Sweetness

by Jeff Pearlman

  Brittney felt no such pressures. As a student at Station Middle School in Barrington, she participated in track and field, standing out as a sprinter and long jumper. Walter made as many of her meets as possible, and quietly applauded when she did well. As demanding as he could be with his son, he was equally docile with his daughter. Payton loved having a girl, but was perplexed by the dresses and flowers and tea-party birthday celebrations. (“I was probably seven or eight for that one,” Brittney recalled. “We had someone come in and bring funny hats and boas for everyone to wear, and my mom put out real china. My dad was around, but he wasn’t going to sit there with a bunch of little girls drinking tea.”) He could wrestle with his son, throw balls with his son, trade barbs with his son. “With me, he did a lot of tickling,” Brittney said. “He and my brother would pin me down and tickle me to death. I hated that.”

  Every so often, Walter would present Connie with an idea for the children. His best one involved money. When Jarrett was fourteen and Brittney ten, he took the kids to the bank and had them open their own checking accounts. The goal was to teach the value of currency—know how much you’re spending and grasp the power of the dollar. “It was very wise,” Brittney said. “I remember taking home economics in high school, and when it came to money I was way ahead. I learned at a young age to know how much I had in my account at all times.

  “Because if you’re not careful, it’s all gone.”

  PART FIVE

  FINAL

  Jarrett Payton, Walter Payton’s son

  Dad had a sweet tooth for Laffy Taffys. The banana ones. My mom used to go to Sam’s Club and buy the big buckets.

  About two years after my father died, we moved out of our house. We were packing up everything, and one of the things we had was this big vase by the glass in the atrium that had been there for years. It was sitting on top of something, so you never got to see in it because it was high up. When we were moving we picked up this big vase, and it almost tipped over. It made a rustling noise, and I was like, “What’s in here?” Well, I dumped it out and hundreds upon hundreds of Laffy Taffy wrappers came pouring out.

  It was the most beautiful thing in the world.

  CHAPTER 25

  SICK

  WHEN HE DECIDED TO RACE IN THE TRANS-AM SERIES IN 1990, WALTER Payton was required to undergo a physical as extensive as any he had ever endured as a member of the Chicago Bears.

  Weight and height were measured. Blood was taken. He urinated into a small cup, sprinted for forty-five seconds on a treadmill, and jumped straight into the air. When the results were returned Payton was told—as he had always been told before—that he was in good health.

  With one seemingly miniscule blip.

  According to the exam, Payton appeared to have elevated liver enzymes. He underwent further testing with Jay Munsell, a former team physician with the Bears, who confirmed the findings. “But nobody paid it much mind,” said Kimm Tucker, the executive director of Payton’s charitable foundation. “Walter was so physically above the curve, it just didn’t register as a real problem.” The indifference was hardly uncommon. Although elevated liver enzymes can be a symptom of liver problems, they might also appear because of alcohol consumption, gallstones, or several other minor issues. To Payton, this was the equivalent of testing for slightly elevated blood pressure. No big deal. “It was something nobody even considered a problem,” Tucker said. “Walter was invincible.”

  Three years later, following his near-fatal crash at Elkhart Lake, Wisconsin, Payton underwent a liver biopsy assessment because, as cited in a report issued by the Mayo Clinic, “there was concern of toxic exposure in the cockpit of the car.” Again, the test results showed elevated liver enzymes. Again, nobody seemed especially concerned.

  In the summer of 1998, Walter Payton was a busy man. In the process of shedding himself of his nightclub holdings, Payton had become one of three owners of Walter Payton’s Roundhouse, an enormous brewpub/restaurant in the suburb of Aurora. He also co-owned a CART racing team, and was heavily invested in the future of his son, Jarrett, who by now had emerged as a superstar quarterback/running back at St. Viator High. Rated the nation’s number fifty-eighth overall prospect by The Sporting News, Jarrett was being recruited by most major Division I colleges. Walter attended nearly all of Jarrett’s games, sitting atop the home press box to avoid crowds and commotions. He delighted in seeing his boy follow so ably in his footsteps, and loved speaking to recruiters from Notre Dame and Northwestern, Miami, and Minnesota. The whole experience made Walter Payton feel special again—this time not for something he did, but for someone he created.

  Through all the commotion, Payton hardly noticed that his appetite had started to wane. Nothing especially alarming. It was just that, for a man used to eating like a blue whale, food no longer held much interest. “I wasn’t as hungry,” Payton said. “Things that I ate did not digest as well.”

  Because he was a football player, and because football players are instructed to ignore pain and irritation, Payton paid the discomfort little mind. He swigged from bottles of Pepto-Bismol and continued with his days. Here was a man who made a living out of running over defensive ends; who had survived a fiery race car crash and who could count on one hand the number of sick days he had ever taken. Upset tummy? Waning appetite? Not a big deal.

  “I had been traveling between Chicago and Panama for a potential business venture and I figured I must have caught an intestinal bug from eating some uncooked crab,” Payton said. “I had been eating a ton of crab in Panama. I loved it. But the pain and discomfort didn’t go away. Each day that summer I felt a gradual progression of fatigue and just an overall sense of feeling lousy.”

  Because Payton took such pride in his appearance, friends rarely mentioned the physical changes that were beginning to manifest. The bulging white acne puffs along his neck. The yellowish tint to his skin. “Different things started to click in,” said John Gamauf, the vice president of Bridgestone/Firestone and a partner with Walter on a racing team. “He was still such a powerful, muscular man that they were less obvious. But they were there.” In particular, Gamauf recalled a July trip to the Raceway Laguna Seca in California. Upon spotting Payton for the first time, Gamauf expected the usual sternum-splintering bear hug. “This time he didn’t give me one,” Gamauf recalled. “He said, ‘Man, my back has just been killing me. I don’t know what’s wrong.’ ”

  On August 25, 1998, Payton showed up at his Roundhouse restaurant in Aurora to serve as a cohost of The Monsters of the Midday, a weekly radio show that aired every Tuesday on WSCR. Now in his fifth year with the program, Payton shared the microphone with Dan Jiggetts, the former Bears offensive lineman, and Mike North, a local media personality. Once per month, the eatery played host to the show. Scott Ascher, Payton’s partner in the business, always looked forward to the day. “But this time Walter looked different,” Ascher said. “His eyes were actually yellow. His skin was actually yellow. His stomach was killing him. He went on the air and did fine, but you could tell he wasn’t doing well.”

  When the program ended, Payton walked to the front of the restaurant and grabbed a handful of the Brach’s Star Brites mints he loved so much. He unwrapped one, placed it in his mouth, then spit it out.

  He tried another one—same thing.

  “Taste one of these,” Payton said, handing a red-and-white mint to Mark Alberts, another restaurant partner.

  Alberts sucked on the mint. “It seems OK to me, Walter,” he said.

  Payton shook his head.

  At home, he began most days by splashing on aftershave. Now—sniff . . . sniff—the smell was wrong. Weird. Off.

  One day John Skibinski, a former Bears running back, stopped by Payton’s office in Hoffman Estates. He was used to Walter the laugher, Walter the kidder. “He was all alone and in a very dark mood,” Skibinski said. “He was stuffing these bags, and I asked if he needed help.” For the ensuing hour the two men worked side by side, and no more th
an two or three words were exchanged. Before he left, Skibinski asked his old pal whether everything was OK.

  “You know, John,” he said, “something just doesn’t feel right.”

  Finally, at the urging of Kimm Tucker and Ginny Quirk, Payton went to a hepatologist. Tests were conducted, a diagnosis was presented: vitamin toxicity.

  Vitamin toxicity?

  Six months earlier, Payton had started working with a pair of Las Vegas–based radiologists who were searching for a celebrity to speak on behalf of their new, self-hyped “revolutionary” antiaging program. To win him over, Payton was provided with monthly shipments of human growth hormone and vitamins, valued at thirty thousand dollars a pop. “Walter was very needle phobic,” said Quirk, “but he would inject himself with the HGH and he would gorge on all those vitamins. It was at a point in his life when he was becoming acutely aware of aging. He wanted to stop the process.”

  Instead of feeling stronger and livelier, Payton began experiencing the stomach pain and sensory malfunctions. He chalked it up to the HGH and vitamins, and suspended the routine. He was convinced the “vitamin toxicity” diagnosis was on the mark. Others, though, weren’t so sure. The abdominal pain and acne could perhaps be side effects of excessive vitamin intake, but what about the puzzling sensory shifts in smell and taste? “His skin was getting more and more yellowy,” said Gamauf. “It wasn’t normal.”

  By early fall Payton was waking up sluggishly and becoming only more tired as the hours passed. The man famously known for his limitless energy suddenly possessed very little. He had no appetite, and whenever he did eat he wound up with gray-tinted diarrhea. Quirk initially chalked the decline up to age and an unrealistic workload—along with the businesses and the radio show, Payton was traveling the country giving motivational speeches, helping Jarrett pick a college, writing a weekly newspaper column for the Copley News Service, working as a color commentator for Bears’ preseason games, and serving on the team’s board of directors (admittedly, he did very little in this capacity). But as the days passed and Payton’s strength and appearance only worsened, Quirk began to believe this was more serious than initially advertised. “His health was [starting to affect] his business schedule,” she said. “I had to carve out some time for Walter to get some rest so he could try and shake off what was bothering him.”

  Finally, with the uncertainty burdening him both mentally and physically, Payton scheduled an appointment at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. World renowned for treating rare medical conditions, Mayo’s services were so in demand that Payton, a man who rarely had to wait for anything, would not be seen until early December. “I was not panic-stricken at this point,” he said. “I realized I’ve got to find a resolution. I’ve got to find something that’s going to make me better.”

  Payton flew to Rochester on December 17, checked in for a three-day stay, and underwent a bevy of tests. Albert J. Czaja, Mayo’s head of gastroenterology and hepatology, filed a detailed assessment of Payton’s symptoms:

  Mr. Walter Payton, age 45, first developed nausea after eating in mid-August of ’98. There was also associated increased fatigue with justified frequent rest periods during the day. Additionally his sleep patterns became reversed and he was awake at night and tired during the day. Diarrhea subsequently developed on a daily basis. The diarrhea would be related to eating and was non-recurrent in the fasting stage. Usually it would develop within ten to fifteen minutes after the completion of a meal. But [it] could occur as early as five minutes after eating. The symptoms would be unrelated to the amount or type of food eaten and there were no specific food intolerances. There would be associated borborygmi, but no abdominal cramping, bloating, distention or urgency. The bowel functions were well controlled and the texture would vary to loose to soft in nature, with colors that were gray and pale brown. There was no evidence of mucus discharge, bleeding, oil or greasy stool. The episodes did not occur at night and there was no fecal incontinence. Concurrent with these symptoms there was a variable appetite. He would be hungry prior to eating, but there would be postprandial nausea that would limit intake. Vomiting was absent. The weight decreased from 221 pounds to 194 pounds over a four-month period.... He recognized the development of a generalized itch.... The itch could be associated with excoriation and was worse at night. There are no associated rashes. He would also experience intermittent mid-chest discomfort, as though the food lodged. And there would be inability to burp and relieve the pressure. He was seen by his local physician in September of 1998 and liver tests were abnormal but etiologic studies were negative. In October of 1998 he was seen by a hepatologist who identified stabile liver tests abnormalities and suspected possibility of toxic effects related to the use of a vitamin pack since March of 1998 that included Vitamin E and probably Vitamin A. These vitamins were discontinued in September of 1998 but the symptoms and abnormalities have persisted. Currently Mr. Payton feels fatigue. He continues to have postprandial mid-chest lodging of food, although the symptom has improved over the last two weeks since using wheatgrass. His diarrhea has become less severe and his stools are now solid and gray in color. He continues to have postprandial nausea and the itch is less intense, although apparent during quiet periods. His weight has stabilized between 190 and 193 pounds. He denies receipt of blood transfusions, contact with jaundiced individuals, homosexual contact or exposure to hepatotoxic medication or chemicals. He does not consume alcohol. There is no family history of significant liver disease. His past medical history is unremarkable.

  The ensuing test results were not good. According to Dr. Greg Gores, a Mayo liver transplant specialist, something was wrong with Payton’s liver and bile duct, and it appeared to be primary sclerosing cholangitis (PSC). A rare (three of one hundred thousand people are affected) and mysterious disease, PSC scars the bile ducts, which carry bile from the liver to the small intestine to help digest food. When the ducts get blocked, bile backs up and migrates elsewhere. The body’s immune system then mistakenly attacks its own tissues. 22

  A 10-French 9 cm biliary stent was placed in Payton’s body to keep the bile ducts open (the Mayo report: “The procedure was well tolerated and Mr. Payton is well this morning.”), though a momentarily optimistic Payton was informed the stent would serve as only a brief remedy. He was also prescribed Actigall, a drug normally used to fight gallstone disease, and was told to take 300 mg four times per day.

  Wrote Gores in a report filed shortly after first evaluating Payton: “The findings were fully discussed with Mr. Payton and he understands the presumptive diagnosis at this point is primary sclerosing cholangitis. This is a disease which is an unresolving disorder by definition. It has an aggressive nature. The . . . progression varies, but the diagnosis implies a worsening condition with time. He also understands there is no established therapy for primary sclerosing cholangitis, and that the individuals with chronic inflammation of the bile ducts are at increased risk for developing cholangiocarcinoma [cancer of the bile duct].” Gores then noted that Payton’s CA 19-9 level, a blood test from the tumor marker category, was “abnormally increased” and that cancer of the bile duct might already be present.

  “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 thr
ee,” 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.