Sweetness_ The Enigmatic Life of Walter Payton - Jeff Pearlman [232]
“Walter,” said Quirk, “wigged out. He was devastated.”
On January 1, 1999, Payton, traveling without companionship, checked into St. Mary’s Hospital for three and a half days of testing at Mayo. He was terrified and alone, and had no idea what the future held. When Charley Walters, a staff columnist for the Saint Paul Pioneer Press, was tipped off about Payton’s presence at the clinic, he pursued the story. “I’m here for a physical,” Payton told him. “No big deal.”
Payton returned home on the evening of January 4, convinced that somehow, someway the news would be positive.
It wasn’t.
Gores explained to Payton that he was, without question, suffering from PSC. He told him that the disease could be measured in different levels, ranging from hours to live to weeks to live to months to live. “I was at level three,” Payton said, “where they figured I probably had a year or two at that point.”
“This won’t get any better,” Gores told him. “There’s no medication or anything that we can give you to make this better. It’s going to progressively get worse to the point where, in about a year or a year and a half, you’re going to need a liver transplant.”
The report punched Payton in the ribs. Until now, everything had been hypothetical. Maybe liver disease. Maybe cancer. “He thought the best,” said Quirk. “Until he heard the real diagnosis.” It didn’t compute. Sure, Payton wasn’t feeling like himself. But he was still strong and, at times, energized. There was no way this could be true. Payton knew he would overcome. He didn’t hope or guess he’d overcome—he knew. The average wait for a liver in Illinois was said to be 127 days. He could handle that. The success rate was 88 percent. He could handle that, too. Payton would inevitably receive the transplant, and that would be that. End of story. “I beat everything mentally,” he told Mike Lanigan, his friend and business partner. “I prepared myself for Sunday mornings when people said I couldn’t play. I’m gonna do this, too.” The next time he spoke with Quirk and Tucker, Payton made an executive decree: No more bad news. From that point on, Quirk would do most of the talking with the Mayo people (Payton made it clear to Mayo that absolutely no information was to be conveyed directly to Connie). If they had positive updates, Payton wanted to hear them. If they had terrible news, well, keep it away from Walter’s ears.
Upon returning from Rochester, Payton called Connie and asked that they hold a family meeting at the home at 34 Mudhank. The four Paytons gathered in the basement, and Walter—positive, laughing, upbeat—told his children that he required a liver transplant, and there was nothing to worry about. “I was kind of nervous, but he was Superman to me,” said Jarrett. “He didn’t say anything about dying. Everything was positive—‘When I get this transplant, I’ll be fine.’ I was numb. I didn’t cry, because I didn’t think he’d die. I assumed the best.”
“I don’t think I understood,” said Brittney, who was thirteen. “I’d never been to a funeral and I never knew anyone who had been really sick. There were some tears and nervousness, but he assured us he’d be fine. Death wasn’t a part of my world.”
At the time the Roundhouse was preparing to distribute bottles of its newest beer, Payton Pilsner, to the Dominick’s grocery stores scattered throughout Chicago. “The trucks were actually loaded and