Taylor's Gift (19 page)

I was working closely with a few key people who had volunteered their time and talents to work alongside me at a dizzying pace. Even they felt it. Pauline, one of my advisers in my innermost circle, would call in the morning and then again late in the afternoon.

“It's been six hours since we last talked. Catch me up,” she'd say.

She knew from experience that even in that short time span things were popping. And some of those things were likely to be big—interview requests, offers of introductions to experts who could help, or opportunities for new fund-raisers.

Each day, amazing new opportunities presented themselves. The documentary crew was working hard and connections were opening up. The website was receiving hits from around the world.

One afternoon, I picked up the phone. It was a representative from Donate Life who'd heard about our work. “We'd love it if you would come to our banquet in June. We'd like you to present an award to the producers of
Grey's Anatomy
for a show they did about organ donation.”

“I'd love to!” I said. “But I need to ask my wife.”

I wasn't sure how Tara would feel about traveling. It would mean flying to California and leaving the kids at home. Taking Tara on a trip to Hollywood was unimaginable when a trip to the living room was still a big deal for her.

I waited for the right moment to talk to her. I anticipated her reply, knowing it was a lot to ask. “It's okay if you want to say no. I understand,” I said. But to my surprise, she agreed.

“It would be good for the foundation and another way to honor Taylor,” she said.

This was a defining moment for her, and one that only God could have orchestrated.
Thank you!
I prayed, both for the opportunity and for Tara agreeing to go.

Too many things were happening for me to ignore God's direction. Everything seemed to be pointing toward my leaving my job and working for the foundation. At the same time, I realized how dumb it sounded to give up my job. I worried that Tara would think it was a stupid idea when I told her. But I had to. I couldn't shake the feeling that this is what God wanted.

A few nights later, my opportunity arose. We were out on the back porch, sitting side by side and staring at the stars. I told her about the incredible things occurring with the foundation. In passing, I mentioned that John Henley, my friend and boss, would be in town the next week and that we needed to talk.

“I feel there is a higher purpose for me than my job. I can't imagine going back to my company and leaving y'all,” I said, trying to hold back tears.

“So, what do you want to do?”

“It's been wearing on me, but I think I want to quit my job. I could work at the foundation full-time. I don't know if it is stupid or not, but I feel my attention needs to be on it and our family.”

I knew this was hard for her to hear. For one thing, I couldn't answer any of her questions—like how we'd survive financially. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hands, but the tears were flowing too fast.

“I
need
to make a difference. When I see Taylor again, I want her to say, ‘Good job, Daddy! You did it!'”

This was the first time I'd been so vulnerable with Tara, and I was nervous. I wasn't sure if she would cry, scream, yell, or just stare at me. But she did none of those things.

“If this is what you need to do, I'll absolutely support you,” she said.

She told me she could see how much this decision had been weighing on me, and gave me a long hug.

“You've changed,” she said, her warm cheek pressed against mine. “In the past, you would have made a decision and followed up on it, but now it's as if you're waiting for something,” she said.

That night, we discussed all the what-ifs. I didn't have many answers except to say I was trusting God to do it. If He called me, He would equip me.

“I agree. He will take care of us,” Tara said. “And you've always taken care of us. Honestly, though, it scares me a little bit.”

I didn't say anything out loud, but I thought,
It scares me too.

I sought my closest friends' and foundation advisers' counsel at a breakfast meeting soon after I talked with Tara. I told them what I'd been thinking and praying about. “I give you full authority to tell me I am just a grief-stricken dad or I'm going to bankrupt my family. Tell me it's a dumb idea. Whatever you need to say, please say it.”

I wanted them to talk me out of it.

In the end, nearly everyone I sought advice from thought this was something I needed to do. That God was calling me to do it. They cautioned me, they gave me advice, but they didn't say, “I don't think you should do this.”

With the leading of God, the approval of my wife, and the encouragement of friends, the old Todd would have put together a financial strategy and plan for how I could quit my job and work full-time for the foundation. Numerous opportunities had presented themselves. All I needed was a strategic plan to know which ones to go after first, and then I would be off and running.

But
I
wasn't doing this. God was. So I did something completely out of character: I waited on God for a confirmation that this was what He wanted. If this was to be, I needed Him to confirm it.

Tara

Before we lost Taylor, taking a bath or hot shower was my favorite way to relax and get away from it all. But while I was mourning, the shower wasn't a place to relax; it was a place to escape the world and to cry.

One night, after the kids had fallen asleep on the air mattress in my room, I couldn't stay in bed any longer. Sorrow overwhelmed me, and I deeply missed Taylor. I went in and turned on the shower so the water could wash away my tears and drown out the sounds of my sobs. Under the hottest water I could tolerate, I just stood and bawled. My nose was running, my head ached, and it was difficult to breathe. I couldn't breathe deeply, so I breathed faster, which caused my chest to constrict and resulted in a stabbing feeling every time I inhaled. I tried to get a grip, but sobs wracked my body. I was too overcome by grief to even wash my hair.

I can't recall ever feeling so alone.

So very alone.

It was close to bedtime, and that meant sleep. I welcomed sleep, but I couldn't stand the thought of waking up the next morning
and reliving the pain all over again. I stood in the shower and silently begged,
Oh, God, please take this pain away. It feels like it will never stop. I miss Taylor so much, and I can't stand the hurt anymore. I would rather be there with You and her than down here, living with all of this pain.

A fleeting thought raced through my mind.
What if I didn't have to wake up in the morning? I have a bottle of Ambien on the nightstand. How easy would that be? One swallow and the pain disappears.

I suddenly understood why people chose that option.
It makes complete sense. This could be over. The pain would be completely gone, and I wouldn't have to deal with this anymore.
Instantly, I felt released from the pain. I felt happy and empowered. Just thinking about it energized me. I quickly got out of the shower, and as I dried off, I thought,
This is how it can all be over!
The weight on my chest lifted, and I felt lighter than I had since the hospital. I couldn't wait.

As I walked to my dresser and pulled out a clean pair of pajamas, my brother Bill came to mind. I remembered him sitting me down and saying, “If you ever feel like you want to take your life, and you think you might act on it, you'd better call me.”

I put on my pajamas and snuggled into bed. The kids were asleep, and Todd was in his office reading or working. I picked up the Ambien bottle and looked at it, thinking. My phone was also on the nightstand, so I kept my promise and I texted Bill, “Are you there?”

I fingered the bottle while I waited for Bill to respond. But time went by and I didn't hear from him. I didn't care; I felt good knowing the pain would soon end. While I continued to wait for Bill, I texted Father Alfonse. “Are you awake?”

“Yes, what's up?”

“I need to talk to you about something, but this is between you and me.”

“Of course.”

I took a deep breath and then decided to go for it. “I've got a plan,” I texted. “The pain is too much, and I can't do this anymore.”

“Are you saying what I think you're saying?”

“I would much rather be with her than be here.” While I waited for his response, I set the phone down and took the lid off the bottle so I could count the pills. His text arrived before I could finish the count.

“What makes you think if you did that, you would see her?”

I hadn't thought about that. I'd never thought about something like that before, because I'd never, ever gone down that path.
How does God feel about that? Would He turn me away?

Before I could respond, more texts came in from him. “What makes you think that if you did it, God would welcome you with open arms?” Then, “How selfish of you to leave Ryan and Peyton like this!”

Suddenly, the idea was more complicated than it had seemed a few minutes earlier. I thought about my response and was just getting ready to text him back when he sent me a real zinger. “Do you really think Taylor would be proud of you?”

His words took my breath away. I knew for a fact she wouldn't be happy with me.
She would never be proud of me if I did that.

It was my lowest moment ever. But through his texts, Father Alfonse helped me realize it was because I was focusing on myself—on my own pain. I'd never looked at it from Taylor's perspective. I hadn't considered her reaction at all. Neither had I thought about what it would do to Peyton and Ryan.

I certainly hadn't thought about what God would think.

I put the cap back on the bottle and set in on the nightstand. I knew then I could never do it. Ever. Father Alfonse was right. I
was
being selfish. We texted back and forth a few more times. He made me promise I wouldn't do anything.

“I promise I won't,” I texted back. I meant it.

My brother Kary was at the house one day, and he asked if Todd and I were seeing a counselor. We weren't. Todd had seen one a few years earlier to deal with his parents' divorce and some depression he had in the past, but I didn't believe in counseling. Counselors were for weak people with problems. That wasn't me. I was just sad, and I had every reason to feel sad.

“You might want to give this woman a try,” Kary said. “Her name is Judy, and she lost her son four years ago.”

I didn't want to go. I'd already lost too much control in my life. The last thing I wanted was someone else telling me what to do, how to act, and what to feel. But after much urging from friends and family, and cajoling from Todd, I finally agreed.

Our first two appointments were rough. We were supposed to go back again for a third appointment, but we couldn't find a date and time that worked for both of us to go together. Out of necessity, we went separately. And we both kept going separately. It was one of the best decisions we ever made for our marriage. Judy helped us individually understand our grief—why I wanted to sleep, and why Todd wanted to work—and how those choices played out in the context of our marriage. Like Pam and Randy Cope, she told us it was okay if our grief wasn't the same, but she also taught us how to deal with our feelings about our spouse's grief.

Counseling was hard work, but it was also very helpful. Some days I would just roll out of bed, take the kids to school, and then drive to Dallas in my pajamas for my 10:30 a.m. appointment. I would sit on her couch with my wild, uncombed hair, crying while we talked. She became a lifeline for me. Because she saw Todd and me individually, she knew what was going on with the other person and could use that knowledge effectively to help each of us. As our relationship grew, I realized that counseling wasn't for weak people—it was for strong people who wanted to get stronger. I looked forward to our visits each week. Judy and I were a lot alike, with the same sense of humor. If we had met before all of this happened, I think we would have been good friends.

My new life looked drastically different from my old life. Before we lost Taylor, I was the center of the hive and life was always buzzing around me. If the kids needed rides, I picked them up or took them, or at least told Todd what time and where to go. If the kids wanted a friend over after school, they asked me. I knew what homework they had and when it was due. I was central to everything that happened in our house; the calendar of activity spun around me.

The nausea had stopped, I was sleeping less, and I was up more. But now I had zero purpose. I went from full days to having nothing on the calendar but grief. On one hand, it was good not to worry about all of those things, but it was also damaging because it left a lot of room for me to think negative thoughts. Other people had taken over my parenting duties. They were the ones picking Peyton up from school and taking Ryan to basketball. They filled the mom role because most days I couldn't physically or emotionally do it. In some ways, I felt like my only purpose was to grieve, so that's what I did all day, every day.

I didn't want something to keep my hands busy or to occupy my time; I wanted something to occupy my mind. Something like Todd had. His grief seemed to be channeled into doing something
good
. The activities of the foundation occupied his thoughts, and he had things to do all day. I wanted that too.

A few days later, Todd walked in and sat down beside me on the bed. “Why, Todd? Why us?” I asked. I struggled with that question often. It was probably a question I'd asked him before, but that day his answer was different.

“It's not even a question of why,” he said. “Why not? Why not us? I can handle it.” He went on to talk about how he'd seen purpose and meaning in Taylor's death.

“Great, so maybe you've found a purpose. But what about me? I used to be a mom of three; what am I now? I'm not even that. I
wake up every day with this crushing feeling in my chest, wishing the morning had never come.”

“I don't, Tara. I don't wake up that way at all. I wake up feeling like I can't wait for the day to get started. I hope what I said didn't hurt you. It's just the truth.”

But his comments angered me. Why was God allowing him to be so strong when I felt so weak? “We are so opposite right now,” I said. “How can you wake up with joy?”

“I don't know, but I do.”

I wasn't angry at Todd. I was angry at God. I put my hands on my hips like a petulant two-year-old and said to God,
I'm not talking to You. You are not important to me anymore. You had control over this, and You could have made this turn out differently. I prayed and asked You to change this, and You didn't, so we're no longer talking.

As if I needed any more proof that God and I weren't friends, I checked my Facebook later that night and saw a friend of mine, whose son had been very ill for quite some time, had posted a new status update: “Thank God! My son almost died, but God answered our prayers and healed him, and now he is completely better.”

Before I could stop myself, I wrote a comment. “How lucky you are that God decided to save your child.” Then I posted it and went to bed.

Lying in bed, I knew I shouldn't have written that, but it was just further proof that God answered other people's prayers but He didn't answer mine. He saved other people's sons but He didn't save my daughter. I was angry.

By the next morning my anger had faded, and I got up and deleted the comment because I regretted writing it. Unfortunately, all of our mutual friends had already seen it.

After that, it seemed like everyone's desire to fix me only increased. “Why don't you just make her get up?” they'd ask Todd.

People had expectations of grief. If I was good one day, they expected me to be better the next day. If there were faith practices
that worked for them in their normal, happy lives, they thought those same faith practices would help make me normal and happy too. Pray more. Fast. Go to church. Read your Bible. Memorize Scripture. The people who made these suggestions meant well. What they didn't know was I had already tried those things and they hadn't achieved what I really wanted—my daughter back.