Taylor's Gift (14 page)

A bunch of girls from Taylor's summer camp came. They stood in a corner wailing, as their mothers tried to comfort them.
They're in shock
, I thought.

So am I.

The line continued to snake past me. Matt and others did their best to keep it moving, so we didn't talk to anyone for too long. But there were people we hadn't seen in years. One moment, I felt like I was going to fall apart, and then the next, I would see someone I hadn't seen in a long time. Their presence made me feel so loved and protected that it helped me make it through the next few minutes.

I kept my eye on Peyton and Ryan. Fortunately, some of their friends came, and they were able to escape for a few minutes to talk and play with their pals. At one point, I saw Peyton sitting alone in a chair by the casket, but before I could get to her, someone was there kneeling down talking to her and hugging her. And when that person left, there was another, and then another.

At one point, I looked to the right of me where Todd had been, and he was gone. I tried to continue talking to the person in front of me, but I could feel panic rising in my chest. I noticed Matt was nearby talking with someone else. I called his name until I got his attention and then asked, “Where's Todd?”

He could see I needed him, so he started looking for Todd. But so many people were milling about that he couldn't move and he had to strain to see the entire room. He couldn't find him either. Finally, Matt grabbed Charlie Hellmuth, a friend of ours who stands six foot three, big, and bald. Charlie looked around the room. When he located Todd, Charlie interrupted the people talking with him. “Excuse me, Todd. Tara needs you.” Nobody was going to argue
with Charlie. Or with a grieving wife. They let Todd go, and he rushed back to my side. I was comforted by his presence. I needed to lean into his strength.

After almost five hours, things finally wound down. By the end of the night, I was spent. But I'd done what I needed to do. I'd held myself together for Ryan and Peyton.

Lying in bed that night, waiting for sleep to kick in, I thought about Matt crying when he saw Taylor in the casket. We'd been friends for a long time; I'd never seen Matt cry before, and it touched me.

Then I worried about the kids seeing her in the casket.

When we walked out of the visitation room, I'd stopped for one last look of Taylor in the casket. The kids had too. That would be their final memory of her. Todd and I had debated letting them see her in Grand Junction, but we were afraid it would be their last image of her—bloody, bruised, and hooked up to machines. Now, I realized their last image was of their sister in a casket.

Had we done the right thing?

We arrived early the next day at St. Ann's, and a church staffer shuffled us off to a holding room. Family members came in to give us a quick hug, and somebody who dropped by left a fuzzy blue elephant for Peyton, which she clung to the rest of the day.

The church was massive, with soaring ceilings, and we'd walked down that aisle countless times—practically every Sunday since we'd joined the church. But that day the aisle seemed different. Endless. The church was packed—I would later learn that more than eighteen hundred people had attended—and I felt each of their eyes on me as I followed my daughter's casket down the aisle.
Why are they staring?
The whole thing was surreal, like an out-of-body experience. It felt as if I were watching someone else in a movie. I just wanted to disappear.

Father Fred was the perfect priest to conduct Taylor's funeral. He was loved by the adults but even more by the kids, because he
was appropriately light and funny when the moment called for it—like wearing tennis shoes under his sacred robes at the funeral. As the service continued, his ability to connect with humor and compassion was much appreciated.

All of our kids had been coming to church with us since they were babies, but during the funeral Ryan acted like this was the first time he'd ever been. “Why is he doing that?” Ryan asked early in the service. “What are they doing now?” he asked a few minutes later when someone got up to read Scripture. “Who is that?” he asked when someone else got up to speak. Throughout the whole service, he couldn't sit still and he couldn't stop asking questions. It was as if he had regressed from a mature twelve-year-old to an antsy six-year-old who couldn't sit still.

I tried to be patient. Sitting there with him, I realized this was the longest time the four of us had been together in one space since the accident. Maybe he was just trying to engage me in the only way he knew. Or maybe he was trying to distance himself from soaking in the emotion of the moment by asking questions rather than feeling it.

Peyton was doing something similar, in her own way. She sat quietly staring off in the distance, holding the stuffed elephant under her chin.

I understood their need to be removed from the situation. Though I was there physically, at times I felt as if I checked out emotionally, as if my body had gone into a protection mode by separating me from what was happening. Instead of being fully present, I was catching only snatches and glimpses of the funeral and then processing them in small bites. Even when Todd got up to speak, I don't remember hearing what he said.

But one moment during the funeral stood out.

On Sundays, when we recite the Lord's Prayer, the parishioners typically hold hands with the people standing next to them. So when it came to that particular moment in the funeral, I reached out to take Ryan's and Peyton's hands. Todd joined us by putting
his left hand on top of ours. Since no one was sitting to his right, he had a free hand. As the prayer began and people bowed their heads and closed their eyes, I watched as Todd stretched out his arm and laid his right hand on the casket.

It was our final prayer as a family, with Taylor.

Todd

At almost 10:00 p.m., I thought I heard a knock on the front door. Though the house had been overflowing with people for hours after the funeral and burial at the cemetery, by now everyone except our parents and Tara's aunt had gone home. The kids were upstairs getting ready for bed. Matt and Beth, thinking things would be calm for a few hours, took the opportunity to run to their house in Plano to pick up a few things they and their girls would need for the upcoming week. When I heard a second knock, I got up, walked to the front door, and glanced out the window.

“Hey, Father Alfonse!” I said, quickly opening the door. “C'mon in!”

Like Father Fred, Father Alfonse was popular with the kids. His primary job was at the local Catholic school, but he occasionally did youth masses at St. Ann's and spoke at youth retreats. He'd been at the burial hours earlier, and we'd spoken briefly. At the time, I'd thanked him for coming and told him how much Taylor had loved his masses. “I have to leave now, but may I come by later?” he'd asked. I told him he was welcome anytime.

I showed him to the kitchen and introduced him to everyone around the table.

“Can I get you something to eat, Father?” Tara's mom said, jumping up from the table. One way Tara's mom showed her love was through serving others, especially food. She believed that when there were guests in the house you needed to feed them.

Father Alfonse took the pie she offered, sat down at the table, and asked how everyone was doing. The conversation turned to the funeral, and Father Alfonse expressed his sympathies. At some point the ski accident was brought up, and he said, “It was all part of God's plan.”

Most people just nodded or sat silently contemplating his words, but Tara's dad, Bernie, couldn't let the statement go unchallenged. “Are you
kidding
me? It was an accident,” Bernie said. “God didn't
plan
this.”

The two men got into quite a discussion with their differing views on how a merciful God could allow pain and suffering. The sticking point seemed to be whether or not God was active and involved in every part of our lives. Tara and I stayed out of it. It didn't matter to us; whatever their conclusion was didn't change the outcome for us. Plus, we had no energy left to argue.

“I don't know how else to explain it,” Father Alfonse said at last, “than to say God had a purpose in all of this and this was Taylor's purpose.”

About this time, Peyton walked up to the table. She was carrying the journal someone had given her to record her thoughts and feelings about the loss of her sister. “Peyton, show Father Alfonse your journal,” Tara said, to change the subject.

“You have a journal? Can I see it?” the priest asked, and then in mock seriousness he added, “Unless you wrote about your boyfriend, and you don't want me to read it.”

Peyton giggled and handed it to him. “I haven't written in it yet. And I'm too young to have a boyfriend!”

Father Alfonse flipped through the blank pages. “Look at that, there's a Scripture at the bottom of every page.”

“Yep,” Peyton said proudly.

“Let me pick one and read it,” Father Alfonse said. He randomly flipped to a page and read, “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. Romans 8:28.” He finished reading and then slowly looked up, glancing first at Bernie, then Tara, and then me.

As the words he read sank in, it was as if they struck a match. The Scripture was illuminating the darkness inside of me, and I wasn't sure what to do with it. I looked at Tara. From the expression on her face, I could see she felt the same way. It could have been a mere coincidence that out of all the pages in the journal, he opened to this one, but we didn't believe in coincidences. It was clear to us that God was trying to tell us something.
Could there be a purpose in this? Could Taylor's death be used for good in some way?

Peyton interrupted my thoughts with a question for Father Alfonse, and the conversation changed direction. It grew late and Father Alfonse got up to leave. Clearly, he'd been affected by the timing of the verse he'd read too. “Can we talk another time? I'd like to check back with you and talk more about all of this,” he said, as I walked him to the door.

That night, for the first time in over a week, Tara and I went to bed together at the same time. As we lay in bed, facing each other, our arms and legs intertwined, we discussed what had just happened. “Do you really think God could have a purpose for Taylor's death?” Tara asked.

“I don't know,” I said. It was an honest answer. I didn't know. It was hard to understand how something so painful could ever be good, but I also knew God was God, and my ways were not His ways. I pulled Tara close and said, “If there is a purpose, or even the possibility of one, then I think it's important we try to figure out what it is.”

She snuggled deep into my arms and said, “Mm-hmm,” and immediately fell asleep.

I woke up the next morning and stared at the ceiling. The funeral that had kept me busy for the past few days was over and our child was buried.
What am I supposed to do now?

The calendar said I should be in New York. But how was I supposed to work? I needed to be home for my wife and kids. John and Jim, the company executives, had told me to take as much time off as I needed, but sooner or later that would end. The thought of getting on a plane and leaving my family alone without me was—well, unthinkable. They couldn't function without my help; let's face it, I could barely function myself. How was I supposed to help my clients when I couldn't help myself?

The first thing I had to do was for myself.

I had to learn to live without my daughter.

I heard Tara moan and knew screams would soon follow, but to my surprise, they didn't. Tara woke up, and for the first time since we'd been home, she didn't start screaming. Instead, she rolled out of bed and ran for the bathroom—the screams had gone, but the nausea hadn't.

“Are you okay?” I asked when she returned.

“There is a heaviness in my chest,” she said, crying, “and it's making it hard to breathe.”

I knew what she was feeling; I felt it too. It was like the lead bib they make you wear at the dentist's office while having an X-ray. A heavy weight wrapped around my shoulders and across my chest. It engulfed me. When I tried to breathe, the weight pressed down harder on my chest. The previous night's conversation played through my mind and I remembered something Charlie Hellmuth had told me at the visitation.

“I have never seen such an outpouring like this for a family before,” he had said. “You're going to have to realize that people will want to give, but you're not going to want to receive.”

What Charlie said was true. I'd much rather help someone else than have them help me.

“I know you well enough to know you're going to want to do it all yourself. And you're going to tell people ‘we're fine' and ‘we don't need anything,' but if you deny people the opportunity to help, you're taking away their blessing. You're taking away a gift they want to give you. So, you're going to have to figure out how to let other people help you,” he said.

At the time, I hadn't been able to fully reflect on what he meant, but I was starting to get a better understanding. This wasn't going away, and there wasn't some future marker where everything would be okay. This would take time, and as much as I hated the thought of asking others for help, I would have to learn how to do just that.

Charlie went on to remind me that though I might feel abandoned, my faith would be the strength that would help me survive. “Be open to hearing, seeing, and feeling God through all of this,” he said. “It's not about you, but it's about a much, much bigger picture, and there is a reason behind this that will help carry you through.”

Was Charlie talking about the same thing as Father Alfonse? Could there be a purpose to Taylor's death? Could God be working even through
this
?

I thought about the call from Myrna I'd received back at the hotel in Grand Junction, when I'd learned that Taylor's final gift was helping so many people. In the midst of our tragic loss, knowing her organs had saved other people's lives was our only glimmer of hope.

The kids went back to school that day. Ryan was appropriately upset but did his best to make it through. Peyton was numb but she craved the distraction of normalcy that school offered. At home, the day passed with the usual visitors coming and going. Everyone except Tara had at least a few bites of the abundant food that continued to arrive in Tupperware and aluminum tins. The hours passed quickly, and soon it was night again. Everyone else was in
bed but I was still restless. I sat in my office, composing an email. When I finished, I opened a browser window and googled “organ donation.”

Maybe I was looking for purpose and meaning, or maybe I just wanted to know more. Regardless, I was reading everything I could find. The first link led to an article, which led to a blog, which led to an organization, and they all led to more links. It didn't take long to realize how many people were desperately waiting for organs and how few organ donors were readily available. The articles showed how hard it was to get people to register for organ donation. And without registered donors, there would always be a lack of organs for those who needed them. My inner consultant came alive, and I started asking questions. “Why is it so hard to get people to register?”

To answer that question, I did more research and quickly saw the problem seemed to stem from a lack of education. People believed the myths and didn't know the truth. They never discussed it or tried to consult anyone who had real answers. Even for those who thought it was a good idea, a conversation was never broached around the dinner table. Without good information and a clear directive from a loved one, when someone died people didn't know what to do. When they didn't know what to do, they failed to donate organs. It got me thinking.
What could I do to help educate people and lead them into conversations about organ donation?

The next day Laura Springer, the principal from Taylor's school, called to check up on us. After we returned from Grand Junction, she was one of the people who regularly called or stopped by. We'd sit out on the back porch and have a Dr Pepper, and she'd tell Tara and me stories about Taylor at school. We loved spending time with her because we treasured hearing stories about our daughter. We chatted for a few minutes, and then I asked, “How are the kids doing up there?”

“The kids aren't doing well; they're hurting. Taylor was an important part of this school. We've had counselors in, and I've asked some of the local churches to provide youth ministers to come up and hang out during lunch, in case the kids want someone to talk to.”

“What can I do?”