Taylor's Gift (30 page)

When the producer answered, I said, “I'm not sure you'll remember me. But my name is Tara Storch, and we discussed my daughter and Taylor's Gift, the foundation we started in her honor—”

“Oh, my gosh. Yes, I remember you,” she said. “How are you?”

We chatted briefly, and then I said, “I'm going to be in your audience on March 8, and I would love to meet you in person while I'm there.”

“Of course! Let me give you my cell phone number. When you get here, you'll be standing in a long line. Just text me, and I'll come down and say hi to you while you're in line.”

I thanked her, and we hung up. I thought about Taylor and her poem. I wished she could be there with me.
Taylor, honey, I haven't forgotten. I may not get you on the show, baby, but I'll be in the audience, and I'll do what I can to share your story.

Later that night I texted Dina, the friend and volunteer who handled all of the media for Taylor's Gift. I told her I was going to be in the audience of Ellen's show on March 8.

Dina texted me back a single question: “When did Taylor turn in her ‘I Am' poem?”

I thought about it a moment and remembered it was the Monday before we'd left on spring break. I wanted to be sure, so I checked a calendar before I texted her back.

“March 8. Of course!”

A
SHLEY
Z
OLLER
S
OUTH
D
AKOTA

Dueene was terrified while Ashley was in surgery. With doctors cutting her daughter's eye she feared something would go wrong. If anything happened to Ashley, she didn't know what she would do.

When Ashley woke up from surgery, Dueene was by her side. She watched Ashley look around the room, and waited to see if she noticed a difference in her vision. When Ashley finally looked at Dueene, she simply said, “I need to go to Texas.”

Dueene smiled. Obviously, the anesthesia was still affecting her. Dueene brushed the hair out of her daughter's face.

“You have beautiful eyes, Mom,” Ashley said.

“Thanks. Can you see them better now?”

“Yeah, you used to look like a ghost. Your face was white, and you had dark circles where your eyes should be.”

Dueene smiled. She could tell the surgery had been a success.

The next morning, the doctor handed Ashley a card with varying type sizes.

“What do you see?” he asked.

“I can see the really small letters now. I couldn't see them before.”

It was another indication the transplant had been a success.

Dueene knew things had really changed when, a few days later, they were both back at JD's Pizza, their family-owned restaurant. A customer asked Ashley, “What was the first thing you saw when you woke up from surgery?”

Ashley thought for a moment and said, “When I looked at my mom I thought, ‘Wow, she's a cool mom.'” That was a special moment. Ashley had never said anything like that before. It was such a difference from her angry outbursts in the restaurant before her surgery. The words meant a lot to Dueene, and she treasured them.

Though the surgery was successful, the recovery was rugged. It would take eighteen months for Ashley to fully regain her stamina, and she endured a lot of pain during that time. But as the pain gradually lessened, Dueene noticed that Ashley's personality softened. She was more likely to ask for a hug than to start a fight.

Dueene noticed other differences in Ashley too. Though she was still obsessed with monster trucks, and cake, she was now also obsessed with Texas.

“When can I go to Texas?” she'd ask several times a day. “I want to go to Texas.”

“You don't know anybody in Texas, I don't know anybody there, so why do you want to go to Texas?” Dueene asked her repeatedly.

But there wasn't an answer. Ashley just kept saying, “I just want to go.”

Dueene found Ashley's constant talk about it amusing; it was just one more personality quirk that made her daughter unique.

One day, Dueene got an envelope from Ashley's doctor. Inside was information on her daughter's cornea donor—a teenage girl
named Taylor. In the letter, Taylor's mother described how her beautiful daughter had died in a tragic skiing accident. She said Taylor was a caretaker who always looked out for the special needs students at her school.

Students like Ashley
, Dueene thought. Then she read that the family lived in a suburb of Dallas.
Was this why
Ashley wanted to go to Texas so badly?

It was too much to absorb. Dueene couldn't imagine life without Ashley. Now another mom was living without her daughter, and that daughter had donated her cornea so Ashley could see. It was heart-wrenching to think about what the donor family had been through.

Dueene wanted to reach out, but what would she say and how would she say it? She tried to explain it to Ashley, but Ashley couldn't grasp the concept that a girl had died, and that because of her death Ashley now had her cornea.

Dueene knew it was far too confusing for Ashley to make sense of it. It was too overwhelming for Dueene. She cried on and off for a week and then tried not to think about it.

Tara

When we got to the studio, I texted Kara, the producer, and told her I was outside. I held two Taylor's Gift T-shirts. I'd rolled and tied each one with a blue ribbon and attached a silicone foundation bracelet to each bundle. I'd also enclosed an envelope that contained a handwritten card, pictures of our family, and Taylor's “I Am” poem. I hoped to give them to her and Ellen.

I quickly got a reply: “I'll come find you in line.”

The outside of the studio was exactly as Kara had described—a massive line with hundreds of people in it.

“Tara?”

I looked up. It was Kara. She introduced herself and gave me a quick hug. I introduced her to Eleanor, and we chatted for a few minutes. Then I said to Kara, “It's not a coincidence that I'm in the audience today. Exactly one year ago today, Taylor turned in that poem saying she wanted to be on the show.”

“A year ago
today
?” Kara asked in disbelief. “Wow. That's not random.”

We chatted a few more minutes before she thanked me for coming and said she had to get back to work.

“Here's a shirt for you and one for Ellen. If you have a chance, please give it to her,” I said as I handed her the gifts.

“I'll give it to her after the show,” Kara promised. “The show will start around four. Hopefully, I'll see you before, but if not, I'll come say hi afterward.”

We checked in, and a woman guided us to our seats.

“That's such a pretty turquoise sweater you're wearing, we're going to sit you right here,” she said, pointing to the aisle seat in the front row. I knew the look of the audience was important for a show, but I doubted it was my sweater that nabbed us the front row. “I'll bet Kara got us these great seats,” I whispered to Eleanor as she sat down beside me.

It felt surreal to be inside the studio. All I could think was how much Taylor would have loved being there with me, and I started to tear up.

Then music started playing and the lights began flashing. The energy in the room picked up as the show began taping. “I've got to stop crying,” I told Eleanor. “I want Todd and the kids to see me in the audience, but they'll never show me on TV like this. There's no crying at
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
, for goodness' sake,” I joked.

I knew I was at this once-in-a-lifetime event because of my daughter. I also knew Taylor would want me to enjoy the moment, so I resolved to relish the experience to its fullest. But it would be a struggle. Happiness, for me, was ever elusive.

The music swelled, and then Ellen appeared. Unbelievably, she looked directly at me, gave me a sweet smile, and pointed to her right wrist.

She's wearing the Taylor's Gift bracelet!

My hands flew to my face to cover my tears. I couldn't believe it. Kara had said she would give it to her after the show, but she was already wearing the bracelet! The music increased in volume, and Ellen started dancing in the aisles.

“Here she comes,” I told Eleanor.

She danced into the audience and stopped in front of me, grabbed my shoulders, and said, “I got your note. I want to talk to you later. I read the poem and Taylor sounds like an amazing girl.”

“Thank you,” I said, hugging her. “Thank you for the laughter you've brought into our house.”

Still dancing, she smiled at me and said, “You're doing good.”

Then she danced away and continued to move through the audience.

It's hard to explain what I felt in that moment. Relief, certainly. So many things we'd done had been for the foundation, to increase organ donation registration across the United States, but this was something I'd done for
my daughter
. It had always been a dream of Taylor's to be on Ellen's show, and now she had done it. It was a personal celebration for Taylor.

We did it, baby! We did it! You're finally here!

The energy in the room was high, and with the music pumping and the lights flashing, it took me a few minutes to figure out exactly what I was feeling. But as I relaxed in my seat to enjoy the show, I recognized an old, familiar feeling I hadn't felt in a long time.

Joy.

As the show entered its final segment, Ellen sat alone on the set. After the last commercial break, she said, “I recently found out we have someone special in our audience today. Tara Storch, will you join me on stage?”

Did she just say my name?
I was stunned.

I stood up and started to tremble
. This is it. This is the moment
, I thought as I steadied myself. The day had now gone from being
about Taylor to being an incredible opportunity to tell people about our foundation and educate them about organ donation—and I was petrified. I hated talking to large groups, and now I would be talking to millions of viewers. I knew I'd done it on
The
Today Show
, but Todd had been with me then. This time I would be all alone. One slipup and the opportunity would be gone.

Please, God, don't let me stumble as I speak.

I made it onto the stage and sat down in the chair, and Ellen clipped a microphone on me and gave me a sweet pat on my arm. I said another quick prayer and took a deep breath. When I took that breath, a sense of calm washed over me.
You can do this
, I heard inside my head. Somehow, I knew I could. I felt warm and loved, as if the Holy Spirit had enveloped me in His peace. I sat back in the chair and readied myself for whatever came next.

Ellen briefly introduced our story and talked about Taylor's poem and how much it had touched her. She then asked me about Taylor's Gift.

When I told her that Taylor had turned in the poem this very day, a year ago, Ellen got choked up. Miraculously, I held it together long enough to read the poem, and even smile at the line where Taylor said she wanted to be on
The Ellen DeGeneres Show
. As I read, I saw photos of Taylor on the monitors in front of me. When I finished, Ellen said, “What an amazing, amazing girl.” Then she told the national audience she was putting the poem and the link to the foundation on her website.

In the final seconds, I had the presence of mind to say that just because someone agreed to be an organ donor on their driver's license didn't mean they were on their state's list. I reminded Ellen and the audience how important it was to double-check and that they could do it through our website.

When the show ended, Eleanor and I were able to visit with Ellen backstage. She was friendly and warm, and we didn't feel rushed. She talked with us and said she felt a special connection with Taylor's story and wanted to stay in touch. It was an
unbelievable day. I'd helped make one of my daughter's dreams come true.

God had orchestrated this day in His own time. It was both a personal acknowledgment of Taylor and a public acknowledgment of our work at the foundation. But more than anything, it was a public example of Romans 8:28 and how everything works for good for those who love the Lord.

One of the lines in Taylor's poem was, “I say with pride that I'm a Christian,” and now she had said it to a national audience from the set of her favorite talk show. The things she stood for, and the things she put in writing, were now made public in her death in a way they never could have been in her life.

Only God could have done it that way.

Of course.

Todd

We knew that spring break would be hard. Weeks before it happened, everyone around us was already talking about their plans and asking about ours. We couldn't afford a big trip, but we wanted to do something. We had been tiptoeing around the upcoming anniversary and trying not to talk about it, but finally Tara and I decided we needed to get it out in the open. A couple of weeks out, we took the kids for ice cream and asked them to make a list of ten places they wanted to go during their week off.

Tara and Peyton planned a couple of girls' days, while Ryan and I would do guy stuff. We all wanted to go to the zoo as a family, and we talked about going ziplining.

Though we had a plan, we weren't excited about it. Tara and I would have preferred to ignore the whole thing, but we did our best to be enthusiastic and fully present for the kids' sakes. They deserved that much and more.

On March 14, Tara and I were home alone. Both kids were at friends' houses. About 3:30, I stopped what I was doing and got
up from my office to find Tara. She was already on her way down the hall to meet me.

“You know, this is about the time it happened,” I said.

“I know,” she said, and we hugged and cried.

But the moment didn't take us out. Taylor's life had ended, but Ryan's and Peyton's hadn't. Neither had ours—whether we liked it or not. After we cried, we pulled ourselves together, packed a few things, and when the kids got home we left for Wimberley, Texas, to go ziplining. And it was good. We had time in the car together as a family, time away from home, and the opportunity to make new memories doing something we'd never done before.

While we were in the hotel, I had a conference call with our creative agency. They wanted to unveil the new public service announcements they had just finished.

While the commercials were downloading, I asked Tara and the kids if they would rather leave or if they wanted to be a part of it. They all wanted to stay.

As the call started and the commercials played, I watched how my family engaged with the creative team. Everyone loved the work that had been done so far, and the kids were really into it. Ryan offered a couple of suggestions.

“I think you should change that,” he said, pointing out one creative element he didn't like and including what he thought it should be.

The team responded enthusiastically, “That's a fantastic idea.”

“I think the color isn't quite right,” Peyton said.

“No, you're right, and we'll fix that,” they agreed.

I marveled at how involved the kids were and how they also had something to contribute. Early on, they weren't always so supportive—it was too painful for them, while they were dealing with their own pain. Now, months later, as I watched the kids interacting with the creative team over the computer, it was especially sweet to see Peyton noticing little details and wanting to have input. The foundation had truly become a part of the family.

The pain was still there. The loss still hurt. But we were all steadier now. We could talk about Taylor, or the foundation, without it sweeping us out to sea emotionally. In those times when our emotions did sweep us away, we recovered and found our footing much more quickly than we had in the past. As a family, we stood together in the ocean of grief, holding on through the swells and doing our best to keep each other afloat. It wasn't always easy, but it was a beautiful thing to see.

And I thanked God for it.

Over the past year we'd suffered great loss, but we'd also gained some things. Our marriage was now stronger than it had ever been, and so was our faith. We had a deeper connection with each other and with God. While the three recipients we'd connected with certainly didn't replace Taylor, the hope for their futures replaced the despair we had in Taylor's death. Being an organ donor was Taylor's gift to them, but it was also her gift to us.