Taylor's Gift (3 page)

During Taylor's first year of middle school, Todd and Tara received an unexpected call. When the phone rang, Tara was making
dinner, Todd was in his home office working, and Peyton and Ryan were in their rooms. The caller ID said the call was from Coppell Middle School East. Taylor was there, at volleyball practice, so Tara immediately grabbed the phone.

It was Springer.

“I need to talk to you about Taylor,” she said. “She did something I think you and Todd should know about.”

From the tone of her voice, Tara knew it was something serious, so as she listened, she walked down the hall to Todd's office and motioned for him to listen in. He picked up the other receiver in time to hear Springer say, “. . . the boy had his pants down, and before I knew what was happening, Taylor jumped up and closed the door so no one would see.”

“She did what?” Todd asked, unable to comprehend what he'd just heard.

Tara and Springer laughed as they realized what Todd had missed, and Springer began the story again.

“When Taylor and her friends left band a couple of weeks ago, one of the special needs boys was using the bathroom directly across the hall from the band room,” Springer began.

Todd looked at Tara, confusion in his eyes, but she just smiled and motioned for him to keep listening as Springer continued.

“He had forgotten to close the door, so when Taylor and her friends left the band room, they could see the boy in the bathroom with his pants down. Some of the kids stood there and laughed at him.”

“Oh, that's terrible!” Todd said.

“Well, it was. Except that Taylor sprang into action. Instead of laughing with them, she jumped up and closed the door, so the boy would have his privacy.”

Todd exhaled. This was much better than what he'd thought he'd heard.

“I was coming down the hall,” Springer said, “and Taylor stopped me and told me what happened. I thanked her and said, ‘You were
looking out for someone who really needed looking out for. Good job, Taylor.' But that wasn't good enough for her.”

Springer described how Taylor peppered her with questions as the conversation continued.

“Why are all these kids down here?” Taylor asked, referring to the isolated hallway far from the rest of the school.

“Well, baby, that's just where the room—” Springer tried to answer, but Taylor interrupted.

“But why are they separated from the rest of us? They should be with us.”

Springer attempted to explain. “There are a couple of kids who strip down and run around naked before we can stop them.”

“Yeah, but I bet if they're in the middle of the school, they wouldn't do that,” Taylor said.

“That got me thinking,” Springer said to Todd and Tara, “so I decided to do something about it.” Though the incident had happened a few weeks prior, Springer told them where she'd been earlier that day. “I just got back from a campus leadership team meeting where I told them about Taylor's suggestion. I got them to agree. We're moving the special ed kids to the middle of the school, thanks to Taylor.”

Twins Allison and Emily Sunshine were two of Taylor's best friends. Matt and Beth Sunshine, the twins' parents, had been good friends with Todd and Tara since before the girls were born. The three girls were only six weeks apart in age, and the families had only grown closer as the girls grew. Though the Sunshine family lived in Plano, about twenty minutes away from the Storch home in Coppell, the families managed to spend almost every weekend and most holidays together. On New Year's Eve they would even have T-shirts made, combining both family names into one—“The Suntorch family.”

In the car with both families, on the way home from a very long Fourth of July, Tara suggested a stop at Starbucks.

“Yeah! We're going to Starbucks,” Taylor said. “I'm going to get a crap-a-chino!”

“What did you say?” Tara asked. Her friends were puzzled too.

“A crap-a-chino, everybody wants to get crap-a-chinos.”

“Do you mean a
Frappuccino
?”

The whole car burst into laughter, and Taylor joined them. “I always thought they were crap-a-chinos.” Taylor was never one to let a good joke pass, even if it was on her. She had the self-confidence and poise to laugh at herself often.

When the families got together, Taylor, along with Allison and Emily, would lip-synch to music, write and act out skits, and make movie trailers for their favorite books, recording them on video. They called themselves AET Productions.

But even when her friends were over, Taylor always included Ryan and Peyton in what she was doing. For one video, Taylor cajoled her brother into dressing up in girls' clothes, promising that when she put it on YouTube, “No one would see it.”

The video currently has more than two thousand views.

Taylor was always aware that Peyton and Ryan were watching. She took her role as a big sister seriously, and therefore picked her friends carefully. It was as if she were handpicking her girlfriends to be older sisters to her younger siblings. Taylor seemed to have a wisdom and maturity beyond her years.

Other parents noticed.

They would ask Todd and Tara how they had done it. But the Storches never had a good answer. They'd talk about how their parenting was an outpouring of their faith, or how Taylor was putting into practice the things she was learning at church and youth group. They'd tell parents how they always tried to be open with their kids and how there was a lot of laughter in their home.

But how did they tell them that their teenage daughter still wanted to snuggle with her dad while watching TV? That while other girls pulled away from their mothers, Taylor said that Tara was her best friend? Or that while most teens couldn't wait to hang
out with their friends, Taylor still wanted to hang out with her brother and sister? The Storches were blessed, and they knew it.

They had a five-piece puzzle and everything fit perfectly.

The Storches were looking forward to their ski trip. It would be their first family vacation without the Sunshines since anyone in the Suntorch family could remember.

On Thursday night, March 11, 2010, while Todd got the car ready and Tara finished packing, Taylor worked on the “many things” she had due before spring break. One of those things was an autobiographical website. On Monday of that week, Taylor had turned in a poem she wrote as part of that project, and now she was finishing the other pieces. The next afternoon, she turned the rest of the project into Mr. Bush, her language arts teacher, and checked it off her list.

The poem she had turned in on Monday, March 8, read:

I Am

by Taylor

I am outgoing and friendly.

I wonder how long is forever.

I hear support from my family whenever I need it.

I see myself helping people in every way I can.

I want to be on the Ellen DeGeneres show.

I am outgoing and friendly.

I pretend I can do anything I want to.

I feel touched by the generosity of my sister.

I touch people's lives.

I worry about failing.

I cry at the thought of losing a member of my family.

I am outgoing and friendly.

I understand how to make people feel happy.

I say with pride that I am a Christian.

I dream about becoming a teacher.

I try to make every day like my last.

I hope to become successful in life.

I am outgoing and friendly.

Later that Friday, with everything checked off her list, she got in the car with her family and they drove to Vail, Colorado.

They knew it was going to be a trip of a lifetime.

J
EFF
K
ARTUS
C
OLORADO

Before he left the house, Jeff and his wife, Vanessa, argued, and she told him not to go. “Your blood sugar is too low; you shouldn't be driving!” she insisted. But when Jeff was in
that
mood, often caused by hypoglycemia (low blood sugar), he wouldn't listen. And that day, the consequences were extreme.

Just blocks from their house, Jeff blacked out behind the wheel of his pickup truck, had a seizure, and lost control of the vehicle. With his foot still on the gas, the truck hit the median and shot into the air. It flipped across oncoming traffic until it rolled headlong into the front yard of a house, where a tree stopped its wild rampage. Broken glass littered the street and the truck was mangled beyond recognition. Witnesses called 911.

At home, Vanessa heard the sirens and cussed. She picked up her cell phone and tried to call Jeff. “Come on, answer the phone!”

But there was no answer.

She grabbed her shoes and car keys, then tried once more.

Still no answer.

She flung open her car door, threw the phone on the front seat, and started the car. Backing out of the driveway, she headed the same direction Jeff had just minutes earlier—the same direction the sirens were coming from. Vanessa had no doubt in her mind that Jeff had been in another car accident. The only question that remained was whether this would be the one that killed him, someone else, or both.

A longtime diabetic, Jeff had a history of blacking out, often at the most inopportune times. He'd blacked out in the bathroom multiple times, resulting in several concussions. He'd blacked out in the field while supervising crews of natural gas construction workers and eventually was put on medical leave. He'd even blacked out at his insurance agent's office. A week later they'd received a letter saying their car insurance had been cancelled.

Over the years, Jeff's diabetes had gotten so bad his kidneys began to fail. His blood sugar level would drop so quickly and so far that he couldn't do anything to prevent the blackouts or the seizures that inevitably followed. Often, he'd just get “stuck” doing the last thing he was doing before his sugar dropped.

One afternoon, after running errands, Jeff backed his pickup into the garage. Unbeknownst to him, his sugar level was already dropping to a dangerously low level. After the bumper hit the rear wall of the garage, Jeff kept applying pressure to the gas pedal. With the truck bed being lighter than the cab, the truck climbed the wall a bit, and the wheels began to spin. By now, Jeff was completely out of it, his hands frozen to the wheel. Unable to comprehend why the truck wasn't working right, he pressed harder on the gas.

The engine revved and the tires began to overheat and then smoke. A neighbor noticed and called the police. Dispatchers put the call out over the emergency radio system, and a friend who worked for the local sheriff's department recognized the address and knew it was Jeff. He also knew Jeff's condition. Immediately, he called his dispatcher and requested an ambulance.

“It's a medical emergency,” he told them.

By the time the emergency personnel arrived, thick black smoke was pouring out of the garage and the tires had worn down to shreds. Melted rubber oozed from underneath the truck and spread across the garage, the smell permeating the entire neighborhood. Rescue personnel pulled Jeff out from behind the wheel and dragged him outside to safety before cutting the engine. They confirmed and then treated his low blood sugar. Ambulance drivers tried to coax Jeff to go to the hospital, but he wouldn't listen. Instead, as he often did in these situations, he became combative. Friends in the sheriff's department called Vanessa at her job at the local elementary school. She came home and tried to talk to him. But it didn't matter. He refused to listen. With his lips pursed together, he became unreachable.

Since his diabetes had worsened, everyone tried to tell him what to do and how to take care of it. But Jeff was stubborn. He was a man's man, a modern cowboy who didn't want to be told what to do, even if it was in his own best interest.

Unfortunately, his deteriorating health meant Vanessa had to be with him at all times. She did her best to make him breakfast, or remind him to eat, but even with her there, if he didn't want to eat, he wouldn't. Jeff was the kind of guy who made up his own mind.

It was quickly becoming one of the few things he still had control over.

Jeff liked helping people. It made him feel good. When he was in elementary school, he thought it would be nice to help the elderly, and he started with the lady next door. As he grew, Jeff helped the neighbors by sweeping or shoveling their walks, or doing other chores around the neighborhood. No one told him he had to, and he didn't want money for his work, but he loved it when people noticed and appreciated his efforts. He was a good kid who always respected authority and never got in any trouble.

For as long as he could remember, Jeff had wanted to be a police officer. That kind of position would give him endless opportunities to help others and to gain the respect he hadn't always gotten at home. After graduating from high school, he had called the local police department to inquire about joining the force.

“Have you graduated from high school, son?” the recruiting officer had asked.

“Yes, sir. I just finished.”

“Well, then come on in and fill out the paperwork.”

“Yes, sir! But I want you to know I am diabetic.” Jeff had integrity, and he wanted to make sure they knew about his disease. He'd been diagnosed two years earlier, even though he'd been having problems with his blood sugar for a couple of years prior to that. As soon as he had been diagnosed, they had put him on insulin, and he'd been on it since. He would be for the rest of his life.

“Aw, I'm sorry, son. You can't be a diabetic and be on the police force,” the officer had said.

Crushed, Jeff had made more calls. To other police departments, to the state patrol, and to the sheriff's department. The answer was the same—they weren't hiring diabetics.

For a proud cowboy who just wanted to serve, the blow was severe and lasting. Jeff not only felt he wasn't good enough but also now felt different from everyone around him. When his mom told him the diabetes was his fault, that he hadn't gotten it from her, the cut was complete. Made to feel different and unwanted, Jeff felt as though his life was over before it started.

His dad got him a job driving cars for the executives at Excel Energy. Eventually, he moved into oil and gas construction. Because they couldn't move heavy equipment onto a homeowner's lawn, his crew was often required to dig ditches by hand. Early on, Jeff knew when his blood sugar was dropping, and he would take a break to get some food or a drink. But over the years, his blood sugar began to drop uncontrollably and without warning. Numerous times, Jeff blacked out and had seizures in the field, and his co-workers ended
up having to call an ambulance. Finally, the company couldn't put up with the potential liability. Though Jeff had done his best for the company, had cracked and dry hands from the manual labor, and had deep tan lines etched in his face from more than thirty years in the sun, he no longer had a job. They placed him on disability.

To Jeff, this was just one more example of how useless and unwanted he was. Though his health was failing, the psychological toll and assault to his identity as a provider for his family were much, much worse.

In 2008, Jeff's doctor told him he needed dialysis. But once the leathered cowboy heard the news he said, “No way,” and turned his boots around and left. As Jeff often said, “I'll be good as long as I stay busy; it's the stopping that kills you.” He knew dialysis would take away what little freedom he had left.

At home, before he could even take off his jean jacket, Vanessa announced, “You're getting dialysis.”

Jeff tried to argue, but Vanessa insisted. “The doctor just called, and without dialysis, you have less than six months to live.”

Reluctantly, Jeff agreed. But it was only a temporary solution. Jeff needed a transplant, and in 2009 he went on the list. Family members were tested to see if they were a match, but they weren't. A new kidney and pancreas would have to come from a stranger.

In the beginning, Jeff called the doctor's office every couple of days until someone finally explained it could take
years
before a match would come up. The waiting list was long, and he was relatively new. But it was his only hope.

As Vanessa raced to follow the sirens, she prayed.

Jeff's truck had come to a stop in her co-worker's lawn. Vanessa knew it was bad. His truck had left the main street and rolled through a backyard to the front of a house located on another
street, where it had hit a tree. Vanessa ran across the street, her heart pumping, to see if Jeff was still alive.

Please be breathing.

A local officer from the sheriff's department recognized her from the many calls he'd made to their house. “It's his wife,” he told the officers restraining her, and they let her go. She could see that Jeff was still breathing, but paramedics didn't have much time to talk. She watched as they cautiously braced his neck. It didn't look good.

At the hospital, Jeff was put on a ventilator. He had broken both the C-6 and C-7 vertebrae, and questions arose as to whether he'd ever walk again. But once again, Jeff pulled through. This time his recovery was more difficult. He lay in the hospital for a month, and then they wanted to release him to a rehab center.

Jeff was relieved to hear that Vanessa would have none of that. She took him home and cared for him herself.