmith called our lifetime a "parenthesis in eternity" and once the heart is broken, the parenthesis opens to eternity during this very moment. Would any one of us trade the love we felt that left us seemingly "broken" for this moment erased? Maybe, but I don’t think so. It's that very heartbreak that creates the space that allows us to continue in love and with a faith that reaches into Eternity itself.
With much love,
Linda Kersh
Memorial Biography 07/27/2008
Written by Floyd Starnes and read at Sam's memorial service by Dr. Fred Kersh on 07/27/2008:
First of all we would like to thank all the doctors, nurses, and hospital staff at Scott and White Hospital who did everything medically possible to prolong Sam’s life. Second we thank all the folks at Legacy Hospice who made it possible for Sam to spend his last months at home and a special thanks to Nurse Mary for her help and understanding of Sam’s moods during the last three months. Next we would like to thank Linda and Fred Kersh for everything they have done for us during his sickness and afterwards. We would also like to thank everyone who helped out during Sam’s illness, those who sent cards or letters of condolence, and those who gave donations to Legacy Hospice or the American Cancer Society and of course my mom, who came out every day. I thank Tyler Junior College and all the wonderful people there for the sympathy and time off to care for Sam during his last months. We would also like to thank the University of Texas at Tyler for awarding Sam his college diploma posthumously as he was so close to graduation.
We waited a month to have the memorial to allow time for grief and mourning. We wish to celebrate Sam’s life here tonight, not just mourn his death.
Sam was born September 18, 1984, during the 1984 summer Olympics. I remember the Olympics as Penny, my wife, spent two months in the hospital with an abrupted placenta before Sam was born. We spent a lot of time watching the Olympics on the hospital television in her room. Despite the medical problems Sam was a normal healthy boy in all respects. He could be particularly stubborn if he did not get his way. So much so in fact, that he was routinely referred to as Sam-Mule with emphasis on the mule. His early years were in Longview and Houston where he developed a fascination with pump jacks. Any time we drove through the countryside, Sam would sit in his car seat and yell (quite loudly) “pump jack” every time he saw a pump jack. If he saw ten pump jacks he would yell “pump jack” ten times. You can imagine what these trips were like as Houston and East Texas have some stretches of road with hundreds of pump jacks.
He started the first grade at Andy Woods Elementary here in Tyler. Sam had an excess of energy as a youngster and was prone to rocking back and forth if required to stand in one place. One of my fondest memories of Sam was during a parent teacher conference with Mrs. Mock , his third grade teacher. As we conversed with his teacher, Sam began to rock back and forth as was his habit. Mrs. Mock came up behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and gently began to quell the rocking, all the while carrying on a normal conversation with Penny and I. I knew Sam had found the perfect teacher for him. Sam’s ambition later in life was to become a teacher and this was due to the many wonderful teachers he had during his education.
Sam was always unique and strong minded. He would do what you asked but if his heart was not in the task you took your chances. As an example when he was in the fourth grade his teacher required that the class write a short story about the planet Pluto. I include it in its entirety:
“One afternoon at 3:00 Ken and his brother Chip were walking in their backyard until they saw a silver of light in the bushes. They ran up to it closer and closer they came. Then they were right in front of it. It sucked them up and flew into outer space. “Look at all those stars!” said Ken. “Who cares.” Said Chip. “What about us” said Chip. Chip saw a stupid boring planet!
The End.”
Sam attended Hubbard Middle School where he began playing the violin under the tutelage of Mrs. Epperson. He enjoyed orchestra and the companionship of the orchestra members and I have many wonderful memories of orchestra concerts, both in middle school and later at Robert E Lee High School, although I must admit that some of the earliest concerts could be tough on the ears. During high school, the orchestra members were required to wear tuxes during the concerts. We have some wonderful photos of a handsome Sam decked out in his tuxedo looking like James Bond.
When Sam began college at UTT, I required that he either work during the summers or go to summer school. He chose to work and got a job at Game X-change on Broadway. This was a perfect fit since Sam has loved and played video games since he was old enough to hold a game controller. It seemed that every Christmas since the first grade I purchased either a game system or a game module for him. He has been able to defeat me at any video game since about the third grade. When his mother or I would visit the store, we were amazed at how professional he was and how capable and knowledgeable he was at helping the customers. I normally required my sons to quit any summer jobs when school started back up as I always felt that studying and making good grades was their primary job during school season, but Sam enjoyed his job so much I allowed him to keep it during the school year. As usual, he did not disappoint and his grades stayed at the A level.
As mentioned before, Sam had a mind of his own. Even though I went to Texas A&M and my oldest son Lee went to Texas A&M, ( you can imagine the pressure on Sam to attend A&M) Sam turned down A&M and opted instead to attend the University of Texas at Tyler. He lived at home during his college years with his old mom and dad. Although I wanted him to attend A&M, I feel fortunate that he stayed home and gave his mom and I several more years of his company. He also exercised his own judgment in the choice of his major, English. Neither his mom or I are English majors, in fact, I avoided English classes whenever possible.
Since this is a celebration of Sam’s life, we must comment on how he lived the last 7 months as well. Sam spent a week in the ICU at Mother Frances in November 2007 after having fluid drained from around his heart that was preventing his heart from pumping properly. He very nearly died at this time and the episode did change him some. The doctors felt the cause was a virus and that it would not re-occur but Sam still worried about dying. I found a paper he wrote in January 2008 for a communications class he was taking at UTT. It tells as much about him as I can. It follows:
Who am I? I am
Shy
intelligent
charismatic
hyper-active
bold
loving
caring
thoughtful
a Son
a Brother
Also for this communication class Sam had to write an academic biography. This paper is dated January 16, 2008 and I found it in his desk after his death. We will let Sam tell us about Sam in his own words:
The Academic Biography of Sam Starnes
The world of education has been a part of life since my first day of preschool, but I never understood its value until I was in the third grade. I had always done well in school, making a combination of both A’s and B’s on my report cards, but I never really enjoyed education until I met Mrs. Mock, my third grade teacher. Her enthusiasm for teaching, her uncanny fairness, and overall value in her students as people inspired me to take my learning seriously. She was the first to offer me choice in what I could learn, and the more subjects I found interesting the more I began to understand that education only works when the learner is passionate about the subject material. The more students are exposed to choice, the more they learn to care about learning itself. Not only did we learn about major subjects, but Mrs. Mock encouraged us to learn from each other.
As I grew older, I soon became involved in what school officials call “higher learning” or “advanced classes” because they offered so much more freedom than the standard curriculum. My family encouraged this partly because my brother took them, but I choose them for the opportunity to learn among those who shared my passion for critical thinking. I met most of my friends in these classes, and it was easy to converse and debate with students who cared as much for the subject matter as I did. The teachers were both friendly and helpful, and like me they took their role in education seriously. They encouraged free speech, group work and open discussions o the subject matter. If there is at least one thing to say about advanced courses, it’s that I would have never been so sure about college life had I not taken them.
My family has always supported my education even before I started taking my learning experiences seriously. Since almost everyone in my family has at least a bachelor’s degree in some subject, I have been destined to go to college before I was even given a choice on the matter (which would have been “yes” anyways). They were very strict when it came to grades, and they used their parental authority on my brother and I whenever we received less than favorable grades. This parental threat was our motivator to do our best, especially if we wanted to keep our privileges. However, I do understand that my family only did these things out of love, and throughout the years they have always been open minded to everything involving education. They allow me to try things that interest me and hope that I learn from the experience. For example, my parents encouraged me to join the school orchestra because of my fascination for stringed instruments, and I chose to be one of the orchestra’s many violin players. I rarely practiced the instrument on my own time and I wasn’t very good, but the years of playing the violin with a group of talented classmates had given me many memorable moments. I also gained a greater appreciation for classical music, which has become one of favorite genres in the music industry. After orchestra, my parents encouraged me to engage in something of the physical world that interested me. During my senior year, I joined the tennis team, and I learned the rules of the sport. In fact I still play tennis with my Dad every now and then, so the experience has allowed me to bond closer with my father. We’ve learned that our troubles are best taken out on the court, so at least I know the rules well enough to keep up with him and his hard serves.
As of right now, I’m in college hoping to complete my bachelor’s degree in English soon. I am currently a senior with just a few credits left to go, but I’ve enjoyed most of what I have experienced so far. Since I enjoy learning so much, I decided to join the education program in conjunction with my English major so I can earn a teaching certificate (which I hope to earn by the end of the year). With this certificate I plan to teach high school students the many areas of English and freedom of thought through critical thinking and discussion. Teachers, like many of us, learn something new everyday, especially from their students. I hope that one day I’ll be able to make a difference in someone’s life.
Sam’s right lung collapsed on March 14 and he had surgery to repair this problem. Then a hole was found in his heart and he had open heart surgery to fix his heart. We then learned on March 15 that he had terminal heart cancer and nothing could be done. After a tough week in the Scott and White ICU, Sam regained consciousness and was informed of his condition. I did not want to tell him, but he was 23 and an adult with a right to know. He was given a choice to stay in the hospital or go home. He chose to go home, to be in familiar surroundings with his family around him during his final days. The doctors at Scott and White predicted he would not live more than two weeks, yet he survived for three and a half months on sheer will power alone. That was my Sam. He died on Saturday, June 28, 2008 at 8 am in the morning only a month before the 2008 summer Olympics. Although his last months were painful, he died peacefully at the end.
In closing I include a poem that Penny would read to Sam.
I love you forever,
I like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.
-Floyd Starnes
First of all we would like to thank all the doctors, nurses, and hospital staff at Scott and White Hospital who did everything medically possible to prolong Sam’s life. Second we thank all the folks at Legacy Hospice who made it possible for Sam to spend his last months at home and a special thanks to Nurse Mary for her help and understanding of Sam’s moods during the last three months. Next we would like to thank Linda and Fred Kersh for everything they have done for us during his sickness and afterwards. We would also like to thank everyone who helped out during Sam’s illness, those who sent cards or letters of condolence, and those who gave donations to Legacy Hospice or the American Cancer Society and of course my mom, who came out every day. I thank Tyler Junior College and all the wonderful people there for the sympathy and time off to care for Sam during his last months. We would also like to thank the University of Texas at Tyler for awarding Sam his college diploma posthumously as he was so close to graduation.
We waited a month to have the memorial to allow time for grief and mourning. We wish to celebrate Sam’s life here tonight, not just mourn his death.
Sam was born September 18, 1984, during the 1984 summer Olympics. I remember the Olympics as Penny, my wife, spent two months in the hospital with an abrupted placenta before Sam was born. We spent a lot of time watching the Olympics on the hospital television in her room. Despite the medical problems Sam was a normal healthy boy in all respects. He could be particularly stubborn if he did not get his way. So much so in fact, that he was routinely referred to as Sam-Mule with emphasis on the mule. His early years were in Longview and Houston where he developed a fascination with pump jacks. Any time we drove through the countryside, Sam would sit in his car seat and yell (quite loudly) “pump jack” every time he saw a pump jack. If he saw ten pump jacks he would yell “pump jack” ten times. You can imagine what these trips were like as Houston and East Texas have some stretches of road with hundreds of pump jacks.
He started the first grade at Andy Woods Elementary here in Tyler. Sam had an excess of energy as a youngster and was prone to rocking back and forth if required to stand in one place. One of my fondest memories of Sam was during a parent teacher conference with Mrs. Mock , his third grade teacher. As we conversed with his teacher, Sam began to rock back and forth as was his habit. Mrs. Mock came up behind him, placed her hands on his shoulders, and gently began to quell the rocking, all the while carrying on a normal conversation with Penny and I. I knew Sam had found the perfect teacher for him. Sam’s ambition later in life was to become a teacher and this was due to the many wonderful teachers he had during his education.
Sam was always unique and strong minded. He would do what you asked but if his heart was not in the task you took your chances. As an example when he was in the fourth grade his teacher required that the class write a short story about the planet Pluto. I include it in its entirety:
“One afternoon at 3:00 Ken and his brother Chip were walking in their backyard until they saw a silver of light in the bushes. They ran up to it closer and closer they came. Then they were right in front of it. It sucked them up and flew into outer space. “Look at all those stars!” said Ken. “Who cares.” Said Chip. “What about us” said Chip. Chip saw a stupid boring planet!
The End.”
Sam attended Hubbard Middle School where he began playing the violin under the tutelage of Mrs. Epperson. He enjoyed orchestra and the companionship of the orchestra members and I have many wonderful memories of orchestra concerts, both in middle school and later at Robert E Lee High School, although I must admit that some of the earliest concerts could be tough on the ears. During high school, the orchestra members were required to wear tuxes during the concerts. We have some wonderful photos of a handsome Sam decked out in his tuxedo looking like James Bond.
When Sam began college at UTT, I required that he either work during the summers or go to summer school. He chose to work and got a job at Game X-change on Broadway. This was a perfect fit since Sam has loved and played video games since he was old enough to hold a game controller. It seemed that every Christmas since the first grade I purchased either a game system or a game module for him. He has been able to defeat me at any video game since about the third grade. When his mother or I would visit the store, we were amazed at how professional he was and how capable and knowledgeable he was at helping the customers. I normally required my sons to quit any summer jobs when school started back up as I always felt that studying and making good grades was their primary job during school season, but Sam enjoyed his job so much I allowed him to keep it during the school year. As usual, he did not disappoint and his grades stayed at the A level.
As mentioned before, Sam had a mind of his own. Even though I went to Texas A&M and my oldest son Lee went to Texas A&M, ( you can imagine the pressure on Sam to attend A&M) Sam turned down A&M and opted instead to attend the University of Texas at Tyler. He lived at home during his college years with his old mom and dad. Although I wanted him to attend A&M, I feel fortunate that he stayed home and gave his mom and I several more years of his company. He also exercised his own judgment in the choice of his major, English. Neither his mom or I are English majors, in fact, I avoided English classes whenever possible.
Since this is a celebration of Sam’s life, we must comment on how he lived the last 7 months as well. Sam spent a week in the ICU at Mother Frances in November 2007 after having fluid drained from around his heart that was preventing his heart from pumping properly. He very nearly died at this time and the episode did change him some. The doctors felt the cause was a virus and that it would not re-occur but Sam still worried about dying. I found a paper he wrote in January 2008 for a communications class he was taking at UTT. It tells as much about him as I can. It follows:
Who am I? I am
Shy
intelligent
charismatic
hyper-active
bold
loving
caring
thoughtful
a Son
a Brother
Also for this communication class Sam had to write an academic biography. This paper is dated January 16, 2008 and I found it in his desk after his death. We will let Sam tell us about Sam in his own words:
The Academic Biography of Sam Starnes
The world of education has been a part of life since my first day of preschool, but I never understood its value until I was in the third grade. I had always done well in school, making a combination of both A’s and B’s on my report cards, but I never really enjoyed education until I met Mrs. Mock, my third grade teacher. Her enthusiasm for teaching, her uncanny fairness, and overall value in her students as people inspired me to take my learning seriously. She was the first to offer me choice in what I could learn, and the more subjects I found interesting the more I began to understand that education only works when the learner is passionate about the subject material. The more students are exposed to choice, the more they learn to care about learning itself. Not only did we learn about major subjects, but Mrs. Mock encouraged us to learn from each other.
As I grew older, I soon became involved in what school officials call “higher learning” or “advanced classes” because they offered so much more freedom than the standard curriculum. My family encouraged this partly because my brother took them, but I choose them for the opportunity to learn among those who shared my passion for critical thinking. I met most of my friends in these classes, and it was easy to converse and debate with students who cared as much for the subject matter as I did. The teachers were both friendly and helpful, and like me they took their role in education seriously. They encouraged free speech, group work and open discussions o the subject matter. If there is at least one thing to say about advanced courses, it’s that I would have never been so sure about college life had I not taken them.
My family has always supported my education even before I started taking my learning experiences seriously. Since almost everyone in my family has at least a bachelor’s degree in some subject, I have been destined to go to college before I was even given a choice on the matter (which would have been “yes” anyways). They were very strict when it came to grades, and they used their parental authority on my brother and I whenever we received less than favorable grades. This parental threat was our motivator to do our best, especially if we wanted to keep our privileges. However, I do understand that my family only did these things out of love, and throughout the years they have always been open minded to everything involving education. They allow me to try things that interest me and hope that I learn from the experience. For example, my parents encouraged me to join the school orchestra because of my fascination for stringed instruments, and I chose to be one of the orchestra’s many violin players. I rarely practiced the instrument on my own time and I wasn’t very good, but the years of playing the violin with a group of talented classmates had given me many memorable moments. I also gained a greater appreciation for classical music, which has become one of favorite genres in the music industry. After orchestra, my parents encouraged me to engage in something of the physical world that interested me. During my senior year, I joined the tennis team, and I learned the rules of the sport. In fact I still play tennis with my Dad every now and then, so the experience has allowed me to bond closer with my father. We’ve learned that our troubles are best taken out on the court, so at least I know the rules well enough to keep up with him and his hard serves.
As of right now, I’m in college hoping to complete my bachelor’s degree in English soon. I am currently a senior with just a few credits left to go, but I’ve enjoyed most of what I have experienced so far. Since I enjoy learning so much, I decided to join the education program in conjunction with my English major so I can earn a teaching certificate (which I hope to earn by the end of the year). With this certificate I plan to teach high school students the many areas of English and freedom of thought through critical thinking and discussion. Teachers, like many of us, learn something new everyday, especially from their students. I hope that one day I’ll be able to make a difference in someone’s life.
Sam’s right lung collapsed on March 14 and he had surgery to repair this problem. Then a hole was found in his heart and he had open heart surgery to fix his heart. We then learned on March 15 that he had terminal heart cancer and nothing could be done. After a tough week in the Scott and White ICU, Sam regained consciousness and was informed of his condition. I did not want to tell him, but he was 23 and an adult with a right to know. He was given a choice to stay in the hospital or go home. He chose to go home, to be in familiar surroundings with his family around him during his final days. The doctors at Scott and White predicted he would not live more than two weeks, yet he survived for three and a half months on sheer will power alone. That was my Sam. He died on Saturday, June 28, 2008 at 8 am in the morning only a month before the 2008 summer Olympics. Although his last months were painful, he died peacefully at the end.
In closing I include a poem that Penny would read to Sam.
I love you forever,
I like you for always,
As long as I’m living
my baby you’ll be.
-Floyd Starnes
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