Taylor's Gift (11 page)

Finally, we let go of her hand, kissed her, and stepped backward into the elevator—the aide had held the door open for us. While the elevator doors closed, we watched as they rolled Taylor feet first into the operating room. My last glimpse of her was the back of her braided head.

“Oh, God . . .” I said. I felt like I was going to be sick again.

As we exited the surgical elevators, we heard a commotion moving toward us. It sounded like three or four people running; I could hear the sounds of their shoes squeaking on the floor. Whoever it was, they were in a big hurry. It also sounded like they were pulling something along the tile floor.

We met them at the corner. Four men in white coats were running as fast as they could toward the surgical elevators. Each was holding
a bag or pulling a cooler. Just before the doors started to close, they made it onto the elevator we'd just exited. I made eye contact with the man in the front of the elevator, and there was a sense of recognition. We both looked away before the doors slid shut.

Time had stopped for us, but the clock had just started for these men who were on a lifesaving mission. I looked at the aide who was with us, and I could see the horror on his face. I knew immediately who they were, and it was a sight we were never supposed to see.

The transplant team had come to collect Taylor's organs.

Todd

Before we left Grand Junction, Myrna, the representative from Donor Alliance, called.

We were at the hospital's small hotel, where the kids and Tara's family had spent the night. We were picking up our belongings and getting the kids packed up for a flight that afternoon Bill had arranged. Tara's dad was joining us on the flight home. Her brothers were picking up our car and driving it back to our home in Coppell. They had already left for Vail.

Tara stood in the bathroom washing her face; she still hadn't eaten or drunk anything. I wanted to get some calories in her before we left Colorado, so I'd gone to the lobby to buy her a Coke. My phone rang, and I glanced at the caller ID. When I saw it was Myrna, I sat down. I wasn't sure what to expect.

“I wanted to update you on the latest,” she said. “It looks like we're going to put her organs to good use. There's a gentleman here in Colorado who will receive her pancreas and kidney. It is going to be lifesaving for him. A younger gentleman, also in Colorado,
will get her other kidney. We think we've placed her heart with a woman in her late thirties in Arizona, and it looks like her liver will save the life of a young child. We also know her corneas are going to be placed, but that's all the information we have on those right now.”

“Okay,” I said.

I didn't know how to feel, yet somehow that news planted a seed of hope. I was grateful that something good was coming out of all of this. Mostly, I was tired and emotionally exhausted, but I wanted to soak in the information so I could tell Tara once I got back to the room.

“Thank you, Todd. And thank Tara. You have no idea what this means to the people who are receiving Taylor's organs. Thank you so very much.”

We didn't talk much on the flight home. What was there to say?

My sister-in-law Wendy, Chris's wife, picked us up at the airport in Dallas. I helped Tara into the car before loading the luggage in the back, and we took off for home. We live less than five miles from the airport. It typically was about a ten-minute drive. But Wendy was driving extraordinarily slowly. It had been at least twenty minutes, and we hadn't arrived yet.

Wendy turned right onto Bethel School Road, and I could hear her on the phone, telling someone we were almost there. Just then, a small pickup truck pulled out of the parking lot in front of us. I stared in disbelief as the driver put on his flashers, driving even slower than Wendy. Unbelievably, he made a left onto the same street we were turning onto. Still on her phone, Wendy said, “We're turning onto Heartz Street now,” and that's when I remembered.

Earlier that morning, I had read on a Facebook page something about picking up balloons at Tom Thumb or Kroger and meeting at a church. There was a note that alerted people we'd be home
around 4:00 p.m. At the time, I wondered what they were planning and whether or not it would be appropriate. Now, it made sense. There were probably people holding balloons in our front yard.

I leaned over and whispered to Tara. “Just want to give you a heads-up. A lot of people want to welcome us home. There may be some people at the house with balloons or something, so don't be surprised when you see them.”

We made the left turn onto Heartz, and as far as we could see, people were holding blue and purple balloons—Taylor's favorite colors. We were at least a half mile from our home, and people stood lined up on both sides of the street.

“Oh, wow!” Peyton said. “Look at that!”

Wide-eyed, Tara, the kids, and I stared at the crowd in disbelief as we drove down the street. Coppell is a small town, a bedroom community in the northwest corner of the Dallas/Fort Worth Metroplex. There are fewer than forty thousand residents, but it feels smaller—everyone seems to know everyone else.

When we looked at the people lining the streets, we saw friends, kids from the local elementary and junior high schools, and neighbors standing two or three people deep along the route to our house. As we crawled by in Wendy's SUV, each of them slowly released their balloon and let it float away.

Soon the Coppell sky was filled with blue and purple balloon-tears rising to heaven.

Our car was filled with tears too. Tara was bawling and calling out names of friends as soon as she made eye contact. I saw people from church, from local businesses, and kids and parents from teams I had previously coached.

The closer we got to our house, the larger the crowd grew. By the time we turned onto the street in front of our subdivision, people were standing twenty deep. News trucks lined the street, some with satellite dishes lifted into the air. Reporters with microphones roamed through the crowd, while cameramen focused their lenses toward the heavens as a thousand balloons filled the sky. Later, I
learned that the mayor of Coppell had called DFW International Airport. The city is on a flight pattern, and she was worried that the balloon release would become a safety hazard for planes during takeoffs and landings.

As the pickup truck with flashing lights alerted them of our arrival, reporters and cameramen started to run toward our car, filming as they jogged through the street. The CBS, FOX, and NBC affiliates were there. I either knew people, or knew of the people, who worked at these stations. They were friends and former co-workers of mine, but I never expected them to be at my house. I never thought
we'd
be the story.

From the car window, I made eye contact with Laura Springer, standing next to a couple of Taylor's friends from middle school. Laura let go of her blue balloon the moment we passed, and I let loose the tears I'd been trying to hold back. It seemed as if the whole city had shut down and lined the streets for our sad welcome home. Family, friends, and caring people from the community—everyone we knew was there.

We turned into the driveway, and I saw our mailbox. I began to cry harder. It reminded me of a game I used to play with Taylor. When we were in the car we acted goofy, being silly and cracking each other up. One day, we came up with a game. We called it the Game of Random. I would say something like, “Adjective, adjective, noun. Noun has to be an animal.”

Then she'd respond, “Okay, the
silly, magnetic hippopotamus
.” She'd laugh and then say, “Your turn!” Then I would have to come up with one.

One day, my response was “Red-painted flying monkey horse!” For months afterward, she remembered that answer, and every time she thought of the visual of a “red-painted flying monkey horse,” she would burst out laughing.

Over time, the game evolved. I began giving her just one word, and she would have to make up a whole commercial about it. Last time we played, I'd said, “Mailbox.”

Immediately, she'd responded with, “Is your mailbox driving you crazy? Well, don't let that happen anymore. You can have the mailbox of your dreams . . .”

At the time, the game seemed so silly.

Now it seemed like the most important thing in the world.

Tara

I had been crying off and on the whole way home, but once we turned onto Heartz Street, I lost control and just bawled the last half mile to our house. I was totally overwhelmed by the number of people who had turned out to welcome us. I knew I would never forget the pain on their faces, the love in their eyes, or the sight of nearly a thousand balloons filling the sky.

Wendy had planned ahead, and we drove straight into our garage, closed the door behind us, and left the public outside. But even the inside of our garage was packed with people. Our closest friends and relatives were waiting for us, and more poured out of the house once Wendy parked the car. When I looked up, I saw my best friend, Beth Sunshine, running toward me. Oh, how I'd missed her.

“Beth!” I sobbed, as I stepped out of the car and immediately fell into her arms.

“Matt!” She yelled for her husband's help when she couldn't support me. He came running, and the two of them carried me into the house and sat me on our family room sofa.

The house was bursting with people and activity. Someone had brought in our bags, and my friends were busy unpacking them. Others were in the kitchen organizing trays of food. Todd stood crying and confused. His dad hugged him from behind, and he bawled.

I had no idea where the kids were. I assumed friends or family were helping them get settled. I didn't have the energy to investigate.

The whole scene seemed like a montage from a movie. I heard snatches of conversations, or I'd look up and see only one person
in a room of twenty people. The bits and glimpses I caught didn't add up, and nothing seemed to make sense to me. I was physically spent. I hadn't eaten in three and a half days. I'd even thrown up the graham crackers I'd nibbled on in the hospital. Todd's brother, Terry, kept offering me orange juice, but I had the shakes so badly I couldn't hold anything in my hands. “No, thanks,” I said repeatedly.

Someone brought me a blanket.

I overheard someone else say, “She has to eat. She's not eating or drinking anything.” I didn't realize they were talking about me until someone tried to put a Coke in my hands. I refused it.

People were coming and going. The doorbell would ring, and someone would answer it. A new person would come in to give us their condolences, drop off a casserole, or leave flowers. Todd came and sat near me. We were home, but we didn't have a plan or a purpose. We didn't know what we were supposed to do next.

My brothers Chris and Bill arrived later that evening, along with Kary and his wife, Juli. The four of them had driven our car back from Colorado.

People kept bringing me orange juice and encouraging me to take a sip. It was really starting to tick me off.

I overheard Matt saying something to Todd.

“I've tried. I can't get her to drink anything,” Todd replied. This time, I knew they were talking about me.

Somehow, I found myself sitting at the table in our dining room. Bill sat across from me, and he said, “Tara, if you don't drink something right now, I am admitting you into the hospital. You can either eat or drink, or we can go to the hospital. If we go to the hospital they will give you IVs and put a feeding tube down your nose. That's the last thing your kids need to see right now.”

I drank the orange juice.

After my brothers got back to our house, Chris didn't stay long. Chris and Wendy had planned to go to Austin for spring break but
had cancelled when he'd left for Colorado. Now that everyone was home, and we couldn't have a funeral for a few more days, their trip was back on. They planned to take their three boys to the hill country near Austin and go ziplining. “We'd really like to take Ryan with us, if that's okay,” Chris asked. “I think it would be good for him to be away from all of this for a few days.”

Chris had mentioned something about this while we were in Grand Junction, but that seemed like days ago. “What day is it?” I asked.

“Today's Tuesday, March 16.”

“When will you have him back?”

“We'll have him back tomorrow, if you want him tomorrow. You let us know, and we'll bring him back,” Chris said. “I just think Ryan needs to get away.”

“Okay, but he'll need a bag,” I said.

Allison, one of Beth's twins, spoke up. “I'll get it,” she said. So she and Ryan packed a bag, and a few minutes later, he was gone.

Peyton had been distracted most of the evening with relatives who were loving her and keeping her busy. It was obvious that Todd and I were in no shape to parent.

“We'll take her home with us,” Todd's dad and stepmother offered. As Peyton kissed me goodbye, she seemed relieved to go. On one hand, I hated for them to leave, but on the other, I knew it was the best thing. Neither Todd nor I could offer them the comfort they were each looking for, and they needed a way to escape the craziness.