Taylor's Gift by Tara Storch Page A

please heal her. Please let there be signs of life,” I prayed as I crawled into bed with her again. I slowly stroked her face. “Please, baby, you’ve got to show the doctors they’re wrong.”

9 Signs of Life
    Tara
    At 7:00 a.m., the medical technicians arrived to wheel Taylor down for her CT scan. Todd, Bill, and I prayed the entire time she was gone. At 7:30, the technicians wheeled her back in and told us we’d know the results soon.
    We thought that meant 8:00.
    But 9:00 came and went, and so did 10:00. By 11:00, we still hadn’t heard a word. Bill walked back and forth to the nurses’ station, checking to see if they’d heard anything from the doctor. Bill had the neurosurgeon’s cell phone number, but he didn’t want to use it—he knew she’d get back to us when she could. Todd alternated between sitting in the chair, holding Taylor’s foot and talking to her, and pacing the room. I stayed as close to her as possible, lying in bed with her or just holding her hand and talking to her. I was still dealing with nausea, but there was nothing left in my stomach to throw up.
    By 11:30, none of us could wait any longer. Bill picked up the phone and called Dr. Pemblee. “I hate to bug you,” he said, “but the CT scan has been done, and we’re all on pins and needles waitingto see what the next step is.” Bill listened attentively as she spoke, and then looked at me and raised his eyebrows.
    â€œWhat did she say?” I asked when he finished the call.
    â€œShe’s just down the hall. I’m going to meet her so I can look at the scans.”
    It was such a blessing to have Bill with us. He would think of questions to ask and tests to run that we wouldn’t even know about, much less consider. My heart started racing in anticipation of finally getting the news we’d been waiting so long to hear, but my stomach churned at the thought that it could be bad news.
    Before he left, Bill paused in the doorway and turned to look first at me and then at Todd. “The two of you should have a conversation about organ donation, just in case.”

    Bill and I are extremely close and always have been. In pictures from our youth, Bill was always the one holding me. As soon as he walked back into the room after speaking with Dr. Pemblee, I knew.
    â€œYou have to tell me,” I said. “You have to!” But he didn’t have to. I saw his face, looked deep into his eyes, and I knew. “That’s it, isn’t it? There’s no hope, is there?” I buried my head in my hands and began to weep. Todd was in his chair at the far end of the bed, weeping too.
    Dr. Pemblee’s cold exterior seemed to have melted a bit as she followed Bill into the room. With red-rimmed eyes, she simply said, “We didn’t see anything to indicate brain activity.”
    â€œAre you sure? Isn’t there anything you can do?” I pleaded.
    She shook her head. “I’m so sorry,” she said, wiping away a tear. “There’s nothing more we can do.”
    â€œSo, what’s next?” Todd asked.
    â€œWell, one small part of her brain looks like it still could have a small blood supply,” Dr. Pemblee began. “To officially pronounce her brain-dead, we’ll have to repeat the scans until that blood supply dies off.”
    â€œHow many days are we talking about?” Bill asked.
    â€œIt could be one or two days, or it could be as much as a week.”
    â€œWe can’t do this,” Bill said. “I know there has to be another way.”
    â€œWell, there is. We can take her off the ventilator and see if she breathes on her own. We could do a couple of other tests at her bedside to see if she has any involuntary response, which, from the scans, we know she won’t. But we can use those tests to rule out any possibility.”
    â€œLet’s do that. They don’t need to sit around here