Taylor's Gift (10 page)

It had to be 4:00 or 5:00 p.m. when the medical staff came in and said we needed to leave so they could do some tests on her organs. Kary and Juli were standing outside the door to Taylor's room, talking, and as Todd and I left, they stopped us.

“You guys need to talk to Ryan and Peyton.”

“Are they here?” I asked. I knew they'd been to the movies and to a museum, but I'd lost track of where they'd gone next. Ryan and Peyton had been well cared for. After Kristin had picked them up, she'd taken them to a hotel associated with the hospital to sleep. When they woke up, they'd eaten and then gone with Kristin to do fun things. She texted frequently to let me know where they were, but I'd been so caught up in the fast-moving events of the afternoon I hadn't checked my phone.

“They're in the lobby,” Juli said. Kristin had brought them back to the hospital, and they'd been waiting in the same lobby we'd waited in the night before. Various family members were taking turns sitting with them but, of course, they wanted to see us.

“You're right,” I said. “We need to tell them.” I looked at Todd for reassurance.

Todd turned toward Bill. “Where's the right place to have a meeting like this?” he asked. “Our kids are going to remember this for the rest of their lives.”

“The chapel would be a good place.”

We met the kids in the lobby and hugged them, and then the four of us, trailed by my family, made our way down to the chapel. My family stood outside, guarding the door so no one else would come in.

Inside the chapel, beautiful stained glass windows gave the place a peaceful feeling. Todd and I pulled four padded chairs together in a small circle. I couldn't help thinking,
There should be five of us
.

“We need to tell you something,” Todd began. “This is really hard to say, but it's worse than we thought.”

“Is she dead?” Ryan asked.

“She is.”

“Huh,” Peyton said, falling back into her chair as if she'd just lost her breath.

Todd continued, saying how this was God's plan for Taylor, but I wasn't listening anymore. My eyes were fixed on Ryan. When he heard the news, his face contorted for a second as if he couldn't understand how this had happened. Immediately, though, he seemed to refocus and accept the news.

Ryan noticed my look and mistook it for grief. “She's going to be okay. She's happy now, Mom,” he said, as if he were the one telling
me
the bad news. “She's in a better place. She's with Sarge.”

Sarge was our dog. He'd died five years ago.

Ryan continued to try to convince me. “We're going to be okay. It's good,” he said. But in my heart, I knew he was trying to convince himself.

By now, Peyton had moved from stunned to crying. She crawled into my lap and I rocked her.

Todd

I didn't know what else to say as I watched Peyton clinging to her mother and Ryan completely cut off from any feeling of grief.
It's my fault
, I thought. I felt as though I had lied to Ryan. On the mountain while we were waiting for the ski patrol to arrive, he'd said, “She's dead!”

“No, she's not,” I'd yelled. “She's breathing. She's alive, and she's going to be okay!” At the time, everything I'd said was true. I felt her pulse, and when the ski patrol arrived and put an oxygen mask on her, it even fogged up. She was breathing. It wasn't until right before they life-flighted her that they had to put her on a ventilator.

Ryan and I had skied down the mountain together. The whole way I'd talked to him. “She's okay, she's going to be fine,” I'd said. I had wanted to reassure him he'd done everything right and that she would be okay.

But now she wasn't. And he wasn't either.

Sitting in the hospital chapel, watching him deny his grief, all I could think was,
He shouldn't have lost his big sister. God, he doesn't deserve to grow up this way.

I reached out to embrace him and Tara, and we did a four-way hug and just clung together as a family. I don't know how long we stayed in the chapel, but I knew it was a long time from the looks of concern on our extended family members' faces as we emerged.

We left the chapel, and Bill offered to take the kids to get something to eat and then take them back to the little hotel for the night. Family members offered to bring food in for us and urged us to come back with them to rest. But we didn't want to. We wanted to be with Taylor.

Back upstairs in her room, I crawled into bed with her, stroked her face and hair, and held her hand. I thought about how many times I'd snuggled with her on the couch or on her bed, our foreheads pressed together as she told me her secrets. “Don't tell Mom,” she'd say. “Pinky swear?”

I'd hook my pinky around hers and swear I wouldn't tell. The last time we did that she'd told me about a boy.

“He plays basketball,” she'd said.

“Where does he go to church?” I asked. She told me about his church and the activities he was involved in. “What makes him special? Is he funny, or athletic?” When she couldn't stop talking about him, I asked, “Are you guys texting?”

“Well, he texted me, but I'm not sure if I want to text him back.”

“Do you really like this guy?”

“He's really cute,” she said, with a smile on her face as she avoided my direct question. “But don't say anything to Mom—yet.”

Then she made me pinky swear I wouldn't tell anybody.

Lying next to her in her hospital bed, I remembered what it felt like to be lying beside her in her room. I thought about her lime green walls and the posters that hung on them. I remembered the T-shirt she wore and how she'd gotten into bed with those big UGG boots on. She wore those boots with everything—even shorts. It used to drive me nuts.

What I wouldn't give for her to be wearing them now.

Tara

“Has Taylor ever used drugs?”

“No.”

“Did she smoke?”

“No.”

“How much alcohol did she drink?”

“She's thirteen, she doesn't drink alcohol!”

I knew the woman from Donor Alliance needed to ask these questions, but they were starting to annoy me.

We had just gotten settled back in Taylor's room when the people from Donor Alliance asked if we would mind coming to the conference room to answer a few questions and fill out some paperwork. We didn't want to leave Taylor, but the nurse in the cheerful scrubs said, “Don't worry, I'll take care of her.”

The family members who hadn't returned to the hotel wanted to be there to support us. So Todd and I, along with my dad, my brothers, Chris and Kary, and Kary's wife, Juli, all squeezed into the tiny conference room. Todd and I sat in chairs at the table with Myrna, the representative from Donor Alliance, while the others sat in the background or stood along the wall.

At first, the questions were easy.

“Is she on any medication?”

“No.”

“Does she have any allergies?”

“No.”

“Has she ever been to Europe?”

My patience ran out, and I snapped, “She never had the chance!”

“Okay, it's okay,” Myrna said.

I knew she was just doing her job, and she was doing it as compassionately as she could, but each new question was a dagger to my heart, a reminder of what we no longer had. I mourned for all I would miss with her—her first kiss, finding the boy she'd marry, having babies of her own. I folded my arms on top of the table and rested my head on them.

Todd

Something happened to us in the meeting with the Donor Alliance representative. Prior to now, Tara and I had both been moving in the same direction, but during this meeting our grieving paths diverged. Tara took the emotional route and became the center of emotive grief for our family. I took the project manager route and became the point person for all the decisions, the paperwork, and managing the information flow. Tara began to check out while I started to clock in. There was a funeral to plan and decisions to make. It gave me something to
do
.

It gave me some
control.

“Do you just want to give permission for us to take all her organs, or do you want to choose?” Myrna asked.

“We're choosing,” Tara said, her head still buried in her arms on the table.

“Yeah, we want to choose,” I added. It wasn't that we wanted her to rattle off the whole list; it's just that we both needed to feel like we had a choice in something.

“Okay. I'll read the list, and then you tell me yes or no. Kidneys?”

“Yes.”

“Pancreas?”

“Yes.”

“Liver?”

“Yes.”

“Eyes?” asked Myrna.

Though she'd been sobbing on and off through most of the interview, Tara lost it at the thought of Taylor's crystal blue eyes being taken. “No, no! Absolutely not!” Tara said, horrified.

“Now, let me explain,” Myrna said calmly. “It's not her eyes; we leave her eyes. It's just the cornea. It's the clear layer on the outside. Her eyes will still look the same.”

I looked at Tara, and I could see how conflicted she was. We both wanted to help others, but I could understand her reluctance. The thought of them touching Taylor's beautiful eyes was a lot to bear. This one had to be Tara's decision.

There was a pause while everyone in the room waited for her to speak.

“Okay, fine,” Tara said. “It's what Taylor would want.” She put her head back down in her arms and cried.

Our family was completely supportive. When we said yes, they said, “Good, good.” When we said no, they said, “We understand, that's okay.” When Tara started shaking because she was cold, someone grabbed a blanket for her, and when I couldn't speak, one of her brothers brought me a glass of water. Their presence made it easier for us to make some difficult decisions.

After a few more questions, Myrna was finished.

“So, what happens next?” I asked.

“I'll give you periodic updates by phone. After the initial organ placement, you'll receive some written communication, and if you want to connect with the organ recipients—”

“We're definitely going to want to connect,” I said.

“So you can submit the paperwork, then it will be up to them. Let me just say, not all recipients want to connect. There are procedures that must be followed, and there are some time limits involved—”

“That's fine, but we'll want to connect,” Tara said.

“Okay. We'll send you the paperwork, and you can write a letter. Just make sure there isn't a lot of personal contact information in it. All of the communication needs to go through us. And, of course, there is no guarantee that you'll receive a response.”

Myrna was doing everything she could to set low expectations. She didn't want us to get our hopes up of meeting the recipients.

But our hopes were already up.

Knowing that Taylor's organs would help other people was the only thing that would allow us to make sense of Taylor's death.

By default, I was the funeral planner. I spent time on the phone with Mary Marshall and Father Fred, organizing funeral plans and making decisions. Bill was back at the hotel working on flight arrangements for the next day. He knew we wanted,
needed
, to be home as soon as this was all finished. I spoke with Matt and Beth in Paris and told them to head back to Dallas; we'd meet them there. No point in them coming to Colorado, as we would be leaving the next day.

Earlier in the day I had tweeted: “Words cannot begin 2 explain our sorrow, sadness & helplessness. God gave us Taylor for < 14 yrs. To know her, or of her, is a blessing.”

People were responding to my tweet with comments, questions for more information, and most of all with prayer. Someone started a Facebook page, and by that evening, seven hundred people had joined to pray for Taylor and us. Now that we were back in Taylor's hospital room, I wrote another tweet: “Tara (Taylor's mother) and I are overwhelmed with love from near and far. Thank you.”

After our family members visited with Taylor one last time, they left for the hotel. Tara and I planned to stay at the hospital
with Taylor. Though we knew she was already gone, we also knew it would be the last few hours we would have with her. Later that night, a priest came in to talk and pray with us. I also spent some time reading my Bible. Romans 8:28 hit me particularly hard: “And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose.” It was fresh hope, and I clung to it with all my faith.

About that time, my client in Vail called. He was the publisher of the local Vail newspaper, and he'd been kind enough to let us stay in his corporate condo while we were on vacation.

“I'm so sorry, Todd. I just heard what happened.”

We talked for a few minutes, then his tone changed a bit.

“Hey, listen. There's going to be stuff written about this. It's a huge story here, and the community is going to want to know more about what happened. As the publisher, but more importantly as your friend, I want to make sure we get the details right and we describe Taylor correctly.” He paused and then said, “You don't have to tell me anything. And you don't have to give me a quote. But I want you to know there will be things written, and if there is anything you want to tell us, we'll make sure we get it out there, and we get it right.”

“Oh, my gosh. I never thought of that,” I said. But I should have. All of my clients were in some form of media: radio, television, or newspapers. “Of course, I want to make sure the details are correct.”

He started by asking me the correct spelling of all three kids' names. He asked what school Taylor went to, how old she was, and the name of the city where we lived outside of Dallas.

I didn't give him a full-blown interview; it was difficult enough to get through answering his basic questions. The best I could do was fill in some holes, like the fact we were on our spring break vacation.

At the time, I didn't realize how that little trickle of information would turn into a raging flood of media over the next year. At
the time, Tara and I didn't know or care. All we cared about was spending our last few precious hours with our daughter.

Tara

All I did was cry. The passage of time simultaneously seemed fast and slow—sometimes it stood still. The only consistent thing through the night of March 15 and into the morning of March 16 was that I never had any idea what time was actually on the clock.

“Please eat,” one nurse said, handing me graham crackers and juice. I appreciated her kindness, but I couldn't drink the juice; I was shaking so badly that I nearly poured it on myself.

“Tara, you've got to eat something,” Todd said, watching me. “Bill said before he left that you needed to eat.” I picked up a cracker and tried to nibble on it. When Todd got busy on the phone, I set it back down.

It was hard to believe that Taylor was already gone and that in a few hours we'd say our final goodbyes and never see her again this side of heaven.
How does that make sense?
I lay still with my head on her chest and listened to her heart beating. I knew it was only pumping because of the machines, but still it was Taylor's heart, and I took consolation in knowing that even after she was gone, it would continue to beat. I thought about the person who would be receiving it and what he or she must be going through. I cried for us, for them, and for the fallen world we lived in that let things like this happen. I also prayed.
God, just help me get through these next few days.

“I just want to meet the person who gets her heart,” I said. “Even if I never get to meet any of the other recipients, I
need
to hear her heartbeat again.”

I heard Todd sniffling. Though he was trying to be my rock, I knew he was grieving too.

He wrapped his arms around me. We held each other and wept.

Todd

The next morning, at exactly 6:00, the three people dressed in scrubs returned.

“Is it time?” I asked.

“Whenever you're ready,” one of them said. “Whenever you're ready.”

I looked at Tara quietly crying while she stroked Taylor's hair and face.
Don't they know we'd never be ready? We're letting our little girl go. How does anyone ever get ready enough to do that?

Even after they walked out the door, I could sense them standing outside in the hallway, waiting. There was this busyness happening outside the door, and the number of people waiting seemed to continually grow. Everyone was very compassionate, but I could feel their urgency too. The longer we spent in the room, the more the tension outside the room grew.

We were crying, holding Taylor, rubbing her face and hands, kissing her, and telling her how much we loved her. “I need to hear her heart again,” Tara said, leaning down to listen one more time to her daughter's heartbeat. We were trying to gather a lifetime of memories in the few minutes it took to say goodbye. I knew we weren't moving as quickly as they needed us to, but how could we?

Someone came in and gently tried to pry us away. “We're ready when you are.” More medical personnel had gathered in the hallway. “The surgical team has flown in, and it looks as if she will be helping a lot of people. There's a woman in Arizona waiting for her heart, a two-year-old child will get her liver, another person will get her kidney and pancreas, and someone will get her other kidney. While nothing is confirmed until it actually happens, it looks like Taylor's gifts will help a lot of people.”

There was an awkward pause, and then Tara spoke up. “We're holding up the process, aren't we?” Tears were streaming down her face. I knew she didn't want to let go. I also knew the answer to her question. Yes, we were holding them up. But what could they
do? They were at our mercy, and as much as we wanted to help others, we had to let go of our daughter to do it.

“Where are you going with her?” I asked.

“We're taking her downstairs to surgery.”

“We want to be with her to the very last minute, so can we—” Before I could finish my question, Tara interrupted with a statement.

“We're going with you.”

Tara

We walked alongside the gurney as it moved from her room to the surgical suite, until it stopped. The next doors Taylor would go through were the operating room doors, and we couldn't go in with her. This was the end of the journey for us. Taylor would pass into the next room by herself.

We stood in the cold, sterile hallway and said our final goodbyes. We held her hand and repeatedly told her we loved her. “We're so proud of you, sweet girl. Mommy and Daddy love you so much. Ryan and Peyton love you too. They are going to be okay. We know we'll all see you again soon.” It felt like a race to say everything we wanted to say before we had to leave.