Taylor's Gift (12 page)

As evening turned to night, fewer people remained in the house, and all I could think about was getting clean. I hadn't showered since Saturday night. I felt disgusting, and I wanted to wash off three days of hospital odors.

“I want to take a bath,” I told Beth, sniffling. Someone filled the tub and called me when it was ready. Beth helped me up from the
sofa and a few women, family and friends, followed as I shuffled into my bedroom, then the bathroom.

Bathing had always been an escape for me. For a few minutes, I could soak and relax without worrying about anyone or anything. That's all I wanted—a few moments of peace. Somehow, the thought of that simple pleasure set me off again. As soon I got into the bathroom, I fell onto the floor. I heard someone screaming Taylor's name over and over again. I didn't recognize the voice. I curled into a ball and tried to make myself as small as possible. When I buried my face in the bath mat the screams became muffled.
Am I the one screaming?

It was like an out-of-body experience. On one hand, I could hear the most blood-chilling screams, “Tay-lorrr, Taaay-lor,” coming from somewhere outside of myself. I became the observer of this woman and her pain. I'd never heard anything like it before or since.

Yet, at the same time, I was also the woman curled into a fetal position with her face buried in the bath mat, pounding her fists on the bathroom floor. I couldn't stop the screaming, and I couldn't stop hearing the screamer.

The women in the bathroom surrounded me on the floor as they tried to console me.

I have no recollection of what happened next, or of how I got undressed. The next thing I remember I was in the tub, my mom was in the bathroom with me, and Beth was leaning over the tub, shaving my legs. I was too helpless to do it myself. I was still sobbing and crying out for my daughter, but the screaming had stopped. They tried to talk to me, and it made me feel better that they tried, but I couldn't stop crying.

Someone laid out pajamas for me and pulled the covers back on the bed. When I climbed in, other women climbed in with me. Beth was on one side of me, and my friend Kathy was on the other, stroking my face. When I shivered, they got under the covers to hold me and keep me warm. Three more women sat with my mom at the end of the bed.

One was rubbing my leg, and my thoughts alternated between
stop
and
keep going
. It was frustrating and comforting at the same time. I wanted everybody to leave me alone, but I needed everybody there.

Someone had called my doctor and gotten a prescription for Xanax to help with the anxiety and Ambien to help me sleep. I finally drifted off, surrounded by these women who loved me.

I woke up five days later.

Todd

When each of our three kids was born we experienced this beautiful, intimate moment where no one else seemed to exist besides Tara, our new baby, and me. But the moment was always quickly stolen when a doctor or nurse took the baby away from us for an examination. Each time someone left with our precious new baby, it bothered me. Emotionally, it made me feel helpless and insecure, as if there were things that doctor or nurse could do for our child that I couldn't. Intellectually, though, I knew it was exactly what had to happen.

Listening to Tara screaming our daughter's name from the bathroom, I felt the same way. Helpless. As if I wasn't enough. I couldn't give Tara what she needed. In that moment, as Tara's screams penetrated the walls of our house and our hearts, I could only stand by while the women in our lives tried to console her. I felt as if I'd lost her, as if she had been ripped from my arms and taken away.

It was also exactly what needed to happen. As Tara was surrounded by her sisters-in-law, her mom, and her best friends, these women were the doctors and nurses who cared for her in ways that I couldn't.

We weren't expecting the local attention our story had generated. My stepbrother had to chase a cameraman from a local affiliate out of our yard after he tried to film through the windows. But apparently, it was also
regional
news. When Tara's brothers arrived that night, they showed me newspapers from Colorado, New Mexico, and Texas they'd collected on the way home; each had stories about Taylor, the accident, and, most importantly, the gift of life she'd given others through organ donation. All this attention seemed a little crazy.

A lot of people tried to reach out to us. People were calling on our cell phones and our home line. We were doing the best we could. I didn't answer my cell if I didn't recognize the number, and I asked my brother, Terry, to take care of answering the home phone. At one point, he came to me.

“We need to talk,” he said. “There are a lot of people calling, and they all want the same information. We need to figure out a way to handle all of this. What if I set up a ‘Remember Taylor' Facebook page?” Terry asked. My brother was a pastor for a local church and was responsible for all of their digital media, so he knew an online presence could help with some of the communications issues.

“That would be great,” I said. I also asked him to contact people we wanted involved in the funeral.

I was so thankful to have someone as capable as Terry to handle things for me. By the next day, he had set up a Facebook page and uploaded pictures and videos of Taylor. For those who knew her, it became a central spot for them to share their memories. For those who didn't, it became a place they could learn more about her. The page went on to receive more than three thousand “likes.”

I parked myself in the dining room, away from all the noise and chaos in the kitchen and living room. As friends and family asked questions, they came to me wanting to know everything from, “Where does Tara keep her medicine?” to “Who do you want to
write the obituary?” I answered their questions, signed papers, and delegated tasks I couldn't do myself. Everybody wanted something, and sometimes they had to wait in line to get it. I was busier than my busiest day at work, except I wasn't consulting with clients; I was planning my daughter's funeral.

In the moment, I thought I was just doing what needed to be done. But occasionally, I would step back and realize that God had given me the gift of busyness. Planning the funeral and helping coordinate the household gave me purpose. As long as I was being asked to make a decision, give an opinion, or suggest a next step, I didn't have to think.

Looking back, I am so thankful to God for each one of those seemingly small tasks. They gave me something to focus on. Each one made me feel useful and needed.

Early the next morning, I woke up to the sound of Tara's screams. She'd slept fitfully through the night, and then once the sun rose, she suddenly bolted upright and started screaming. Her panicked eyes were open wide and a look of alarm filled her face. I tried to comfort her, but she was unresponsive. When she finally looked at me, it was as if she didn't recognize me. My heart began pumping wildly. While she continued her bloodcurdling screams, I jumped up, got dressed, and then raced up the stairs to wake Beth. I needed help.

Matt and Beth Sunshine had basically moved in. They came straight to our house after arriving home from Paris and would spend almost two weeks living with us.

I pounded on the guest bedroom door. “Tara's screaming and I can't get her to stop! I've tried everything! I don't think she even knows I'm here,” I said, crying.

Matt and Beth both jumped up. Beth ran down the stairs and I followed her, but I just couldn't go back into the bedroom. From where I stood in the hallway, Tara sounded like she was hyperventilating.

“Tara, I'm here,” Beth said, holding her close. “You're gonna be all right.”

Matt turned toward me. “Are you okay?”

I shook my head. I was
not
okay.

I walked into the living room, sat on the sofa, and put my face in my hands. Matt made coffee for both of us. We sat together listening to Tara dry-heaving in the bathroom, while Beth did what she could to help.

I was so grateful for Matt and Beth, but I also worried about what would happen after they left us and the kids came home. I had to get back to my job too, but how would that work out? Tara and I didn't have a plan for this new season we found ourselves in. There were no role models. And the sand was shifting under our feet.

That day, I needed to work on funeral arrangements. Mary Marshall, who so far had been handling all of the details, joined Matt and me at the funeral home to pick out a casket. I had wanted Tara to come, but she was still in bed. She was so out of it that there was no way she would be capable of making any decisions. So, once we had one picked out, I waited until Beth gave her approval before finalizing it. Over the next few days, Beth became Tara's surrogate when I needed a female opinion.

While finishing up the paperwork at the funeral home, the director asked a simple question: “Where would you like her buried?”

It hadn't occurred to me that in addition to planning Taylor's funeral, I also had to pick out a place to bury her. I knew I couldn't do it on my own, so I asked Matt to drive me.

We drove out to Restland Cemetery and spoke with a representative.

“Is there anything special you're looking for?” he asked.

I remembered something that Tara had mentioned when we were in the hospital. “Texas summers are so stinkin' hot, we'll need someplace with a tree nearby because my wife will want some shade,” I told the man.

We found one spot that was perfect. There was a shady tree nearby. Matt and I both agreed it was the best spot.

“If Taylor is going to be buried here, what about you and Tara?” Matt asked. “And Ryan and Peyton?”

I kicked the dirt. “Seriously?” I said, looking at Matt. “First, I've got to pay for this and now you're telling me I have to plan my whole family's burial?” I was ticked! Not at Matt, but at the situation. I knew he was right. If I didn't buy them now, someone else would.
Oh, dear Lord, when will this end?

I bought five plots that day.

I spent most of the day working on funeral plans. Tara spent most of the day in bed crying. Beth and the other women who surrounded her started to keep a log of everything she ate and drank. They'd update Bill or me as they saw progress.

“I got Tara to drink half a cup of orange juice.”

“She just took her pill; she'll probably sleep for three hours now.”

“Two bites of scrambled eggs and four sips of juice.”

Her doctors prescribed anxiety medication and she was supposed to take it on a regular schedule, but she began to rebel against Beth whenever she tried to give it to her. So when someone new wanted to go in and visit Tara, Beth handed them the pill and a cup with a line on it.

“You can't come out until she's taken the pill and drank at least this much juice,” Beth would tell them, pointing to the line. The medication would then knock Tara out for a few hours. She'd sleep until she woke up screaming, and then the process would start all over again.

There was always someone in bed with Tara, holding her. Whenever I went into our bedroom to check on her, the group of women tending to her would scatter like pigeons to let me through. When I left, they flocked back.

At some point during the day, I got a call from Cynthia Izaguirre. Cynthia and Tara were friends, and Cynthia was also an anchor of WFAA Channel 8 News—the local ABC affiliate in Dallas. Not coincidentally, they were the only local affiliate who hadn't been in our yard when we'd arrived home.

“I know you're getting a lot of pressure from media to tell your story,” Cynthia said. “But I want to do it myself. I've been friends with Tara, I know your family, and I want to make sure the story is handled right from the get-go.”