Taylor's Gift (29 page)

I knew exactly how each of them felt.

Chris's mother explained how the recipients had become like family to her. At the end of the piece, she said, “People of faith believe that people journey into one's life for a reason. Of course
my family will never be the same, but it will also never be bigger. For that, on this and every other day, I will truly, truly be forever thankful.”

By this point, I was bawling. The kids, sensing the change in my mood, had wandered in to see what was going on. I tried to pull myself together and use it as a teaching moment. “Look how many people are talking about organ donation now. Did you ever think you'd see that on an NFL pregame show?”

If a national conversation about organ donation was starting, that was something to be truly thankful for. It felt great to see the exposure the issue was getting. But at the same time, I knew the only reason we even paid attention to the issue was because Taylor was gone. It was impossible not to feel sadness along with our gratefulness.

That Thanksgiving taught us a lot of lessons. We'd thought that being away from family would ease our pain, but being left to our own thoughts, without the added chaos of our family to distract us, just left us with a different kind of pain.

Most of all we learned we couldn't run from our pain—it only followed us.

We made it through Thanksgiving, and our friends asked what we were doing for Christmas. My standard response was, “I just want to go to bed and wake up on the second of January.” We both knew we needed to celebrate and put up decorations for the sake of Ryan and Peyton, but it was beyond our ability. Finally, friends suggested that if we got out the tree and a few boxes of decorations, they would put them up for us. So that's what we did. We left the house, and they came over and decorated the house beautifully. Nothing was in its usual place, so it was at once familiar and completely different at the same time.

It was perfect and it was a huge gift to me.

Todd

Grief was an ocean with waves continually crashing along the shoreline. Sometimes the waves were small—powerless to do much. Other days their power was enough to rock me in their wake, but if I was strong enough I'd meld and move with them so they couldn't harm me. The worst were those that pounded against me all day, threatening, like a riptide, to pull me under. Just as I'd catch my breath, an eight-footer would rise up and crash over my head, leaving me gasping for air.

Right after Taylor died, people would ask, “How are you?” As the months passed, that slowed down a bit. However, with the holidays so close, I found myself answering that question more frequently. The answer was never simple. It truly depended on the moment. For example, the fifteenth day of each month was hard because it reminded us of March 15, the day Taylor died. On those days, I often found myself supporting Tara in some way. But as Tara and the kids developed better coping skills, it was as if I could take a break from being their protector. It was then I found myself starting to slip into the abyss of grief.

That's what happened on December 15, the worst of the nine “fifteens” I'd experienced since Taylor's death.

That morning, I found myself listening to, and involved in, conversations with people planning their upcoming ski trips. Each one reminded me of my beautiful daughter. I remembered how excited she had been just nine months earlier as she got ready for our ski trip. She had been so excited to get out on the slopes and experience it all.

I'd learned enough in therapy to know that trying to run or hide from the waves of grief wouldn't help. I had learned to embrace the water. Tread. Stand. Paddle. Just let the waves rock me. It's when you fight against the waves that you lose your footing and go under. Riding them will take you back to shore. So after those morning reminders of what I'd lost, I tried to get busy. I spent most of the
day in my office working on operations and accounting issues for Taylor's Gift. And the seas calmed for a bit.

But late in the afternoon the waves were back, slamming against my mind. I had gone to finish some Christmas shopping, and while I was running some errands those persistent waves seemed to find their way into my car, making it hard to think. I pulled into a parking space as my brain sloshed. It felt like seaweed: tumbling in the waves but never going anywhere.

During those moments, I tend to get very reflective and often I try to write, jotting down notes so I can think things through more thoroughly. It was my way of riding the waves until the swells stopped. But the memories kept coming—wave after wave of them. It felt like a high tide of grief, and my arms were tired; I couldn't swim anymore. I put down my pen. Nothing seemed to calm the raging waters of my grief.

By the time I got home, I was tired and sluggish. The back pain that had plagued me since Thanksgiving ached down to my toes. Maybe the grief exaggerated it that day; it was hard to tell. All I wanted was sleep. It was the only thing that would stop the emotional tides and the physical pain.

Around 8:10 p.m. we heard a knock at the door. I opened it to find the entire Coppell High School choir; they were Christmas caroling. Tara and the kids joined me at the door, and as they sang I felt the waves calm and roll back out to sea.
Thank you, God! This is exactly what I needed.

After a couple of traditional carols, they finished with “Man in the Mirror,” a song about looking at yourself and making a change. Tara and I immediately got the message, and as we did, we both teared up. Somehow, in the beauty of that moment, my pain dulled.

Before they left, the group presented us with a check for fifteen hundred dollars—money they'd raised from programs the choir had put on to support Taylor's Gift. Tara and I were touched by their selfless generosity.

As we said good night and closed the door, I knew we were blessed—genuinely blessed to be part of such a wonderful community.

That night I went to bed early. I hugged and kissed Tara and the kids, including a hug and kiss to Taylor in heaven. I said my prayers, and before I fell asleep I got out my notebook and wrote. The next day I would post it on my blog:

I miss her so much, but know she is with me all the time. Thanks for being there with me, Christ. Thank you for allowing me to process this grief and put it to good use each and every day . . . and when I don't feel I can, continue to show me the path.

Another day. Another 15th.

Good night.

Tara

Christmas was miserable.

We spent it with my family in Louisiana. Like we had done with Thanksgiving, we chose to spend the day away from home so we wouldn't have to relive all the memories of Christmases past. My extended family went the extra mile to make Christmas a merry time for Ryan and Peyton. They surrounded all of us with love, laughter, and tons of Cajun food.

We were in survival mode. There's not much else to say about Thanksgiving, Christmas, and New Year's, except to thank God we made it through them. At least, I figured, the New Year meant we'd made it through our first year of holidays.

A few days later I headed to Walmart to pick up a few supplies. At the entrance, I suddenly stopped. Though it was only the first week of January, I was visually assaulted with an overwhelming abundance of pink and red. I'd been so worried about Thanksgiving and Christmas that I hadn't even considered Valentine's Day. It was one of my favorite holidays to celebrate with the kids. Every year I decorated the house and had presents for everyone at the table. I
always made a pink-and-red dinner with ham, strawberries, pink mashed potatoes, and cherry 7-Up. It was my day to say, “I love you so much I'm about to burst!”

I felt as though my heart had already burst while standing in Walmart. And it only got worse as February 14 got closer. A few weeks later, when I went to buy candy for my kids, I found that the things they loved best were all packaged in threes. Three Hershey's kisses. Three SpongeBob candies. Three chocolate-covered marshmallow hearts.
I don't have three anymore.

Valentine's Day not only snuck up on me, it sucker punched me when I wasn't watching.

One more holiday to dread.

A few days before Valentine's Day, I heard the front door open and in walked Ana Lucia Cottone, the network executive we'd met at the Donate Life Film Festival. She was the one who'd told me the story about the clay Buddha that cracked, exposing gold underneath. We'd kept in touch and become good friends. I loved her no-nonsense style. She would say whatever was on her mind.

We'd often talked about getting together again, and knowing that pink and red were out for this Valentine's Day and “blue” was in, Todd wanted to surprise me by flying her in.

“I'm here for a week!” she announced.

I took one look at my messy house, hugged her, and burst into tears.

Ana Lucia was, in fact, the exact Valentine my heart needed. She wasn't the kind of person who let you lie around and mope. While she was extremely sympathetic, gentle, and kind, she was also willing to do whatever she could to help us get on with life. I must have looked like I really
needed
that help. By the evening of her first day, she said, “Do you ever look at yourself in the mirror and just talk to yourself?”

“No.”

“You need to see yourself go through this,” she said, standing me in front of a mirror. “You need to take a good look at yourself.”

I looked at the face in the mirror, and it was a shock. I'd lost a lot of weight, my cheeks were gaunt, and my eyes were sunken. I looked five years older. Up to that point, I had no idea how bad I looked.

“Look at yourself and say, ‘I'm going to be okay,'” she said.

Studying myself in the mirror, I resolved to do better. I had concentrated all of my available energy on taking care of Ryan and Peyton. I wasn't doing anything for myself.

But Ana Lucia wasn't just about making me better. She wanted the whole family better. When she found out we hadn't sat at the kitchen table and eaten dinner as a family since Taylor had died, she made us do it. It was hard at first, because no one knew where to sit. Were we supposed to leave Taylor's chair empty? Ana Lucia didn't care. She sat in a different chair every time, disrupting our old family traditions and helping us create new ones.

Though I was proud of the progress Ryan had made—he was adjusting well to school and had started staying through the whole mass at St. Ann's instead of leaving—it wasn't enough for Ana Lucia. She noticed that Ryan and Peyton were still sleeping in the guest room, one in the bed and the other on the floor.

“All right, this is what we're going to do,” Ana Lucia said. “Ryan's room is going to be his hangout. Peyton's room will be her playroom. And we're moving both of their beds into the game room. That way, they can each sleep in their own bed but still be in the same room together.”

“No, I don't really like that idea because they need to be in their own bedrooms,” I said.

“But they're not in their bedrooms now, right?”

“You're right,” I admitted.

So I discussed it with the kids, and we all agreed. We invited friends over to help us move the furniture. When we finished, Ryan and Peyton each slept in his or her own bed in the same room.

Ana Lucia's presence was like a fresh breeze in a stale house. She shook up our entrenched grief patterns and showed us new ways of seeing ourselves. She reminded me that it wasn't enough to just get through; I needed to learn to take care of myself again. I knew she was right. If I took care of myself, I'd also be better at taking care of my husband and kids. It was the best Valentine's Day gift I could have asked for.

Todd

March loomed large.

As January became February, March cast its shadow backward onto my heart. Not only did the upcoming March present the one-year anniversary of the skiing accident and Taylor's death, but it would also be our first spring break without Taylor. As the one-year anniversary drew closer, I couldn't stop thinking about it. Just as Tara and the kids' emotional stock seemed to be rising, mine seemed to be tanking.

In addition, I was filled with self-doubt. I was worried about how we were going to hold everything together financially. Not only did we have a lot of start-up and ongoing costs for the foundation, but the donations weren't coming in like I'd hoped. This put our foundation work and our family's financial position in jeopardy. If money didn't come into the foundation, I didn't get a salary.

After several days of being in a horrible mood and doubting everything in my life, I started asking myself some angry questions.
What the heck am I doing here?
Why am I doing this? Where is God?
I didn't see God working, and I began to wonder if He'd left and I hadn't followed—or worse, that maybe He'd never been in this in the first place. I felt alone and I wanted out. I was in a bad place, a place no words could describe. I called Judy, our counselor, and asked if I could come in for an emergency appointment. She agreed.

The appointment was set for the afternoon, but before I left I had a talk with Tara. “I'm beginning to think that it's just me who
wanted to do this, that it's not God's plan for us,” I said, referring to my foundation work.

“What makes you say that?”

“I feel as if I am trying to control it, and I don't want to. Where is God in all of this? I need a sign from Him that this is what He wants and that He's still in charge. I'm just not seeing it.”

Tara tried to comfort me, but she didn't have any answers either.

On my drive to Judy's office, Pauline Stein called. She was the friend who'd held the first Taylor's Gift fund-raiser in her backyard. She was a close adviser to the foundation and an even closer friend. As we talked, I could feel my anxiety and tension building. I was short with her, and I knew she heard it.

“You sound stressed. Are you?” she asked.

“On a scale of one to ten, I'm about an eleven hundred,” I said.

“Tell me what you're stressed about.”

So, I unloaded on her. I told her I had a lot of self-doubt. I was worried about the finances. Donations hadn't been coming in to the foundation like we'd hoped, and there were a lot of expenses. “I'm not even sure I'm doing what God wants anymore.”

Pauline comforted me with words of affirmation and then prayed for me. Our conversation helped me be in a better place. Her call meant a lot. She reminded me I wasn't alone in this.

I arrived on time for my appointment with Judy and filled her in on my day. “But I felt a little better after talking to Pauline,” I said.

“Why is that?”

“She reminded me of why I started this in the first place and that this was God's work, not mine, which He's proven so many times.” Even as Pauline had said it, I knew God could prove it again.

Judy gave me some great advice about taking care of myself and being patient when I didn't see results right away. I knew she was right. I hadn't been eating or sleeping well, and I rarely exercised anymore. By the time I left her office, I felt as if there were some things I could do to help improve my mood. But I wasn't sure
there was anything I could do to improve my situation. Only God could do that.

At the end of the day, I thought about stopping by a local restaurant and bar owned by friends who had done a lot to support the foundation. It was the Coppell watering hole and the center for local politics and conversation. But as I got in the car, I felt a strong compulsion to go straight home, so I did. When I arrived, Tara met me at the door with a smile on her face. “You're never going to believe what just happened.”

She told me that while I was out, a boy Taylor's age had come to the door and asked for me. When she told him I wasn't home, he handed her an envelope and asked her to give it to me.

“He said it was an anonymous donation and his mom wanted him to give it to you,” Tara said.

She looked for a car and didn't see one, so she asked him to write his mom's name and phone number on the envelope so we could call and thank her. And then he left.

Tara handed me the note from the envelope. It was short and basically said, “We see all the sacrifices you're making, and we appreciate all that you're doing. Keep going.”

“That was nice,” I said to Tara. It was so encouraging and just what I needed after the day I'd had.

With an even broader smile on her face, Tara handed me the check that accompanied the note. The first thing I noticed was that it was not a donation for the foundation; it was for us personally. I burst into tears when I read the amount.

The check was for
nine thousand dollars
.

I was stunned at the generosity and timing of the gift. It was as if God Himself had written the cashier's check and handed it to me personally. I looked at the check for more clues as to the donor and noticed it was dated
two days
earlier.

The whole time I had doubted, God already had a check prepared. Of course.
Who was I to ask God for a sign?

How great He was to give me one anyway.

Tara

With only a few days left in February, I was dreading the month of March, but something happened to change all that. I was in the living room when I got a phone call from Eleanor, my sorority sister from college. She now lived in Pacific Palisades, and we hadn't talked in a while, so I picked up the phone eager to see how she was doing.

“I know this is a long shot,” she said, “but I have tickets for
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
coming up, and I was wondering if you could come out and go with me?”

“Are you kidding?” I asked.

“No, I bid on these VIP tickets at my kid's school auction last year, and I just never had the chance to use them. I called today, and they said the only day they have VIP seating available is on March 8.”

“That's, like, ten days from now . . .”

“I know it's crazy, but I'd love for you to come with me if you can.”

“I would love to! Let me talk to Todd and get back to you.”

I was a little concerned about whether or not I should take off and go. March 8 was exactly one week before the anniversary of Taylor's death—a day neither Todd nor I were looking forward to. In addition, we had a lot going on with the foundation and I had started to play a bigger role in things. Did it make sense for me to be gone with all of this going on?

But when I spoke to Todd, he didn't have any reservations. “You should go have a girls' trip with Eleanor. You deserve to have fun,” he said.

“Are you sure?”

“Why not? You get to have a great time with your friend, and as a bonus you get to see the show too. I'll take care of the kids,” he added. “Let's just figure out how to get you out there. Hopefully, we can get a cheap ticket.”

I called Eleanor back and said, “It's a go! I'm just not sure how I will get there, yet. Todd is looking for a cheap ticket.”

“I've already taken care of it,” Eleanor said.

I was surprised, but I shouldn't have been. That was just like Eleanor.

“Wow! Thank you!” I managed to say, grateful and relieved. “I can't wait to see you again.”

A couple of days later, I debated whether or not to call Ellen DeGeneres's producer; I still had her number because we'd talked to her several times in the fall. They were interested in our story but couldn't make the timing work. So if I told her I'd be in the audience, I just hoped she'd be able to give Ellen a copy of Taylor's poem. I decided to give it a try and picked up the phone.