Let me introduce you to
Steven Lee Kipker
Steve was born with a major birth defect called arthrogryposis. He has no muscle. His arms and legs are sticks. To use either arm, he swings it, then supports it with the other. He figured things out like how to feed himself. His early years were spent in and out of University Hospital in Ann Arbor. This was a hardship on our family who had no car at that time. One of our uncles drove Mom and Steve. Once there, Mom stayed with her parents in Ypsilanti, and they drove her to the hospital every day. My other brother and I stayed with an aunt at home, and Dad went to work. No work, no pay. It wasn’t an option. The drive was long and hard; there wasn’t an interstate highway in those days, the dark ages.
At birth Steve was severely deformed: club feet, club hands, hip sockets weren’t right, no wrists, no ankles, on and on. Even his baby ears had to be stitched on. The doctors recommended he be institutionalized “before the family gets attached to him.” My mother never forgave them that remark. My grandpa said he wished Stevie had just died and saved all the trouble. She carried that hurt for many years. Steve was a lot of work. My mother never complained. When he was in body casts, or even just leg casts, he was so heavy she struggled to lift him. He was often in a wheelchair following surgery. Then he learned to walk. No one, doctors included, understood how he could do it.
Our little town had four public elementary schools. The one in our neighborhood wouldn’t take him. The teacher said she didn’t have time to deal with his special requirements. Two others said the same thing. At at the school the farthest from our home, the kindergarten teacher, Mrs. King, said, “Why, of course he can come!” as if that’s what anyone would say. A wonderful taxi driver picked him up, took him to school and drove him home every day. He became Stevie’s best friend, Dewey.
School was hard for Steve. He might have had some mental deficiency as well, but that was never suggested or tested for. I think because he already had done more than anyone thought possible, they just left him alone with low expectations. Physically school was hard because he couldn’t sit. Standing tired him, his back ached, but he couldn’t bend. So, he just teetered on his legs and stood up most of the time, when teachers felt he should be sitting. Summer vacations meant more surgeries in Ann Arbor, casts, braces, wheelchairs, pain. Steve rarely complained, and mostly kept a sunny disposition.
Adolescence was harder. He no longer wanted to have us groom him. So, he chose to hang with kids who didn’t groom, for reasons of their own. He learned to drive a riding lawn mower and cut grass to earn money and eventually bought a rattle-trap car and drove it around town, driving my parents crazy. In high school his quest for independence was out of control, drinking, drugs, girls, dropping out of school and hitting the road, hitch-hiking to California and back.
As an adult, Steve’s life has been one of constant pain. To lie down, he had to move close to a bed and fall, always risking a miscalculation that could slam his head into something. Arthritis corroded all his joints, and his knees became permanently locked. He was frightful looking with his wild beard, and sometimes out of his mind with pain or with pain medication. Unable to dress or undress himself, he mostly didn’t. Most of his friends have died. Most of our relatives in Three Rivers have passed on as well, including our dad; Mom, as most of you know, is in NC and has severe dementia. I wanted Steve to come. He lived with us for a while in Ohio, where he finished his high school education and started in trade school. But he wouldn’t come. He was homeless, I knew that. But he never accepted that, and like a gypsy wandered and lit somewhere.
This fall he got sick and went to the hospital. There he was diagnosed with liver sclerosis; the county was called in to find a place to discharge him to. He called me then to say he was in a nursing home. He was angry they wouldn’t let him out, and he obviously wasn’t rational. He became extremely ill and was sent to Bronson Hospital in Kalamazoo. Someone from the hospital spoke with me nearly every hour! We were at the end and needed to make some end-of-life decisions. I was all he had left. We were moving him to a hospice facility on Thursday, but he died before that happened. Finally, after 70 years of pain and suffering with very little complaining, Stevie rests easy.
Then I got another call. This one from the National Eye Bank. Steve apparently checked “donor” on some document! His eyes are probably the only thing he has to offer, but his corneas will be a wonderful gift for someone. I wish I could tell him that. His blue eyes, like our mother’s, would twinkle with delight knowing he was finally able to help someone else. He always wanted to help.