GBL 1/GBL 1.iso/gay_text/ryanwht.txt

Text File | 1992-10-15 | 15.5 KB | 244 lines

The Last Days Of Ryan White - From People Magazine

   Ryan White never surrendered - not to AIDS, not to despair, not to the
fearful public passions that his illness once aroused. Diagnosed in 1984, he
successfully challenged his school board in Kokomo, Ind., for the right to
attend classes - and became a reluctant celebrity.
   Later he moved with his mother to nearby Cicero, Ind., in hopes of finding a
more ordinary childhood. But Ryan White was not ordinary. With his smile and
grace, he taught the world not to surrender to fear.
   This is the story of his final journey, told by the only reporter Ryan's
family wanted to be there

                               CANDLE IN THE WIND
                                  By Bill Shaw

   The only sound in Room A-460 of the James Whitcomb Riley Hospital is the
rhythmic thunk of a ventilator pumping air through a respirator. Ryan White is
unconscious now. He is beyond pain and feeling, in that evanescent twilight
between life and death. A heart monitor beeps quietly by his bedside, two
nurses in face masks silently monitoring its luminous dials.
f  Beside the bed stands Jeanne White, 42, the divorced factory worker from
Kokomo, Ind. Just a few days earlier, Jeanne, Ryan and his sister, Andrea, 16,
were in Los Angeles for an Academy Awards night party. Ryan later complained of
a sore throat and said he wanted to go home and see his physician, Dr. Martin
Kleiman.
   "That scared me," recalls Jeanne.
   They flew all night, arriving in Indianapolis at 6 a.m. Thursday, March 29.
They went directly to Riley Hospital at the huge Indiana University Medical
Center. By Saturday, Ryan's condition had deteriorated alarmingly. The next day
Kleiman told Jeanne that Ryan's chances of pulling out of this latest crisis
were 10 percent - and that was optimistic.
   "He's Ryan White," said Dr. Kleiman, "that's why I said 10 percent."
   Now, at Ryan's bedside, Jeanne clings to the man beside her, the friend who
has stood by her throughout both grim and good times. Singer Elton John was one
of the first prominent people to offer support shortly after Ryan, a
hemophiliac, had contracted AIDS from a tainted blood transfusion five years
ago.
   AIDS was a new and alien spector then, and when the public fear and early
ignorance led frightened parents to ask that Ryan be kept out of school, Elton
John had become a friend, writing, calling or visiting the boy every month.
Now, standing in this hospital room, the singer looks ashen, his face a mask of
anguish. He had flown all day from Los Angeles, slipped in a back door of the
hospital to avoid the press and hurried to the bedside.
   "Ryan, it's Elton," whispers Jeanne, leaning over to smooth her son's spiked
hair. "We put some mousse on it earlier in the day, Elton. I wanted him to look
good." She sags against her friend, sobbing quietly. Ryan seems so small and
helpless, swallowed up in the Donald Duck and Dumbo sheets the hospital has
provided. Although he's 18, AIDS has kept the embullient boy from growing
beyond 5 ft. and 90 lbs.
   At first John is simply overcome, unable to speak. It was just last summer,
at a concert in Detroit, that he had called Ryan to the stage, sat him down on
the piano bench and sung "Candle in the Wind," his old song about Marilyn
Monroe, another soul destined for a dark journey:
   It seems to me you lived your life
   Like a candle in the wind
   Never knowing who to cling to
   When the rain set in...
   The superstar and the Kokomo factory worker hug and stare. Only the thunk-
thunk of the ventilator and the beep- beep of the heart monitor fill the
silence. Finally, Elton finds the words for this moment, so different from that
concert stage a year ago. "Ryan," he says softly, leaning close to the blank
face. "Michael Jackson called to see how you were. You can't turn down a
superstar like that. I'm grade B compared to Michael. Everyone from Los Angeles
sends their love."
   He rubs his hand lightly across Ryan's forehead. "We need you, Ryan, and we
love you," he says, slumping against Jeanne. She cries and leans over her son.
   "We're here, honey. We love you very much..."

   Outside Room A-460, Ryan's friend and physician, Dr. Kleiman, a pediatric
infectious-disease specialist, stands against the wall. He's the man who five
years ago told Jeanne White that her son had AIDS and would die, probably in
three to six months. Asked later to explain Ryan's longevity, he had said,
"Because he's Ryan White. He's got a great attitude, and that plays a big part.
He's optimistic, not a quitter."
   It was Kleiman who Sunday morning ordered Ryan heavily sedated and hooked up
to the ventilator to keep him alive while he worked to stabilize other medical
problems. "It was Ryan's decision to be put on the respirator, he says. "I
explained everything to him, why I felt it necessary, and he said, 'Go for
it.'" Soon afterward, bleeding internally, the boy sank into a deep,
drug-induced coma. His kidneys began to falter, and infections spread
throughout his tired body.
   "Ryan's failing," Dr. Kleiman says. "It's just a question of time. He's
terribly ill."
   "I didn't even get to say goodbye," Jeanne tells Elton.
   They walk alone down the long corridor. It is late at night, and Elton John
is in no hurry to leave.
   "Ryan lit up my life," he says to Jeanne.

   Inside a small waiting room at the end of the corridor, those few who are
closest to Ryan sit and wait. His father, who was divorced from Jeanne in 1978
and has had little contact with the family since then, has already come for a
brief visit. But Ryan's sister, Andrea, is here, herself an AIDS casualty of a
different sort. She had been a nationally competitive, award-winning roller
skater before his dreaded sickness forced a reallocation of her mother's time
and the family's scant resources. With her are Ryan's grandparents Gloria and
Tom Hale, who had rushed home from Florida over the weekend when Jeanne called.
They have been joined by Jeanne's brother, Tom, and her sister, Janet Joseph,
who drove up from her home in Birmingham. Jeanne's good friends Mary Baker and
Betsy Stewart are here, along with a few of Ryan's pals from school in nearby
Cicero. Heather McNew from Hamilton Heights High had cut school two weeks ago
to go shopping with Ryan at the mall. Dee Laux, 19, had been his date at last
year's prom. When you're 19, and time holds you heedlessly in its arms, the
idea of a prom date teetering on the threshold of death is unthinkable. "I felt
lost," she had said after her last visit to Ryan's room. "He didn't even know I
was there, but I told him I was thinking about him and we all loved him."
   When she can, Grandma Hale sleeps in the waiting room on a chair. Mostly she
keeps a close eye on her daughter, who at times appears ready to collapse.
"Ryan is a tough little boy," she says. "I'm worried about Jeanne."
   Outside Ryan's room, Elton, wearing a long earring in his right ear and a
black baseball cap that says BOY AFRICA, stands and talks for a long time with
Grandpa Tom Hale, who wears a purple jacket with KOKOMO BASS ANGLER in script
across the back.
   The Rev. Bud Probasco, pastor of the Center Chapel United Methodist Church
in Muncie, Ind., has known the Whites for 14 years. He met them back in Kokomo
when he was the assistant pastor at Jeanne's old church, St. Luke's United
Methodist. Jeanne told Bud that Ryan wanted him to preside at the funeral. He
says he was humbled by the request.
   "Ryan has been called for a purpose," says the Reverend Probasco at the
hospital. "You know, I don't want to preach, but I think God is communicating
to us through Ryan to give us understanding and compassion and empathy. He has
changed the way the world views people with AIDS."
   Bud is a keen observer of little things. He has watched Elton John file
hundreds of phone messages for Jeanne, clean up coffee cups and sandwich
wrappers, distribute $600 worth of stuffed animals he bought for the other
critically ill kids on Ryan's floor. "They're too sick to care," Elton says,
"but I feel so helpless in this place, I had to do something. I did it for
myself, I guess." Bud watches how the singer drifts down to Ryan's room about
once an hour. He notes how Elton John sits by Grandma and Grandpa, just
listening to them talk about their grandson. They ramble on like people often
do when they're exhausted and heartbroken, but he listens until they can talk
no more. "He loves those people," says Rev. Bud. "Elton cared about Ryan and
Jeanne and Andrea when no one else did. Years ago when everyone was going the
other way, Elton came toward them. His support has been constant and
unwavering.
   "God calls people for a purpose," says the preacher. "Strength was needed,
and God called Elton. The previous strength and inspiration for this family is
in that bed," he adds, nodding toward Ryan's room.
   Bud's eyes are wide as saucers. He hasn't slept in days but thinks he might
get a hotel room for the night. There's one a block away, but he heard it's
expensive.
   "They told me $40 a night," he says, stunned by the steep price. "I'll do
it, though. I can't be there for Jeanne if I'm tired."

   The word to the outside world is that Ryan White's condition remains the
same. Critical but stable.
   Actually, he's getting worse all the time, says Dr. Kleiman. His kidneys
aren't working at all now. Poisonous fluids fill his body, turning his skin
yellow and puffing him up like a balloon. His feet and hands have turned deep
purple because of poor blood circulation.
   Late at night, when everyone has left, Jeanne moves her rocking chair next
to Ryan's bed and places a little illuminated guardian-angel figurine by his
side. Jeanne bought the angel when Ryan was stricken five years ago. She rocks
back and forth, her eyes closed as nurses wearing protective face masks,
goggles and rubber gloves move about the room. Jeanne wears no gloves. She
strokes his hand and whispers to him. "Baby, I love you," she murmurs. "You're
gonna do good for everybody who is sick. It's a shame it has to be you."
   Elton has a new record coming out Monday. His L.A. office is going berserk
because he's not there.
   "I'm staying here through the weekend and through next week and the week
after that if I'm needed," he tells his office during a tense phone call.
   Elton has become the binding force that holds this frightened but brave
family together. He's the father figure, the source of strength and
organization. Without him, there could be chaos.
   When the doctor emerges with some bit of news, he confers with both Elton
and Jeanne. When the family needs something, everyone looks blankly at each
other until Elton picks up the phone. The relationship is not one-sided. "These
people have given me so much," he says. "They inspire me, they uplift me.
They've given me more than I could ever return. Such strength and courage, such
dignity and such decency."

   Ryan's final journey begins about 8 p.m. Saturday. His blood pressure slips
to dangerously low levels. Dr. Kleiman and his colleague Dr. Howard Eigen are
summoned from home.
   Elton has just left to visit his friend Bonnie Raitt and sing a couple of
songs for the Farm Aid Concert that is in progress a few blocks away in the
Hoosier Dome. As he walks onstage, there is a thunderous standing ovation from
45,000 people.
   "This one's for Ryan," he says shakily, inspiring a second, even more
thunderous ovation. You can hear a pin drop in the cavernous building. His sits
at the piano and begins the song that last summer he sang with Ryan by his
side. When he finishes, the hall erupts in 10 more minutes of deafening
applause.
   "I couldn't look up," an emotional Elton admits later. "I was afraid I'd
lose it before I finished."
   He returns by 9 p.m. to join Jeanne at Ryan's bedside. She sits in her
rocking chair and Elton hugs her. Grandma and Grandpa walk in. They stroke
Ryan's bloated arms and legs. Andrea rushes in and collapses into her mother's
arms. Together they weep and pray.
   By midnight, as teams of nurses and doctors scramble in and out of the room,
desperate to shield this flickering candle, Dr. Kleiman stands in the hall by
himself. Ryan is dying. "I feel terrible," he says. About 1 a.m. on Sunday,
Jeanne takes a call at Ryan's bedside from long-time family friend Michael
Jackson. Michael bought Ryan a red Mustang about a year ago, and the Whites
have been frequent guests at his California ranch.
   Michael wants to come this minute. He is in Atlantic City.
   "How long will it take you, Michael?," she asks. Jeanne looks at a nurse
wearing goggles. "Two hours?" she asks the nurse.
   The nurse shakes her head.
   "Michael, don't come, honey. Ryan isn't expected to last two hours. We know
how much you love him." Jackson says he'll be there in the morning, and he is.
   Rev. Bud steps in and asks for a prayer. "Dear Jesus, this little boy is
going to a better place. Please accept him. He brought us all together in this
room, and we love him for it. We love you, Ryan. Amen."
   Ryan's blood pressure continues to drop through the night. By the soft light
of a Palm Sunday dawn, his gentle flame flickers for the last time. He will die
surrounded by close friends and family and the bittersweet songs of his
favorite singer, whose music comes now from a bedside tape player.
   "Just let go, Ryan," Jeanne White says quietly. "It's time, sweetheart. It's
time to go."
   His blood pressure drops further.
   "Goodbye, buddy, goodbye, my pumpkin," says Jeanne as she strokes her son's
hand. Her tears are gone for now. Only a calm soothing voice. "I want to kiss
you goodbye one more time," she murmurs, leaning across the bed, stroking his
forehead and gently kissing his cheek.
   The green dial on the heart monitor clicks off. Ryan's chest is still. A
nurse attempts to restart the monitor. It flashes bright red. No heartbeat. No
blood pressure. A doctor leans over with a stethoscope and nods. Ryan White is
dead at 7:11 a.m. on Palm Sunday.
   The light in the guardian-angel figurine is turned off.
   Crying, the nurses remove their masks, goggles and rubber gloves. Jeanne
clutches her son's small hand. Grandpa Tom Hale leans over and kisses his
grandson. He is followed by Ryan's sister, Andrea. Then Grandma, then Uncle
Tom. Finally, Elton John kisses him one last time.
   "Goodbye, old friend," says Elton, his eyes rimmed red. "I love you."
   Rev. Bud Probasco leads them into the hall. They all enter a small room,
joined by Jeanne's friends - Betsy Stewart, her daughter, Jill, and Mary Baker.
   "Join hands in a circle," says the minister, "and we'll say goodbye to
Ryan."
   A circle forms in the little room as the Sunday sunshine streams through the
windows. Hands are clasped. Grandma, Grandpa, Elton, Jeanne, Andrea, Heather
and the rest.
   "Thank you, Jesus, for giving us Ryan," says Bud. "For giving us the
privilege of knowing Ryan and learning so much from him. For having him as long
as we did. He gave us understanding and compassion, and he brought us all
together in this room one last time. He was a little boy, but he taught us all
about big hearts."
   "I want my son to be remembered as somebody who accomplished a lot," says
Jeanne. "That would make me proud."
   Elton sang his final song to Ryan at the funeral, which included Barbara
Bush and Michael Jackson among the mourners.

   As early as last February, Dr. Kleiman had examined Ryan, judging him in no
immediate danger.