8 Years Later

5 Year Memorial

During one of the many after-midnight WalMart trips Sam and I would take, he found a five dollar bill in the parking lot. "Holy shit!" Sam exclaimed, picking it up. We both immediately began looking around, searching for anybody that might be walking around, eyes low to the ground, five dollars light in pocket. The parking lot was a graveyard, and Sam seemed disappointed, then asked what he should do with the money. It took me little thought to realize that the odds of him finding the one true owner of that cash were roughly zilch, so I told him he could basically do whatever he wanted with it. I probably suggested that he buy candy or chips since we planned on playing a lot of videogames that night.

Instead, Sam made a beeline for the nearest charitable donation canister he saw when we entered the store, dropped it in, and then shrugged at me. "It wasn't my money," he said.

This is the way I prefer to remember my brother. I'm not going to pretend this was Sam all the time, but there was an honesty and generosity in him that I know in my heart I will never be able to match. Sam was the kind of person who would invite a friend over to show him his most prized possessions, and if said friend made sufficient "ooohs" and "aaahs" over a particular item, Sam would offer this treasure to the friend outright. I've heard Sam ask "Do you want it?" to enough people that I can practically mimic the intonation of his voice from memory.

Five years ago on this day I was packing a box in my kitchen, desperately trying to vacate my apartment before the final day on my lease expired. When my phone rang and I saw that my mom was calling I knew the subject matter before I picked it up. There wasn't much that needed to be said, so she didn't waste a lot of breath. "It's that time," is all she said.

By the time I finally arrived home in Tyler, my brother's body was already gone - taken by a coroner in an ambulance or perhaps a van. Gone, too, were all the borrowed materials from hospice care that had kept Sam afloat during his months-long deterioration - the hospital bed, the slow I.V. drips, the various machines that searched his body for bioelectric signs and then registered lines and beeps on a screen to tell everyone that he was still around, his heart still beating. The house felt cold and empty when I walked through the door, as though my brother had possibly never existed. It was surreal.

And dark. It was impossible not to reflect on how much weight he had lost, the vision of his ribs plainly evident. It was hard not to remember the time I came to visit and he forgot my face, his eyes blankly searching mine and mistaking me for a nurse, asking me when his brother was going to arrive. It was difficult to push out memory after memory of holding a bucket while he vomited and cleaning up the mess after.

Sam was gone, and in that moment I had a cold, realistic thought: He's no longer in pain. I assumed this realization would level some form of comfort over me, but it did not.

For months afterwards I was unpredictable, though it might not have seemed so. I had moments that I felt completely manic, others when I was utterly depressed, and every shade in between. Many days it was easier not to feel anything so strongly. Over time I reached a calm, but I have never forgotten that cold, sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach when I walked into the house for the first time after my brother passed away.

I reflected on that this morning as I walked to the bus when I found a single dollar laying in the road. With nobody around to possibly claim it, I picked it up. On the bus there was a young woman with some handmade signs and a bucket who was on her way to set up a small fundraising drive for charity within the office where she worked. I gave her the dollar, because it wasn't my money. No resource ever is when left unused for the betterment of those around us.

Donate to the Cancer Research Institute

Moved...

I'm not sure if this will reach folks or not. Anybody trying to go to the old web address (http://memoryofsam.com) will unfortunately find nothing there. But I wanted to at least have a message assuring anybody who goes looking that the blog is not gone. We've just switched back to the old Blogspot Address. I promise, this blog is not going anywhere.

The Ongoing Trial

When I'm sick and I spend a day at home I find myself alone with my thoughts, which is never a place I should remain for any extended period of time. It's part of the reason I try to surround myself with distractions, but those occasionally fail me, and I find myself waxing wistful about old times within my head. Some of these memories are an endless source of amusement, and to that end I am always glad I've spent the time going through my personal vault, but there are dark corners in there - unavoidable shadows that creep up the deeper you poke around, until you hear that tell-tale click of a latch on some unseen door and you know that you're stuck there for a while, playing some sick game of tag with your own feelings of guilt and remorse.

It's not my fault that my brother fell ill with cancer. It was not wrong that I survived and he did not. It just is, like a force of nature - no positives or negatives intrinsically attached. But leaving him to go back to work, returning every weekend to find a bigger divide between the two of us as he went from bad to worse...those are choices that I made. I'm the one who slowly started to question if I should even bother coming back at all, wondering what good it did, and contemplating just abandoning the entire situation like something you see and then try to forget. The efforts that I made during that period essentially amounted to being a presence; a figure in the background moving out of the way every half hour so that my parents could help Sam throw up again.

When Sam talked to me, he was annoyed, pushing, for quite a while. His demeanor changed somewhat when my parents made him realize what he was doing, but then there were other problems. There was the time Sam forgot who I was - by that time the cancer had spread to many parts of his body, including his brain - and asked me when his brother was going to show up, like I was some kind of nurse. I really wanted to escape that time, to just make the whole thing a bad dream and wake up. But it was also an important moment. Sam was a creature of routines his entire life. My weekend visits were expected, if not almost required for his sense of normalcy. He forgot me at that time, but he remembered later.

If I have a sense of guilt about anything, it was the end times, when I wasn't there at all. Two weekends in a row I missed going back. One was so I could spend time with friends - a break I felt like I needed to prevent me from going insane. And then the next was so I could move. Neither were reasonable excuses for not being there in hindsight.

When I think about my brother, I have such a sense of joy at all the ridiculous, irreverent, and funny things that we did together. But there's also a melancholy because of the pain he endured. And remorse that I wasn't there for my best friend; somebody I love very much to this day. My parents were there with him, and held him - literally held him - at the very end. I was putting dishes in a box. And that is something that will reduce my very emotional core to a shambles every time I think of it, no matter where I am or what I'm doing.

--Lee

A Mother's Thoughts

As I look at this picture of Sam and I, I see what isn't there. His stoical expression because he was ready to go and didn't want to have his photo taken...one or two pictures, okay and we had stepped over the line asking for more. He was my handsome, compassionate, yet taciturn son. He knew his own mind and seldom strayed from what he believed. Naive in some ways, worldly wise in others...he was simply our Sam and we love him.

For so long I haven't been able to write about him for possibly many reasons. First and foremost, because it makes it so real, seeing words on a page. In Black and White. Carved in stone, engraved on a marker. Strange, I should feel that, when I have always derived such comfort from words.

Missing Sam is part of me, like taking a breath. There is a hole, jagged edges, painful and aching that does not fade or dissipate with time. I am certain everyone thinks I should be over this by now, but I am not...and that is just what is.

So I mourn for Sam: his potential, his presence, his personality. Sam saw the world in black and white, but he was beginning to discover the shades of grey that make everything more vibrant. His was a romantic soul. There was a hero for every vanquished villain, good always triumphed, and there was always "the right thing to do."

So I imagine how he felt when he tried to wrap his brain around the news. The encompassing word, cancer, enormonity of the word "rare," and the even scarier words, "No treatment, No Cure," as well as the finality of the unspoken word, "dying." I have to imagine, because Sam didn't discuss it, wouldn't discuss it...and you couldn't make Sam do what he adamantly would not do.

His stubborness was almost legendary. We always considered it an asset and told him so. He didn't try to be even more unyielding, instead he would redouble his efforts to persuade you that his way was right. He would argue, consider what you said, think about it (okay, brood is a better word and often would revise his assessment and change.) It was this ability which became even more evident as he grew up that garnered our respect. So we respected his wishes, the subject was closed. We played it out Sam's way.

Maybe that is why I can't seem to say goodbye. It is so final.

I am stubborn too, and I prefer the wave and the words I uttered as I dropped him off at school:

Later Sam...Love you!

A Note From Dad

My dad wrote me something recently and gave me permission to post it to our website if I saw fit. I like it when dad puts his thoughts to paper because I think he's a more talented writer than he gives himself credit for, and his words often serve to remind me of concepts and ideas that I'd never speak aloud.

Dad is also a formulaic writer, which is something that I think we all have to do in order to improve our ability to express ourselves. Sam was also a formulaic writer in his personal work. There is a security in sticking with formula that I am often unable to emulate, as though I'm only comfortable when I am so far outside the box that it is actually impossible for a person to be comfortable. This is where I think my family and I sometimes differ.

Where we stay the same, however, lies in our collective desire to keep things simple. If the meaning of our words isn't plain, we'll rewrite it as many times as it takes to make it so. We'll happily eschew skip the big words in favor of something more easily understood. I think that's a common thread in my family. We want to make certain that we are understood.

I think dad accomplishes that handily.

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Last year seems so very surreal to me. The year seemed to last forever and yet, was gone overnight. It was the last year of my son’s life. Sam was diagnosed with terminal heart cancer during Spring Break of 2008. As we approach a new spring break, I begin to reflect on the agony of the previous one.

After we brought Sam home in mid March of last year, he got better for about two weeks; he then began a permanent slide downward that lasted for three months. He lost nearly 100 pounds of bodyweight and was sick almost every minute of every day for the three months. He never complained about the nausea or the pain or the headaches or the weakness in his muscles. He took it all in stride. He had more poise and dignity those last months than I have ever mustered in my entire life. I am so very proud to be his father. I miss his quiet dignity.

The University of Tyler sent us his diploma last week. I wish I could have watched him cross the stage and pick it up in person. I put a lot of emphasis on doing well in school and Sam always took it to heart. He studied hard and graduated with honors. He was an A student. I used to accuse him of being a vampire since he would sometimes stay up all night and study for a test, then sleep the remainder of the day after the test was over. He would always smile and made some wry comment when I harassed him that way. I miss his wry comments.

I tend to misspeak often. Once Sam asked for an advance on his allowance and I pulled my wallet out of my pocket to give it to him. I first asked why he wanted the money and his explanation was not sufficient for the advance, so I told him no. I also meant to say “I was going to put my wallet back in my pocket”, but somehow I managed to say “I was going to put my wallet back in my butt”. Sam howled! He thought that was hilarious. I gave him the advance just to get him to quit talking about my mistake. He, however, never forgot. Years later he would still remind me of the words I said that day and he would laugh every time. I miss his warped sense of humor.

At Christmas, Sam always made lists of what everyone wanted and was always diligent about getting every person something on the list. He cared enough to make sure everyone would get something that they wanted. If I mentioned a specific DVD, then I would find it gift wrapped under the tree on Christmas morning and Sam was always willing to watch it with me, even if it wasn’t a movie he wanted to see. Last Christmas was very difficult to endure without him. I miss his caring ways.

The last few years Sam and I were at home alone most of the time. My wife, Penny, works as a flight attendant and is gone a lot. Lee, my other son, works in College Station. Sam and I became very close during this time. We talked a lot and watched television together and would go to Tyler State Park together. He was fun to be with and I feel much lonelier now that he is gone. I miss being with him.

These days my passion for life is banked. Without Sam to fan the coals back to a flame, I will never regain what I once was. Every day without Sam seems a little dimmer, a faded parchment that will never regain its former color. When I get up in the morning, I think of Sam. When I go to bed at night, I think of Sam. Slices of everyday that I observe make me think of Sam. As in: Sam would think that was funny, or Sam would be upset about that, or Sam would want to see that movie, and on and on and on. Almost everything makes me think of him. I miss Sam.

From Mark McCann

Dear Starnes Family and Friends,

I have never met Sam in person. And yet he was part of my daily life for a decade.

Back in the late 90s, I joined a forum group known as “System-Zero” (later known as “Shadow-Corp”). We were a rag-tag group of folks with a common interest in games, movies, anime, and music. This is where I first met Sam, who went by the handle “ShadowSavior”. I had no idea that back then he was in his early teens. He carried himself far better than people twice his age.

In 2007, the webmaster for System-Zero (Mina) announced that she would be shutting the forums down. At the time, my wife and I had a small hobby project called CoopGamer.com. We weren’t doing a whole lot with it, so with Mina’s blessing, I offered to be the new home for anybody that still wanted to keep in touch.

A handful of people came over, including Sam (who went by a new handle – “MadMaddy” and then later settled with “RiotterSham”). We were such a small group that it felt very much like a family. By the way, I never asked him exactly what his handles meant, but I figured I would mention them in case there is some personal meaning.

We continued the legacy of elitist reviews, bad jokes (according to Sam, his Dad loved these), social commentary, and personal tales of woe and victory.

On November 22nd, Sam told us about his pericardial infusion (and, bless his heart, apologized for his absence). Then, I kid you not, the very next line he went right into talking about the Beowulf movie.

On March 22nd, after a 2-week absence, Sam gave us the news about his cancer. It was heartbreaking, yet I was inspired by his positive words:

Anyways, I'm taking breaks from everything until the scars heal, and I thought you should know since I consider this place a second home. I'm going to live my life the best way I can and hope that I survive long enough for some good gaming. The best way to deal with pain is through humor, so when I finally go, I hope I can go laughing.

And finally, on March 24th, he posted his:

Thanks guys. I had a great morning yesterday. I sat on the porch, ate an apple, watched the weather, and listened to "The Moonbeam Song" by Harry Nillison. Greatest morning ever. Seriously. It was one of those moments where I felt proud to live in Texas.

Also, music cures everything. This is a fact, and anyone who says otherwise is WRONG.

This was the last post he made for us. I figured he just needed time to heal up and so I left him alone and awaited his return.

My wife and I had our first child on June 13th and basically those first seven months went by like a blur. In January I sent Sam an email to see how he was doing and the email got bounced back.

It was then that I searched more and found memoryofsam.com. I was crushed. I read all of the articles on the site with tear-soaked eyes. And I saw Sam’s face for the first time (I would love to see more pictures if you would be so kind). Lee, I can’t thank you enough for creating this place for us to remember Sam. It brought me closure. It brought me perspective. And it brought me to all of you.

It takes a special kind of person to have such an impact on people he’d never even met. Someone both quirky and clever. Confident, yet friendly. Someone you’d look forward to hearing from every day and feel an empty spot in his absence.

More importantly, someone who showed nothing but courage while facing insurmountable odds. I don’t know if he did it through genuine optimism and strength or to save us from pain and worry. Maybe both. But in any case, he is my hero.

Sam, you have family that cares about you so deeply – not just your immediate family, but us in your “extended” family as well.

We miss you so very much, but are blessed for the time we were lucky enough to have with you.

I don’t know what goes on after this life. But I like to imagine, Sam, that you are kicking everyone’s butt at Street Fighter IV in that great arcade in the sky. Give ‘em a Dragon Punch for me, ol’ buddy.

Your friend always,

Mark