Taylor's Gift (28 page)

I thought back to the conversation I'd had with Tara about how one day I wanted to see Taylor and hear her say, “Good job, Daddy! You did it!”

What would she think about all of this?
I closed my eyes and thought about all the people we'd met and how our world had grown.
What do you think, baby?
We're not there yet, but I am giving it everything I've got.

A vision came to mind of Taylor laughing and saying, “Let's do this, Dad. Let's get this stuff done. This is how we can save the world!”

And for a moment, all felt right.

J
ONATHAN
F
INGER
C
OLORADO

For the first time since his teens, Jonathan was once again riding his mountain bike. It was an exhilarating sensation. After spending so many years on the couch, tethered to a machine, the open air felt like freedom. Though it had taken eight years, Jonathan finally had a new kidney. After his mother's donated kidney had failed, he had vowed to do everything he could to make sure the next one—if there was a next one—lasted as long as it possibly could. Now that he finally had it, he was eating right, exercising, and making sure he kept his scheduled doctor's appointments.

It was at one of those appointments that the social worker came in with a large manila envelope and said, “This is from the donor's family. Do you want to see it?”

Jonathan had wanted to connect with them from the beginning. In fact, he'd started a letter to them several times but had
never quite found the right words to finish it. He eagerly took the envelope, and when she left the room, he opened it.

Jonathan already knew what to expect—he'd been told the donor was a young female. Since he assumed most organ donors were much older, he thought that meant she was in her fifties or sixties. He liked to think she'd been sick for a long time and that her family was ready for her to go. But when he opened the envelope, a picture of a young girl slid out onto the floor. Jonathan was stunned. He picked up the photo and studied it, then emptied out the contents of the envelope. There were multiple pictures of the young girl and her family, accompanied by a four-page letter written by her mom.

Jonathan was immediately engrossed. The letter described who the young girl was, what she believed, and all the things she had done in her short life. It made him feel incredibly emotional. In an instant, he felt a connection to her and her family. Even without knowing them, he already thought of them as family. He remembered the letter he'd begun to write months earlier when he didn't know anything about her. Now that letter wouldn't suffice. He'd have to rewrite it before he sent it off.

But before he could, a virus set him back. Though it didn't put the kidney at risk, he was hospitalized for a while. He postponed writing the letter until he was better.

Too soon, November arrived, and the holidays were sneaking up on Jonathan. He worried that sending the letter through Donor Alliance would take too long. He wanted the family to know how thankful he was
before
Christmas. He debated about what he should do.

On November 16, while watching the local news, he saw a story about the Avalanche—the local NHL hockey team, who was playing the Dallas Stars that night. Both teams were honoring a girl who'd lived in one team's state and had died in the other's. He
immediately recognized the picture of the girl they showed on the news. This was his donor!

As the story continued, Jonathan knew he couldn't wait any longer. Instead of mailing his letter, he picked up the phone and dialed the 1-800 number listed on the foundation website, and left the most awkward message of his life.

Tara

After returning from New York, Todd and I had to stop by Austin Elementary, where Taylor and Ryan had gone and where Peyton now attended. While we were there, a custodian stopped me and said, “Can I talk to you a minute?” She went on to tell me how her fifteen-year-old son was facing a medical issue with his heart, and it was affecting his behavior and attitude. He was leaving home and not coming back, not taking his medicine, and exhibiting other self-destructive behaviors.

“How do you cope with this?” the woman asked.

Our situations weren't the same—Taylor had died in an accident; her son was facing a long-term illness and possibly death if he didn't make some adjustments in his lifestyle. However, I understood her fear and the feeling that things were spiraling out of control. I knew how helpless she must have felt, so I said, “When I feel like you do, I pray.” I then asked if I could pray for her and her son.

She nodded, trying to hold back the tears.

I knew I didn't have any concrete answers for her. Tragedy strikes different people in different ways, and the only sure thing is that
God understands our pain and will help us get through it. That was the best I could offer—a way to connect with Him. Todd was with me and joined me in praying for her. On the way home Todd said, “It really touched me when you ministered to her. Knowing how much pain you are still carrying, it was just so beautiful to see you reach out to her even in the midst of your own grief.”

His words meant a lot. He was right; I dealt with a lot of pain, and I wasn't sure I could say it had lessened much. But I had come a long way from those initial days. Some days I still felt like I had a long way to go.

A few days later, I was reading Scripture when I came across 1 Peter 5:10. “The suffering won't last forever. It won't be long before this generous God who has great plans for us in Christ—eternal and glorious plans they are!—will have you put together and on your feet for good” (Message).

I already knew the good days on earth were temporary; my faith told me the bad days would soon end too. My hope was in God, not in my own ability to fix things.

Among the amazing people we'd met was Ralph Strangis, the play-by-play announcer for the Dallas Stars. Ralph wanted to use his NHL connections to support Taylor's Gift, and he had worked tirelessly with the Dallas Stars to put together a fund-raiser.

The plan was to present Taylor's Gift Night at American Airlines Center, the home stadium of the Dallas Stars, on November 16, when the Stars played the Avalanche, the Colorado team. One team was from the state where Taylor had lived, and the other team was from the state where she'd died; both teams joined to support one cause.

Coaches, broadcasters, and staff from both the Stars and the Avalanche planned to wear blue Taylor's Gift ties. During warm-ups, players from each team would wrap their sticks in blue tape, and during the game, tables would be set up in the arena to give
fans an opportunity to register as organ donors. They could also support the foundation through donations in the merchandise stores. In exchange, they would receive Taylor's Gift wristbands. Ralph would interview us during the first intermission, and the Stars would donate proceeds from ticket sales to the foundation.

It was an unbelievable opportunity and our whole family planned to go.

On November 16, my parents and Todd's parents met us at the house, where we hung out until it was time to leave for the hockey game. I was always nervous before foundation events. They often required me to speak publicly, and I hated that. Even private conversations could be awkward. People wanted to hear our story, and I didn't want to tell it for fear of breaking down in public. But despite my anxieties, the awkward moments were worth it if they resulted in more people signing up to become donors.

I invited our parents into our bedroom to show them some things on the computer. “Here's what the new website looks like,” I said, pulling up the latest version. I talked about how much work it took to create it and all of the volunteers and companies that were involved. “And we just got a 1-800 number,” I said. “It's so cool because people can leave messages on it. When they leave a message, it transcribes it and emails it to us.”

While I was showing them, an email came through with the subject “Google Voice.”

“Oh, look! We just got one,” I said. “Let's see what it says.” I clicked it open and began to read the transcript of the call out loud.

“Hi, my name is Jonathan Finger, and I received one of your daughter's kidneys. You sent me a letter. It was blue—” I stopped reading and looked up to see four sets of wide eyes staring back at me. “Todd! Where's Todd?”

“I think he's upstairs working on the foosball table,” his mother said.

I ran to the living room and yelled, “Todd! You've got to come here right now!”

Todd came right down. This time, instead of reading the transcript, I turned up the speaker and played the voice message so we could hear what he sounded like. When it finished, I played it again. And again.

We marveled at the incredible timing and the fact we all got to hear the call together.

It was such a blessing to have received Jonathan's call. It had been more than six months since I'd sent the letter to Donor Alliance, and we hadn't heard from any of the other donors. I was afraid no one else wanted to make contact. But with Jonathan's call, we had now connected with three out of the five. And in time, I believed that we would eventually connect with them all.

That night, I didn't have to be anxious at all. Just as God had given me the blue dress to talk about at that first fund-raising dinner, He gave me Jonathan to talk about at the hockey game.

“You'll never believe what happened today,” I said when people wanted to chat, and then told them about the phone call.

It took us a couple of weeks to respond to Jonathan, but we finally did. Like Patricia, our early communication with Jonathan was through texts and emails. We learned that this was his second kidney transplant and he'd been on dialysis for eight years! He talked about the freedom he had now. I couldn't imagine a bigger life change.

Because of Jonathan's tech background, he and Todd also started to communicate via online chats. Soon Jonathan volunteered his talents for the new website. He became an active volunteer for the foundation.

As Todd and Jonathan worked together, they found out they shared a lot in common. Like Todd, Jonathan played several instruments, and they had a shared love of rock music. One day, while they were chatting online, they discovered they even shared the same birthday, though Jonathan was a few years younger. Just as
Patricia and I had connected so deeply, now Jonathan and Todd were doing the same thing. Once again, it was as if God had orchestrated the whole thing.

We knew our first holidays without Taylor would be hard, and we made intentional choices to minimize our pain. At Thanksgiving, for example, we didn't want to do anything we'd ever done before. We thought that meant we didn't want to be around our families and all the painful reminders of Thanksgivings past. So we rented a little cabin in Broken Bow, Oklahoma. It was far enough away from our memories and within our little budget.

We packed a ton of food and lots of games for the kids and looked forward to some great family time. Todd wanted to grill out, and I wanted to chill out. He looked forward to chopping wood, teaching the kids how to whittle, and making a fire in the fireplace. At night, he planned to take the kids outside to look up at the stars. We all wanted to make new family traditions so reminders of our old ones weren't ever-present.

Unfortunately, what we got was a lot of time alone with our thoughts. The first morning, Todd woke up and couldn't walk. He'd dislocated his back while moving the foosball table, and apparently his back had locked up on the drive to the cabin. He spent the entire trip sitting in a recliner because he was in so much pain. No fires, no grilling, no staring at the stars, no chopping wood, and no whittling. The only time he got up was to hobble to the table for meals.

I cooked every single breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and made all the snacks. I played games with the kids, drove to the local pharmacy for Todd's prescriptions, and when it wasn't raining (which was rare), took walks in the woods with the kids. There was very little chilling for me and a whole lot of doing. A few days into the trip, I began to resent Todd. I wanted him to be there for me emotionally and physically; instead, I was taking care of him.
It wasn't until later that I realized he'd probably felt the same way about me for months. How selfish of me to feel that way.

Thanksgiving Day wasn't easy. I knew it wouldn't be. I woke up missing Taylor. All day long, past Thanksgiving Day memories flashed through my mind. I would briefly indulge them—Taylor's first Thanksgiving, later years of her eating her favorite casseroles, or watching the parades on TV. When the memories got too painful, I'd shove them away.

Around 11:00, I put the food in the oven and sat down with Todd while I waited for it to finish cooking. He was watching a pregame show in anticipation of an afternoon of football. Without warning, James Brown, one of the hosts of
The NFL Today
on CBS, introduced a Thanksgiving story about blessings and inspiration. I had been lost in my own thoughts, but those words caught my attention.

A video began to play, and I watched the mother of former Cincinnati Bengals receiver Chris Henry tell her story. Chris had died eleven months earlier in a tragic accident. At the time, his mother had made the difficult decision to donate his organs. As the eight-minute story unfolded, I watched as she met the four recipients—four lives that his organs had saved, four families that had been forever changed because of his gift.

I couldn't help it; I started to cry.

Each of the recipients talked about how much they wanted to thank her for their life-changing gift. One recipient's husband said, “Life isn't about the number of breaths you take; it's about the moments that take your breath away.” Meeting the mother of his wife's donor was one of those moments.