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
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