Taylor's Gift (25 page)

I worried about Ryan. Not only was it his first day of middle school, but it was his first day in his sister's old school—Coppell Middle School East. I couldn't imagine how hard it would be for him. Since our life had become so public, everyone there knew what
had happened. In addition, now a huge memorial garden created to honor his sister stood right outside the building. I wasn't able to cope with my old life and Todd wasn't able to go back to his old job, yet we were sending our kids off to school as if nothing had happened in their lives. It was hard to contemplate.

In preparation for Ryan's first day, Laura Springer had hand-selected his classes and teachers. She'd also talked to each of them, saying, “Ryan is not Taylor's little brother. He is Ryan Storch, and he is to be treated as Ryan Storch. He is going to make it on his own. You need to let him be who he is.”

Fortunately, Ryan had a great first day of school.

Unfortunately, it was his last good day for a long time.

Starting the next day, and continuing for the next several months, Ryan had one bad day after another. He would call us crying, sobbing so hard into the phone that all we could make out was, “I wanna come home, come home, come home.”

Not only was the garden that contained Taylor's memorial pictures constantly in view, but various T-shirts had been made in her honor, and people were wearing them. Blue silicone bracelets bearing her name decorated the arms of both boys and girls.

One day in math class, Ryan's teacher passed out a worksheet of word problems. Problem number five said, “If you were on a mountain, and you skied down at 15 mph . . .” Ryan read the problem, got up from his desk, and left the room in tears.

“Of course you can come home,” we said whenever he called. “If you're upset, we want to take care of you and help you through this.”

But the truth was we were still trying to figure out our own grief, and we had very few ideas of how to handle his. There aren't 1-800 hotlines for how to handle your preteen son's sorrow. Even when experts were available, they didn't live with us and they didn't know our child like we did.

We did the best we could. But after several weeks of taking him to school only to have him call us to come back home, we had to come up with a new plan. He was missing a lot of classes and it
couldn't continue. We even discussed the possibility of homeschooling him. One day, Laura Springer and the school counselors had a frank talk with us.

“He needs to stay at school,” she said. “I know you want to, but you can't let him come home every time he asks. I'll be here for him if he needs me, but he has to learn to stay on his own.” It was one more hard thing we were being asked to do.

The next day, Principal Springer told Ryan that if he was upset, it was fine for him to go to the counselor's office, but it was no longer fine for him to go home. As soon as the classroom got quiet, or Ryan was asked to focus independently on a task, his mind would begin to race and he couldn't handle it. There were also unforeseen triggers—like the random math question—that would set him off. If it was a little deal, he'd just go stay in the hall until he had control over his emotions. But if it was a big deal, and he was crying, he'd go to the counselor's office, or to Principal Springer's office, and beg to come home. Laura would sit with him and gently say, “I know you think I'm being unfair. But it's all out of love, Ryan. I love you so much that I have to make you do this.”

When the school called, I couldn't handle hearing him in pain. I'd hand the phone to Todd because it caused me too much anxiety. Todd ended up being the contact between Laura Springer, the counselors at school, and our family. I didn't have the strength.

But Todd wasn't immune to Ryan's cries either. It got to him too. Some days, he'd hang up the phone and say, “Is it not enough that he lost his sister? Now he's got to figure out how to deal with school?”

Other days, Todd would feel sorry for himself. “We've got to take this on too? I mean, how much can we bear?” Or he'd vent his anger toward God. “My days aren't hard enough? Why does God want us to now parent a child through this?”

Peyton was having her own issues. She was clingy and whiny. It was like she had a leash and I was on the other end. She didn't want me to go anywhere without her. She seemed to regress to an
earlier age. Todd knew he shouldn't take it personally. I was just her security blanket, but it was hard on him.

The emotional stocks in our family portfolio were constantly moving up and down. It was like an emotional minefield, with those who felt healthy at the moment trying not to step on those who felt weak. Just like with the real stock market, we couldn't predict what would happen to any individual stock next. We could only hope to manage it so it didn't go off the charts.

Todd

When I saw Patricia's name on my phone, I assumed she was providing more details to coordinate travel arrangements for our meeting in a couple of days. She and Tara hadn't yet spoken, so Patricia typically called me.

“I just wanted to let you know,” she said, “I am in the hospital with severe abdominal pain.” Her voice sounded weak, not at all like the take-charge woman I'd been dealing with.

“It's nothing to do with the heart,” she quickly added. “They think it's my gallbladder, and they're going to operate.”

“Oh no! Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it's not a problem. Apparently, this happens a lot during the first year following a transplant. But I just wanted you to know I'm doing everything I can to be home by the time you arrive.”

“You just need to take care of yourself. We can reschedule and do this in a week, a month, or whenever,” I said, as a million thoughts raced through my mind. How would I tell Tara we
might have to postpone the meeting? Or worse, that Patricia had to have surgery? It was now September, and Tara had been waiting to meet her since she'd learned of her in June. She'd actually been waiting to meet Taylor's heart recipient since the day we'd left the hospital.

“No, no, I want you to come,” Patricia said. “If I'm still in the hospital, you're welcome to come here. I don't care if my hair is a mess or whatever; it's not a big deal to me.”

I paused to figure out how I could best respond, then decided to just say it: “Tara won't enter a hospital.” I knew the smells and memories of a hospital were more than she could handle.

“Oh, yeah, of course. I'm so sorry. I didn't even think of that.”

“Listen, let me figure out some things on this end. Text me your husband's number, and I'll work out the details with him. I don't want you worrying about anything. I just want you to get better.”

We hung up, and I sat down. Ever since we'd been in the hospital in Grand Junction and Tara had told me how important it was for her to meet the heart recipient, I'd felt this overwhelming pressure to make it happen. And more importantly, to make it a good experience. Just when it looked like the meeting was finally happening, it appeared it could all fall apart. I started to pray.

God, what's going on here? How do I tell Tara that Patricia is in the hospital and has to have surgery?

My stomach churned. The pressure of making this trip happen weighed me down. I knew how important it was to Tara. But before I made any decisions, I needed to talk to Joe, Patricia's husband, to get more information. I hoped he'd be a less-biased source and tell us honestly whether or not Patricia was up for our visit. Once I got that taken care of, I needed to talk to Tara.

I dreaded telling her.

She had been an emotional wreck all week. I knew it was because she was thinking about the trip. I was afraid she'd be set back by the disappointment of cancelling or postponing. I couldn't fathom
how Tara would react if something terrible happened to Patricia. The two women had obviously been growing close, and everything was riding on this meeting.

I got Joe on the phone. “Listen, there's no pressure from us,” I said. “This does not have to happen now, but your wife thinks it still can. Can you be upfront with me and let me know if she'll be okay? Or is she just saying she's all right because she wants this meeting to happen so badly?”

Joe was in the same predicament I was. Everyone wanted it to happen, but not at the expense of anyone's health—mental or physical.

“You know, she's going to make the decision. If she feels as if she can do it, she will,” he said.

Over the next twenty-four hours, Patricia talked to her doctors and the surgery was scheduled for Thursday. If all went well, she'd be released from the hospital Friday morning. We were due to return to Texas midday Saturday. It was going to be crazy, but, I hoped, worth it. Less than twenty-four hours before we left, and right before Patricia underwent surgery, Tara and Patricia spoke on the phone for the first time. Their conversation was short but cemented the bond between them. It increased their desire for a face-to-face meeting.

Please, God
, I begged,
You have to protect Patricia during this surgery, and You have to allow this meeting to happen.

Our travel day was tense, until we finally received the text from Joe that Patricia was out of surgery and everything looked good. By the time we landed in Phoenix Thursday night, she was out of the recovery room and eating solid food. I breathed a huge sigh of relief and thanked God for our answered prayer. However, a lot of things still had to happen. We hoped and prayed Patricia would be released the next day and she would feel well enough to meet us. If she did, the meeting would still be on. If she didn't, I knew
Tara wouldn't go to the hospital and all our planning would have been for nothing.

Things continued to look good on Friday morning, but we knew we'd have at least six or seven hours before we would see Patricia. Tara and I hung out in downtown Phoenix, had lunch, and did some shopping. At 2:40, I got a call from one of the WFAA crew members. They had arrived and begun setting up lights, and said we should be there by 4:00. We left in plenty of time, but driving in downtown Phoenix is like driving in a lot of downtowns—not easy to get around. The one-way streets made it difficult for me to find my way back to the highway.

“Do you know where you're going?” Tara asked. She was getting anxious after the GPS seemed to be leading me in circles.

“I'm heading toward the stadium because I know I can get on the interstate near there,” I said.

But somehow, I got turned around. At the next stop sign, I pulled up and paused for a second to look around and regain my bearings. “Tara, look!” I said, pointing.

“Oh my!”

Right in front of us was an Arizona State University residential building with architectural grid work on the outside. Hanging on the metal grill was a huge marble sign with white letters that read, “Taylor Place.”

Tara and I stared, lost in our own thoughts. I knew we were both thinking the same thing:
Taylor is here with us.
Then a car honked, and we had to move.

“I'm calling Father Alfonse,” I said. He answered the phone on the first ring. “We're on our way to meet Patricia, and you're not going to believe what just happened!” I said. “We stopped at a stop sign, and right in front of us was a big building with a sign that said Taylor Place!”

“Well, of course!” he said, laughing. “Don't you think she's there with you? Of course, she is. She's right there with you guys. But please pull over. Don't be driving and talking.”

I saw a spot up ahead and eased into it while he continued to talk. As I looked around to gain my bearings, I saw a street sign, nudged Tara, and pointed.

“Father, I hate to interrupt you, but I just want you to know that I pulled over like you asked, and I'm now at the corner of Seventh and
Taylor
Streets.”

He laughed again. “Of course, you are!”

Taylor Place. Taylor Street. It really felt like we were getting closer to Taylor's heart.

I wouldn't consider it hyperbole to say arriving at Patricia's home was one of the most emotional moments of our lives. Walking to the front door, Tara and I held hands. A thousand thoughts swirled through my mind.
What's this going to be like? What kind of person is she? Will I like her?
I remember having to catch my breath as we got to the door. Whatever was about to happen was going to be huge.

Tara wobbled as we made the last few steps up to the door. She had to be nervous; I was. I rang the bell and then stepped back to let Tara enter first. Joe answered the door and welcomed us in. Then Tara saw Patricia. Without saying a word, these two brave women reached out and wrapped their arms around each other. It was more than a hug; it was as if they clung to each other.

My eyes filled with tears. I knew how important this moment was for Tara, and it touched me deeply to see such a positive first impression.

The women continued their embrace—Tara's arms around Patricia's back, and Patricia's arms wrapped around Tara's neck. I tried to blink back tears as I thought about how long Tara had wanted to hug the person who had Taylor's heart. And now she was. Patricia appeared strong, though I knew how fragile she must be, just home from the hospital. I was thankful she had the strength and desire to go through with our meeting.

Almost a minute went by, and I couldn't stand it any longer. I wiped my tears away with my fingertips and joined their embrace in a three-way hug, one arm around my wife and one around the person who had my daughter's heart. The three of us stood there, just thankful to embrace each other.

The best way to explain it was that it felt like falling in love—not the romantic kind, but the kind of love you have when your first child is born. The first time you see them, you instantly love that little person, and know they belong in your family. Until you've had a child, you don't know what it feels like. But once you finally experience that kind of love, it's bigger and broader than you ever imagined. The sensation is hard to describe, but that's how I felt about Patricia. I fell in love with her as if she were the sister I never had.

But my emotions were also complicated. It was bittersweet, knowing that Taylor's heart was here only because she wasn't.

Finally we broke apart. Tara said, “I know we should probably talk or something, but I need to hear her.”

Patricia took us into the kitchen and Tara sat down in a chair. Patricia grabbed her stethoscope and helped Tara insert the earpieces. Then Patricia put the head of the instrument high on her chest, just underneath the crucifix she wore around her neck. It seemed as if Patricia wanted to give this gift to Tara as much as Tara wanted to receive it. Tara looked up at me with a mixture of hope and sadness, and I reached out to hold her hand. I had no idea how Tara would react once she heard Taylor's heart, and I wanted to be with her no matter what happened next.

Patricia slowly moved the stethoscope around on her chest. “Tell me if you can hear it,” she said.

Tara hesitated for a second, then looked at Patricia and closed her eyes. She nodded softly. Tara was lost in her own world, listening to the rhythmic thumping. She was very composed—peaceful and pained—all at the same time.

I felt such overwhelming relief and gratitude to God for that moment. This is the thing Tara wanted more than any other, and
I'd felt such pressure to get it for her. I'd never thought it would happen. Though I felt like we'd received so many blessings from God since Taylor's death, this was by far the biggest.

After a couple of minutes, Tara opened her eyes and said, “It's so strong.”

“Oh yeah,” Patricia said. “She is very strong.”

Tara took off the stethoscope and handed it to me.

“I want him to hear too,” she said.

I took the stethoscope and put it up to my ears.

It's hard to describe what it feels like to know that a heart beating in someone else's chest once belonged to your daughter. It was another bittersweet moment for me. I loved and hated hearing Taylor's heartbeat. I was thankful and angry. I was happy and horribly sad at the same time. There wasn't a single pure emotion; it was an awful, beautiful cocktail of contrasts.

I listened and then handed the stethoscope back to Tara. I wanted her to listen for as long as Patricia would allow.

“I'm so sorry, and I thank you at the same time,” Patricia said, bursting into tears. She was a mother, and she knew what this moment meant to us—I could see it on her face. I wrapped my right arm around her, and she hugged me.

“That's all right. I'm so glad you're good,” I said.

Tara listened with the stethoscope for a while, then finally took it off and set it on the table. I could see something inside her had settled. That same mixture of relief and strength I had witnessed at Jeff Kartus's house—only a million times more.