"Remember Red, hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies."
-Stephen King, Rita Hayworth and the Shawshank Redemption
I'll never forget October 10, 2014. that was the day we were told that Peyton was going to die. A CAT scan had revealed that his brain was dying, and that it was not a question of "if", but "when". At least we knew what was going to happen. It crushed my soul beyond comprehension, but now the out come was determined. I knew plans and decisions would have to be made. At least one of them would be easy. Peyton's organs would be donated.
The idea had first been presented to me by my friend Jeff. I didn't want to think about it until I had to, but now that the time was upon me, I knew it was the right thing to do. I approached Peyton's mother, and we talked about the appropriate course of action. Something positive would have to come of this tragedy, and giving others a chance at life seemed like the best course of action.
When the time came, we donated Peyton's heart, lungs, kidneys, liver, pancreas, and corneas. All in all, 8 people received transplants from Peyton, including an 8 month old baby that received part of his liver, a seven year old girl that received one of his corneas, and a 17 year old boy that received his heart. I cried as I read the notices from the Lions Eye Bank and the Texas Organ Sharing Alliance (TOSA) because I knew that not only was Peyton living on, but the right decision had been made.
Following protocol, I sent letters to every recipient. It is a complicated process because it goes through the donor organization, to the transplant center to the recipient. We were told that we may never hear from any of the recipients, but I still hoped and prayed that I would.
Day after day, I followed the same routine, stopping by the mailbox on the way home and anxiously checking the mail, but I never received a thing. I held no ill will against the recipients. The road to a recovery after a transplant is long, painful and difficult. Many feel remorse because it took some one's death to give them life, not every transplant takes, and unfortunately, the transplant may not be enough to save that person's life.
I eventually resigned myself to never knowing who the recipients are, but praying every day that they were well. All of that changed forever on the morning of Friday, September 25, 2015. When my alarm from my phone went off at 4:50 to get ready to head out for swim practice, I rolled over, grabbed the phone, turned off the alarm, and scrolled through the messages on the screen. One of them froze me. It was from a woman named Leslie to me on Facebook and stated:
Hello, my name is Leslie...I am mom to Carmel---7yr old recipient of 1 of your sons cornea's. I wanted you to know we have recieved your letter and we will be responding soon. I wanted to wish you and your family a Marry Christmas and to say THANK YOU (I can be long-winded and these words sum up my thoughts).
I was dumfounded, especially when I saw the date on the message, December 24, 2014, this past Christmas Eve. How was it, nine months and a day later, I was receiving this message? Then I remembered that the night before, I had accepted a friend request from Leslie. I really though nothing of it because I get and make friend requests through some of the Survivors groups I belong to. I had learned that if you are not friends, any message you send will go to the person's "Other" box. Now that we were FB friends, the message came through.
I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and read it again and again. Now things made sense, including getting two small, handmade stuffed animals in the mail back in May. They were from Leslie and Carmel. I thought perhaps some one had sent them to me to donate to the Ronald McDonald House. I even posted on Facebook asking if any one knew anything about them. Just on a hunch, I decided to keep them, and lo and behold, y wish had been granted. I had heard from a recipient. I messaged Leslie back with my phone number, asking her to call me during my conference period at ten. I then found both of the stuffed animals, and sobbing, woke up Lisa to tel her the news before heading out the door to work.
As I arrived at the natatorium, Leslie messaged my back saying she would call. Knowing she was up, I messaged her back asking if she could call me then and there. When she said yes, I went into the coaches office, grabbed a wad of toilet paper and waited for the phone in my trembling hand to ring.
When Leslie called, we talked about how her message had been delayed, the mystery of the stuffed animals, and the grueling process her and Carmel went through for the transplant. We also talked about how hard it was to reach out as a recipient. She had read Peyton's story, and wasn't sure if she should, and had struggled with the decision. When her message went unanswered, she thought we were reluctant to respond and left us alone. One day, she was at a craft store, and Carmel picked out a kit to make a little stuffed dog. Leslie remembered that Peyton loved dogs, so she sent the dog and a little stuffed hamster, Carmel's favorite, to us, but having not received the first message made the gift a mystery. Now I knew who they were from, and now I also knew I would never let them go.
Fianlly, I asked how Carmel was doing with the transplant. There was a long pause before Leslie told me the transplant didn't work. Complications from previous surgeries had damaged the donated cornea. Carmel had another cornea transplant, and finally a full transplant since then, but she was now doing well, and the prospects for the transplant were good. It was what she said next that started the tears streaming down my cheeks. Before they had received that call about Peyton's cornea, Leslie and Carmel had all but given up hope. "Peyton gave us hope," Leslie told me. I choked back tears and thanked her. The message that she had sent Christmas Eve had now become my belated Christmas present. Knowing that we had made the right choice. Peyton hadn't given Carmel sight, but he had given her and Leslie something just as important, hope.
I now plan to send another round of letters to the other recipients. Maybe enough time has passed that they feel up to it. Even if it didn't work out, I know that they, and their families, at least received something almost as important as life, and that is hope.
Sunday, September 27, 2015
Sunday, September 20, 2015
Who is Peyton James, and Why Should You Care?
Peyton Andrew James was born on June 16, 2001 at St. Joseph's Hospital in Houston, TX. He was two months premature and weighed slightly more than two pounds. His parents, David and Jacki James were both in their mid 30's when Peyton was born, and both were educated, middle class Americans. Both worked as teachers and tried to instill their love of learning in Peyton.
Peyton spent his early years in a three bedroom house in Tomball, a suburban bedroom community north of Houston. He had his fair share of childhood illnesses including but not limited to ear infections, strep throat, and the flu. At the age of four, his parents divorced. At five, he started school and earned good marks; he learned to read and write; he learned to add, subtract, multiply and divide; he learned to say the pledge of allegiance; he learned about mammals, reptiles and fish; he learned about pilgrims and Indians; he learned how cruel kids can be to a boy with red hair and glasses; he learned that differences cold set you apart for harassment and torment.
After fourth grade, Peyton and his mother moved to Round Rock, a suburb of Austin. There Peyton learned to deal with seeing his father less; he learned to make new friends; he learned new places to play and ride his bike; he learned that despite having moved 160 miles away from his old school, problems such as bullying and name calling had managed to follow him.
Peyton left behind elementary school for middle school. Unfortunately, his problems followed. In fact, they got worse. As the students developed into cliques and groups, Peyton was left on the outide looking in. He wasn't athletic, so sports were out. He wasn't musically inclined, so band and choir were out. He possessed no real artistic ability, so that wasn't really an option either. Peyton had a flair for the dramatic, so he gave theater class a go, but found that it wasn't to his liking.
What Peyton found to his liking narrowed his social options considerably. He discovered his fondness for anime, Dr. Who, My Little Pony, video games and role playing games. He did make friends, but not many. They were loyal to each other, defended each other, played with each other and supported each other.
Before he entered 8th grade, Peyton and his mother moved to Georgetown, Texas. Once again, Peyton had a chance for a new start, and once again, the old problems followed him. One day, while sitting in the cafteria before school, Peyton committed the heinous crime of reading for pleasure. an observant student noticed this, and quickly confronted Peyton about his faux pas. So intent was this child on showing Peyton the error of his ways that he expanded the discussion to ridicule Peyton for his belief in God. A frustrated Peyton reported this harassment to school administration, but they were unable or unwilling to help him. That afternoon, Peyton went home, took his belt, and hung himself from his ceiling fan. Five days later, this action would claim his life.
That folks is Peyton James in a nutshell. Now the question remains, "Why should you care?"
That's easy because he was a human being. He was a relatively good kid that had his fair share of problems and bad breaks. He ended his life without warning or explanation. Most of all, because he could be anyone you know.
That's something I have learned over time. Suicide is non-discriminatory. The major cause of suicide is illness. Mental illness to be exact. Like most illnesses, It doesn't care about your age, your race, your gender, or your socioeconomic status. You can be the apple of your parents' eye, or the bane of their existence. You may be the captain of the football team, or the kid in all black that skulks through the hall. You may have clawed your way to the top of the ladder, or dwell at the bottom. You may even be the bully or the bullied. Just like cancer hits all, so does mental illness. But unlike cancer, no one is going to hold a bake sale to support your mental illness. You will be treated more like a leper than a victim.
So why should you care? Because it could happen to your friend, your classmate, your neighbor, your brother, your sister, your husband, your wife, your daughter or your son. If any of the above were to come to you and confide they had an illness that could be terminal, would you urge them to seek appropriate medical help? I would hope so. So if they confide to you that they were suffering from a form of mental illness, would you do the same?
Keep in mind that Peyton could be any one, any time, any place. That, is why you should care.
What Peyton found to his liking narrowed his social options considerably. He discovered his fondness for anime, Dr. Who, My Little Pony, video games and role playing games. He did make friends, but not many. They were loyal to each other, defended each other, played with each other and supported each other.
Before he entered 8th grade, Peyton and his mother moved to Georgetown, Texas. Once again, Peyton had a chance for a new start, and once again, the old problems followed him. One day, while sitting in the cafteria before school, Peyton committed the heinous crime of reading for pleasure. an observant student noticed this, and quickly confronted Peyton about his faux pas. So intent was this child on showing Peyton the error of his ways that he expanded the discussion to ridicule Peyton for his belief in God. A frustrated Peyton reported this harassment to school administration, but they were unable or unwilling to help him. That afternoon, Peyton went home, took his belt, and hung himself from his ceiling fan. Five days later, this action would claim his life.
That folks is Peyton James in a nutshell. Now the question remains, "Why should you care?"
That's easy because he was a human being. He was a relatively good kid that had his fair share of problems and bad breaks. He ended his life without warning or explanation. Most of all, because he could be anyone you know.
That's something I have learned over time. Suicide is non-discriminatory. The major cause of suicide is illness. Mental illness to be exact. Like most illnesses, It doesn't care about your age, your race, your gender, or your socioeconomic status. You can be the apple of your parents' eye, or the bane of their existence. You may be the captain of the football team, or the kid in all black that skulks through the hall. You may have clawed your way to the top of the ladder, or dwell at the bottom. You may even be the bully or the bullied. Just like cancer hits all, so does mental illness. But unlike cancer, no one is going to hold a bake sale to support your mental illness. You will be treated more like a leper than a victim.
So why should you care? Because it could happen to your friend, your classmate, your neighbor, your brother, your sister, your husband, your wife, your daughter or your son. If any of the above were to come to you and confide they had an illness that could be terminal, would you urge them to seek appropriate medical help? I would hope so. So if they confide to you that they were suffering from a form of mental illness, would you do the same?
Keep in mind that Peyton could be any one, any time, any place. That, is why you should care.
Sunday, September 13, 2015
And the Countdown Begins
It is hard to believe that today, September 13, 2015 marks 11 months since Peyton died.
Since his death, the Patriots won their 4th Super Bowl, the US lifted sanctions on Cuba, Donald Trump announced his run for the Presidency, the Avengers saved the Earth yet again, and the sun rose and fell over 300 times. Yet one thing remains the same, and that is the huge void that his death has left in my life, and the never ending pain that has become a constant. While the rest of the world has gone on, mine has come to a stand still.
Now I am faced with a new first, that anniversary of his death. I have read, and numerous people, who have been in my shoes, have told me that the anticipation is worse than the actual day itself. And while that may be true, I still have another month of anticipation to go, and for lack of a better term, it sucks.
Part of the problem is that the original numbness that came with the shock of his suicide attempt and subsequent death, has worn off. Now it is all an exposed nerve, and everything sets off a new wave of pain. Even as I sit here writing, I am fighting back tears. I have been told to think of positives whenever I think of the negatives, but even those bring me no comfort. I just keep realizing there will never be any more positives, and the beat goes on.
I launched #Products4Peyton, I immersed myself in the #PeytonHeartProject, and plan on captaining a team, Peyton's Heart, for the upcoming Out of the Darkness Walk to help raise money for suicide prevention, but none of that takes away the sting of Peyton's death. Don't get me wrong, I love knowing that I am helping out others, and hopefully, I have made a difference in some one's life, but it never seems to fill the void.
I think the worst part is that the world just keeps going. To me, and many in my shoes, that is the hardest thing to deal with. I see people driving in their cars without a care in the world, filling up stadiums to cheer on their teams, voting in elections across the country and around the world, and i want to scream. their lives get to keep going on. Their lives haven't come to a screaming stop. Their lives are full of the people that they love, and care for. To them, Peyton and 40,000 others in the US, 800,000 more around the world, are nothing more than a statistic they saw somewhere. It isn't their problem. And to me that is unacceptable.
They say that a suicide affects at least six people intimately. So for those 4.8 million suffering around the globe, I will spend the next month and beyond being a voice for you and your loved ones. I will speak out when I feel the need. I will inform and educate when it is called for. I will answer questions that may be ignored otherwise. Most of all, I will make sure that those that take their lives are not merely a statistic, and for those that are uncomfortable with the topic of suicide, I will continue to speak until there is no longer a need for me to speak.
Since his death, the Patriots won their 4th Super Bowl, the US lifted sanctions on Cuba, Donald Trump announced his run for the Presidency, the Avengers saved the Earth yet again, and the sun rose and fell over 300 times. Yet one thing remains the same, and that is the huge void that his death has left in my life, and the never ending pain that has become a constant. While the rest of the world has gone on, mine has come to a stand still.
Now I am faced with a new first, that anniversary of his death. I have read, and numerous people, who have been in my shoes, have told me that the anticipation is worse than the actual day itself. And while that may be true, I still have another month of anticipation to go, and for lack of a better term, it sucks.
Part of the problem is that the original numbness that came with the shock of his suicide attempt and subsequent death, has worn off. Now it is all an exposed nerve, and everything sets off a new wave of pain. Even as I sit here writing, I am fighting back tears. I have been told to think of positives whenever I think of the negatives, but even those bring me no comfort. I just keep realizing there will never be any more positives, and the beat goes on.
I launched #Products4Peyton, I immersed myself in the #PeytonHeartProject, and plan on captaining a team, Peyton's Heart, for the upcoming Out of the Darkness Walk to help raise money for suicide prevention, but none of that takes away the sting of Peyton's death. Don't get me wrong, I love knowing that I am helping out others, and hopefully, I have made a difference in some one's life, but it never seems to fill the void.
I think the worst part is that the world just keeps going. To me, and many in my shoes, that is the hardest thing to deal with. I see people driving in their cars without a care in the world, filling up stadiums to cheer on their teams, voting in elections across the country and around the world, and i want to scream. their lives get to keep going on. Their lives haven't come to a screaming stop. Their lives are full of the people that they love, and care for. To them, Peyton and 40,000 others in the US, 800,000 more around the world, are nothing more than a statistic they saw somewhere. It isn't their problem. And to me that is unacceptable.
They say that a suicide affects at least six people intimately. So for those 4.8 million suffering around the globe, I will spend the next month and beyond being a voice for you and your loved ones. I will speak out when I feel the need. I will inform and educate when it is called for. I will answer questions that may be ignored otherwise. Most of all, I will make sure that those that take their lives are not merely a statistic, and for those that are uncomfortable with the topic of suicide, I will continue to speak until there is no longer a need for me to speak.
Monday, September 7, 2015
The First Week of School Sucked
Last week, all across the great state of Texas, millions of students returned to school. Some went to suck up the knowledge being offered, others went to suck up lunch and socialize with their friends, and some even went to suck up oxygen. To greet these students, more than 300,000 teachers stood ready and waiting to feed hungry minds, hungry bellies, and help others satisfy conditions of probation or parole.
I am one of those teachers, and for me, the first week of school sucked. Not because we had to redo our entire curriculum because of changes to the SAT and PSAT. Not because we are forced to spend our conference period in meetings at least twice a week. Not because my pay raise amounted to $28 per month after yet another increase in the cost our insurance. Nope. All of that pales in comparison because this is the first start of school since Peyton took his life.
Peyton's mother and I have been divorced since he was 4. With the exception of Kindergarten (which I took off from work to attend), I have missed every first day of school. Although I wasn't there in person, I always received pictures and talked to him that night. Over the years, the conversation went from "I love my class," to "Its ok," to "ugh." There were always pictures of him with a smile on his face, his hair neatly combed, and a shirt with a collar.
This year, I spent the first day of school looking at other people's pictures of their kids with elaborate signs, dressed up in their best, standing with their siblings, even college kids with posts reading 16th grade, and I was jealous. I wanted to turn away, but I couldn't. Like sniffing the milk, even though you know it will be sour, I had to look. I looked back at the Time Hop picture on my phone, and there was the last picture ever of Peyton on the first day of school. He looked happy and ready to take on new challenges. If only I knew what would happen a month and a half later, I would have taken the day to go up to Georgetown, to have breakfast with him, to drive him to the school. If only.
Now I sit here wallowing in regret. I constantly think about all the "what if's" and "Woulda, shoulda, coulda's" It is truly painful. I look at all the freshmen running the halls of the school where I work. They are small, goofy, obnoxious, immature and frightened. Peyton would have been one this year, and I keep looking for his face in the crowd, but it is not to be. "Peyton is dead," as his little sister, Emmalee, says when asked where her brother is, and I have to face that every day. What I don't have to do is allow it to happen to another student. I will continue to make noise, to speak out, to make others uncomfortable, to remove stigma, to open dialogues, to keep Peyton's memory alive, and to not let him be just another statistic.
I am one of those teachers, and for me, the first week of school sucked. Not because we had to redo our entire curriculum because of changes to the SAT and PSAT. Not because we are forced to spend our conference period in meetings at least twice a week. Not because my pay raise amounted to $28 per month after yet another increase in the cost our insurance. Nope. All of that pales in comparison because this is the first start of school since Peyton took his life.
Peyton's mother and I have been divorced since he was 4. With the exception of Kindergarten (which I took off from work to attend), I have missed every first day of school. Although I wasn't there in person, I always received pictures and talked to him that night. Over the years, the conversation went from "I love my class," to "Its ok," to "ugh." There were always pictures of him with a smile on his face, his hair neatly combed, and a shirt with a collar.
This year, I spent the first day of school looking at other people's pictures of their kids with elaborate signs, dressed up in their best, standing with their siblings, even college kids with posts reading 16th grade, and I was jealous. I wanted to turn away, but I couldn't. Like sniffing the milk, even though you know it will be sour, I had to look. I looked back at the Time Hop picture on my phone, and there was the last picture ever of Peyton on the first day of school. He looked happy and ready to take on new challenges. If only I knew what would happen a month and a half later, I would have taken the day to go up to Georgetown, to have breakfast with him, to drive him to the school. If only.
Now I sit here wallowing in regret. I constantly think about all the "what if's" and "Woulda, shoulda, coulda's" It is truly painful. I look at all the freshmen running the halls of the school where I work. They are small, goofy, obnoxious, immature and frightened. Peyton would have been one this year, and I keep looking for his face in the crowd, but it is not to be. "Peyton is dead," as his little sister, Emmalee, says when asked where her brother is, and I have to face that every day. What I don't have to do is allow it to happen to another student. I will continue to make noise, to speak out, to make others uncomfortable, to remove stigma, to open dialogues, to keep Peyton's memory alive, and to not let him be just another statistic.
Monday, August 3, 2015
The Exquisite Pain of the Needle
Last week, I laid down on a table and grimaced in pain as local artist Lana Gooding etched yet another tribute to Peyton into my skin. This time, it was on the back of my right calf. This is the fourth such tattoo that Lana has done for me since Peyton's death. I chose these permanent reminders not only as a tribute to my son, but as a reminder to me that I need to stay strong, keep his memory alive, and most of all to help others, so that they never have to know the emotional pain that draws me to this physical pain.
Growing up, the only people I knew with Tattoos were the fathers of my friends. This was the early 70's, so most of these men had earned their ink while they served our country during Korea, Vietnam, and in one case, World War II. They told about getting them in far away places like Saigon, Tokyo, Seoul and Manila. The ink had faded over time, and Dads were somehwhat hesitant to tell us the full story behind the tattoo as it usually involved a large amount of local beverages leading to their decision.
Fast forward to high school and college. I knew a few people with tattoos, but they were the ones on the fringe, the ones whose butts wore grooves on the chairs in the principal's office, the wannabe musicians, the "artists" and what not. Tattoos themselves never seemed to be part of the mainstream, or accepted in society. Tattoo parlors were the domain of bikers and criminals, not respectable citizens.
Fast forward to the new millennium. Suddenly, tattoos were being accepted more and more. You could go to the local tattoo shop and find CPAs, teachers, and doctors getting inked alongside every one else. Tattoo artists were now being considered true artists, and their work being sought out. People would travel miles and save their money to have work done by a particular artist. Even reality TV started to see the attraction in this business and began not only to profile the artists, but to talk about the backstory behind many of the tattoos themselves. They talked about the meaning and memories that people were choosing to have forever etched into their skin.
I had the itch for many years to get a tattoo, but never did until I was 39. My first tattoo was the Longhorn emblem on my right ankle. Unfortunately, as I would later find out, orange ink fades faster than all others. Now there is nothing in the original spot.
A few years later, after being baptized, I got a cross with "2 Corinthians 5:17" on my left shoulder. It symbolized my rebirth as a Christian, but also a new me had been born. I wanted the tattoo, not only as a symbol of being reborn, but a reminder of who I had been, not wanting to ever be that person again.
My third was on the back of my right shoulder: a small cartoon Charlie Brown ghost with Peyton's birthday 6-16-01. I got it the same summer Peyton and his mother moved to Round Rock. I had always called Peyton "Boo", but I thought the comical aspect of the Charlie Brown ghost matched his personality.
Shortly after Peyton's death, I wanted to modify the ghost tattoo to memorialize him. My wife Lisa's hair stylist Brain introduced us to Lana. We had told Lana about what had happened, and what we wanted. We also sent her a picture of the current tattoo. When we arrived for our appointment, Lana had me show her the original. She took a sharpie, and drew a set of wings and a halo on it. They went perfectly with the tattoo. She then prepped the area and began to go to work. My God it hurt like hell, but in a strange way, there was something almost peaceful about it. As she put the ink in my skin, I almost felt a bond with Peyton. Maybe by feeling the physical pain, I was able to empathize with the emotional pain Peyton felt.
Since that time, Lana has done three more tattoos for me. Each one connects me to Peyton, and each one serves as a permanent reminder of the son I will never forget.
Growing up, the only people I knew with Tattoos were the fathers of my friends. This was the early 70's, so most of these men had earned their ink while they served our country during Korea, Vietnam, and in one case, World War II. They told about getting them in far away places like Saigon, Tokyo, Seoul and Manila. The ink had faded over time, and Dads were somehwhat hesitant to tell us the full story behind the tattoo as it usually involved a large amount of local beverages leading to their decision.
Fast forward to high school and college. I knew a few people with tattoos, but they were the ones on the fringe, the ones whose butts wore grooves on the chairs in the principal's office, the wannabe musicians, the "artists" and what not. Tattoos themselves never seemed to be part of the mainstream, or accepted in society. Tattoo parlors were the domain of bikers and criminals, not respectable citizens.
Fast forward to the new millennium. Suddenly, tattoos were being accepted more and more. You could go to the local tattoo shop and find CPAs, teachers, and doctors getting inked alongside every one else. Tattoo artists were now being considered true artists, and their work being sought out. People would travel miles and save their money to have work done by a particular artist. Even reality TV started to see the attraction in this business and began not only to profile the artists, but to talk about the backstory behind many of the tattoos themselves. They talked about the meaning and memories that people were choosing to have forever etched into their skin.
I had the itch for many years to get a tattoo, but never did until I was 39. My first tattoo was the Longhorn emblem on my right ankle. Unfortunately, as I would later find out, orange ink fades faster than all others. Now there is nothing in the original spot.
A few years later, after being baptized, I got a cross with "2 Corinthians 5:17" on my left shoulder. It symbolized my rebirth as a Christian, but also a new me had been born. I wanted the tattoo, not only as a symbol of being reborn, but a reminder of who I had been, not wanting to ever be that person again.
My third was on the back of my right shoulder: a small cartoon Charlie Brown ghost with Peyton's birthday 6-16-01. I got it the same summer Peyton and his mother moved to Round Rock. I had always called Peyton "Boo", but I thought the comical aspect of the Charlie Brown ghost matched his personality.
Shortly after Peyton's death, I wanted to modify the ghost tattoo to memorialize him. My wife Lisa's hair stylist Brain introduced us to Lana. We had told Lana about what had happened, and what we wanted. We also sent her a picture of the current tattoo. When we arrived for our appointment, Lana had me show her the original. She took a sharpie, and drew a set of wings and a halo on it. They went perfectly with the tattoo. She then prepped the area and began to go to work. My God it hurt like hell, but in a strange way, there was something almost peaceful about it. As she put the ink in my skin, I almost felt a bond with Peyton. Maybe by feeling the physical pain, I was able to empathize with the emotional pain Peyton felt.
Since that time, Lana has done three more tattoos for me. Each one connects me to Peyton, and each one serves as a permanent reminder of the son I will never forget.
Sunday, July 26, 2015
Angels In New Jersey
Triggers. For those of us that are combating grief, the term takes on a whole new meaning. These are the things that set off yet another crying jag, an ache in the heart, or just completely deflate us. We never know when they are going to come mainly because we have no idea what they will be. Anything from a song on the radio, a smell, a sound, or even seeing some one that resembles our departed love one.
For me, the most recent trigger came this past Thursday morning. I was in the living room scrolling through Facebook to kill time before I took Emmy to her swim lesson. I came across a picture that Peyton's mom had posted for #TBT. It was from one year ago while they were on vacation. There was nothing special about the picture, just Peyton with his hat pulled down low grinning his goofy grin at the camera. All of sudden i felt my chest tighten and my eyes water. Before I knew it, I was crying, and made no effort to stop. I pulled Emmy up on the couch with me and held on tight, but just couldn't seem to stop the tears. Finally after a few minutes, I was able to compose myself. I still had that hollow feeling in my chest as I went into my bedroom to get my wallet and keys. As I stood at my dresser, I looked on to the cedar chest sitting next to it. On top of the chest was what I needed to turn my mood around. It was an ordinary cardboard box, but it was what was inside of it that truly mattered. Dozens of knitted hearts that had been sent to me by my Angel from Jersey, Jill Kubin.
I have never met Jill Kubin. I have never talked on the phone with Jill or held any kind of conversation with her. I don't know what her favorite flavor of ice cream is. I don't know where or when she was born. I don't know where she grew up or where she went to school. In fact for some one that I call an angel, I know very little if anything about the woman, but it is what I do know about Jill Kubin that allows me to call her an angel.
The first time I ever heard the name Jill Kubin was in February of 2015. I had begun following a page on Facebook called The Sidewalk Smiles Campaign. I was trying to expand the reach of Products for Peyton was attempting to get in touch with any group or organization that I thought would help. The person behind Sidewalk Smiles is Julia Kubin, Jill's daughter. This amazing child had a brilliant idea. Her and her friends in the Town of Morristown, New Jersey would go and stand on street corners while holding signs with the simple sentence, "Your Are Beautiful" written on them. They would take their signs with them wherever they went spreading this simple message to as many as they could with the goal of stopping bullying and harassment. I introduced myself over Facebook and thanked her for what she was doing and told her about Peyton. Shortly there after, I heard from Jill for the first time. Jill messaged me and told me about her other daughter, Emily, and that Emily was involved with the Hats for Hope Initiative. Jill told me that they wanted to do a hat drive in Peyton's honor in order to bring attention to the consequences of bullying. I whole heartedly agreed, and over the course of the next few months, they began to collect knit hats for the homeless made by people from throughout the country. It seemed that every time I would log on to Facebook, there was another picture Emily had posted showing more and more hats that she had received. For the first time, I knew Peyton's message was getting out there, and more importantly, people cared enough to do something about it.
Jill's next idea is the reason I am working on this entry. It is called the #Peyton Heart Project. Jill originally came up with the idea of giving a knit heart to each of the incoming freshmen at the local high school so that every student would know some one cared about them. She asked me if she could name this after Peyton as well, and of course I agreed. What was originally a good idea became a great idea when her daughter Julia began leaving the hearts, each containing a small message, in various public places for find. The next thing I knew, people as far away as South Dakota and England were getting involved. They were either passing out hearts or knitting them, and word began to spread. Eventually, Jill sent me a box of these hearts to me so that I could leave them for people. I began to leave a few here and there, from the local mall to bookstores and restaurants. I never heard anything about any of the hearts I left, but was hoping they made it into the hands of someone that would truly love it.
As I said before, on Thursday, I was having a bad day. As I left to take Emmy to her swim lesson, I saw the box, and loaded up the pockets of my cargo shorts. I left a couple at the pool, and after her lesson, Emmy and I headed to the mall (July in Texas is indoor activity time) so Emmy could play on the play ground. As we went into various stores, I left the hearts where I hoped they would be found. That night, I had to run to the local Petsmart to get dog food. I left a few here and there in the store, and had one more in my pocket as I headed to my truck. Rather than take it home, I left it under the wiper of the car next to me. The next morning, Lisa was looking at Facebook and came to show me. The lady who had found the heart on her window had posted it on Facebook. Joy flooded my heart, and I knew that some one had been reached. She had actually hears about Peyton, and was now spreading the word. Once again, when I needed a jolt of inspiration, Jill Kubin had been the mastermind.
New Jersey takes more abuse than most states. It is a puncline, whipping boy and red headed step child all rolled into one. Some of the abuse may be well deserved (they did elect Chris Christie after all), other times it comes at the expense of a network choosing the worst possible representatives of the state and highlighting their lives (Jersey Shore any one?). However, I will say that Jersey doesn't always deserve the punches it take, and in the case of three angels, Jill, Julia and Emily Kubin, I know there are some damn good reasons to love the state.
I know I have probably left things out, and no matter what I say, it will never do justice to Jill, Julia and Emily, but I want to thank them from the bottom of my heart for all that they have done for me, my family, and most of all, the memory of Peyton.
For me, the most recent trigger came this past Thursday morning. I was in the living room scrolling through Facebook to kill time before I took Emmy to her swim lesson. I came across a picture that Peyton's mom had posted for #TBT. It was from one year ago while they were on vacation. There was nothing special about the picture, just Peyton with his hat pulled down low grinning his goofy grin at the camera. All of sudden i felt my chest tighten and my eyes water. Before I knew it, I was crying, and made no effort to stop. I pulled Emmy up on the couch with me and held on tight, but just couldn't seem to stop the tears. Finally after a few minutes, I was able to compose myself. I still had that hollow feeling in my chest as I went into my bedroom to get my wallet and keys. As I stood at my dresser, I looked on to the cedar chest sitting next to it. On top of the chest was what I needed to turn my mood around. It was an ordinary cardboard box, but it was what was inside of it that truly mattered. Dozens of knitted hearts that had been sent to me by my Angel from Jersey, Jill Kubin.
I have never met Jill Kubin. I have never talked on the phone with Jill or held any kind of conversation with her. I don't know what her favorite flavor of ice cream is. I don't know where or when she was born. I don't know where she grew up or where she went to school. In fact for some one that I call an angel, I know very little if anything about the woman, but it is what I do know about Jill Kubin that allows me to call her an angel.
The first time I ever heard the name Jill Kubin was in February of 2015. I had begun following a page on Facebook called The Sidewalk Smiles Campaign. I was trying to expand the reach of Products for Peyton was attempting to get in touch with any group or organization that I thought would help. The person behind Sidewalk Smiles is Julia Kubin, Jill's daughter. This amazing child had a brilliant idea. Her and her friends in the Town of Morristown, New Jersey would go and stand on street corners while holding signs with the simple sentence, "Your Are Beautiful" written on them. They would take their signs with them wherever they went spreading this simple message to as many as they could with the goal of stopping bullying and harassment. I introduced myself over Facebook and thanked her for what she was doing and told her about Peyton. Shortly there after, I heard from Jill for the first time. Jill messaged me and told me about her other daughter, Emily, and that Emily was involved with the Hats for Hope Initiative. Jill told me that they wanted to do a hat drive in Peyton's honor in order to bring attention to the consequences of bullying. I whole heartedly agreed, and over the course of the next few months, they began to collect knit hats for the homeless made by people from throughout the country. It seemed that every time I would log on to Facebook, there was another picture Emily had posted showing more and more hats that she had received. For the first time, I knew Peyton's message was getting out there, and more importantly, people cared enough to do something about it.
Jill's next idea is the reason I am working on this entry. It is called the #Peyton Heart Project. Jill originally came up with the idea of giving a knit heart to each of the incoming freshmen at the local high school so that every student would know some one cared about them. She asked me if she could name this after Peyton as well, and of course I agreed. What was originally a good idea became a great idea when her daughter Julia began leaving the hearts, each containing a small message, in various public places for find. The next thing I knew, people as far away as South Dakota and England were getting involved. They were either passing out hearts or knitting them, and word began to spread. Eventually, Jill sent me a box of these hearts to me so that I could leave them for people. I began to leave a few here and there, from the local mall to bookstores and restaurants. I never heard anything about any of the hearts I left, but was hoping they made it into the hands of someone that would truly love it.
As I said before, on Thursday, I was having a bad day. As I left to take Emmy to her swim lesson, I saw the box, and loaded up the pockets of my cargo shorts. I left a couple at the pool, and after her lesson, Emmy and I headed to the mall (July in Texas is indoor activity time) so Emmy could play on the play ground. As we went into various stores, I left the hearts where I hoped they would be found. That night, I had to run to the local Petsmart to get dog food. I left a few here and there in the store, and had one more in my pocket as I headed to my truck. Rather than take it home, I left it under the wiper of the car next to me. The next morning, Lisa was looking at Facebook and came to show me. The lady who had found the heart on her window had posted it on Facebook. Joy flooded my heart, and I knew that some one had been reached. She had actually hears about Peyton, and was now spreading the word. Once again, when I needed a jolt of inspiration, Jill Kubin had been the mastermind.
New Jersey takes more abuse than most states. It is a puncline, whipping boy and red headed step child all rolled into one. Some of the abuse may be well deserved (they did elect Chris Christie after all), other times it comes at the expense of a network choosing the worst possible representatives of the state and highlighting their lives (Jersey Shore any one?). However, I will say that Jersey doesn't always deserve the punches it take, and in the case of three angels, Jill, Julia and Emily Kubin, I know there are some damn good reasons to love the state.
I know I have probably left things out, and no matter what I say, it will never do justice to Jill, Julia and Emily, but I want to thank them from the bottom of my heart for all that they have done for me, my family, and most of all, the memory of Peyton.
Saturday, July 18, 2015
A Questionable Death
On Friday, July 10, 2015, a 28 year old woman was pulled over in Prarie View, Texas for failing to signal properly. According to witnesses and news reports, she was asked to extinguish a cigarette but refused. Words were exchanged, and the situation escalated. She was then taken to the ground and arrested for assault on a public servant. She was taken to the Waller county jail where she was working on posting her $500 bond. According to friends, she seemed to be in good spirits. However, at 9:00 AM Monday, July 13, the same young woman was found in her cell not breathing and unresponsive. Jail staff performed CPR, but it was too late, and she was pronounced dead. The cause given was self inflicted asphyxiation. According to a statement, a garbage bag was used by the woman and an autopsy by the Harris County Medical Examiner confirmed the cause of death. The woman's family is outraged saying that her death is suspicious. They claim that there is no way this woman would have committed. The Waller County District Attorney has begun an investigation and asked both the Texas Rangers and the FBI to investigate. If the facts com out that there was foul play, then all parties involved should be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law, but that is not why I am writing about this.
Over the course of the past week, this story has received a great deal of traction in the Houston area news, as well as national news and of course it has taken center stage on social media as well. There are racial undertones to the story, but that is not my focus here. Instead, I want to examine the reaction of the public to suicide, and how their actions showed how far we, as a society, must go in order to understand mental illness and the motivations of a person to complete suicide.
In March, this young woman posted a Youtube video saying that she had been dealing with some depression and PTSD. I empathized with her. I have dealt with the same thing after Peyton's suicide. However, the reaction of people from her friends to people on social media showed how little others understand. I have heard and read everything from "That was in March, she would have been better by now, " to "Depression goes away, so it couldn't have been that" to "She probably had a bad day and thought she was depressed." My reactions to these statements ranged anywhere from bewilderment to wanting to climb into the TV, grab the person by the collar, slap them around while yelling, "You are part of the problem!!!! Shut up and educate yourself. " This is what is wrong when it comes to mental health, a total and complete misunderstanding, as well as a plethora of misinformation surrounding it.
Depression is not something you get over, nor does it go away like the common cold, and who knows better if they are depressed than the depressed person. As an adult, I knew that my depression was more than just a bad day, and I am sure this woman did as well. Depression is an illness, much the same as cancer, and like many illnesses, it doesn't just "go away". and just like you would never tell a cancer patient to get over it, or that it is all in their head, the same goes for some one suffering from depression.
The other aspect was the subject of her suicide, and the lack of understanding by the public. Once aging, I cringed in horror at the statements people made. Apparently the woman had moved from Chicago to Prairie View to begin a new job and start her life again, so people said there was no way she would have killed herself because she had a new job, or because she was a spiritual person, because she always seemed positive, the list is endless. In the end, there is no telling what the trigger was, if in fact she did kill herself. I can speculate, but I don't know. I am sure that spending three days in any jail is not good for the psyche of any person. Being charged with a felony can endanger a job, the looming court battles ahead, who knows? Others have stated that she never said she was suicidal when they booked her into jail. Once again, three days lone in a jail cell for a person that is suffering from depression can change things. In addition, I spoke to a nurse that works in a hospital ER that receives more than it's fair share of patients that are brought in after an arrest. She has had several lie to her about being suicidal in order to have the opportunity to attempt suicide. Most people that plan on taking their own lives do not broadcast it. Most won't tell people because they don't want to be stopped. Some are even able to put on a smile and lie straight to your face right up until the point that they follow through on their plans.
If the death of this young woman was in fact a suicide, then let us hope that it turns into a teachable moment. Perhaps her death will not be in vain if others can learn from it. To the woman her self, I just want to say, Rest in Peace.
Over the course of the past week, this story has received a great deal of traction in the Houston area news, as well as national news and of course it has taken center stage on social media as well. There are racial undertones to the story, but that is not my focus here. Instead, I want to examine the reaction of the public to suicide, and how their actions showed how far we, as a society, must go in order to understand mental illness and the motivations of a person to complete suicide.
In March, this young woman posted a Youtube video saying that she had been dealing with some depression and PTSD. I empathized with her. I have dealt with the same thing after Peyton's suicide. However, the reaction of people from her friends to people on social media showed how little others understand. I have heard and read everything from "That was in March, she would have been better by now, " to "Depression goes away, so it couldn't have been that" to "She probably had a bad day and thought she was depressed." My reactions to these statements ranged anywhere from bewilderment to wanting to climb into the TV, grab the person by the collar, slap them around while yelling, "You are part of the problem!!!! Shut up and educate yourself. " This is what is wrong when it comes to mental health, a total and complete misunderstanding, as well as a plethora of misinformation surrounding it.
Depression is not something you get over, nor does it go away like the common cold, and who knows better if they are depressed than the depressed person. As an adult, I knew that my depression was more than just a bad day, and I am sure this woman did as well. Depression is an illness, much the same as cancer, and like many illnesses, it doesn't just "go away". and just like you would never tell a cancer patient to get over it, or that it is all in their head, the same goes for some one suffering from depression.
The other aspect was the subject of her suicide, and the lack of understanding by the public. Once aging, I cringed in horror at the statements people made. Apparently the woman had moved from Chicago to Prairie View to begin a new job and start her life again, so people said there was no way she would have killed herself because she had a new job, or because she was a spiritual person, because she always seemed positive, the list is endless. In the end, there is no telling what the trigger was, if in fact she did kill herself. I can speculate, but I don't know. I am sure that spending three days in any jail is not good for the psyche of any person. Being charged with a felony can endanger a job, the looming court battles ahead, who knows? Others have stated that she never said she was suicidal when they booked her into jail. Once again, three days lone in a jail cell for a person that is suffering from depression can change things. In addition, I spoke to a nurse that works in a hospital ER that receives more than it's fair share of patients that are brought in after an arrest. She has had several lie to her about being suicidal in order to have the opportunity to attempt suicide. Most people that plan on taking their own lives do not broadcast it. Most won't tell people because they don't want to be stopped. Some are even able to put on a smile and lie straight to your face right up until the point that they follow through on their plans.
If the death of this young woman was in fact a suicide, then let us hope that it turns into a teachable moment. Perhaps her death will not be in vain if others can learn from it. To the woman her self, I just want to say, Rest in Peace.
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