A Short Walk Home (15 page)

This is something I’ve never understood: why would God heal one person, but allow another to continue on a painful path? The God I believe in is universal; He is not going to sit in Heaven, playing favorites.

Logan had reached the point medically where his body was already beginning to reject the nutrition provided to him. As I understand this, this is a very painful process. And the one thing Jaymee and I had agreed on from day one was that we would do our best to eliminate Logan’s pain, at all costs. No matter what that meant, we were committed to doing it.

What I did not know at the time was that, just after Jaymee had hung up on Logan’s “doctor,” she’d received a call from my mother. She was currently with my dad at the nursing home across town. Jaymee related to Mom what had been said, starting a chain of events that would resolve our problem, even as I took Logan’s caretaker to task for his negligence.

While my mother spoke with Jaymee, a nurse working at my father’s care facility was in the room. She couldn’t help but to overhear their exchange. When Mom and Jaymee were finished
speaking, the nurse excused herself. A few minutes later she came back and told my mother that, after hearing Logan’s situation, she had spoken with the administrator of the care facility. The decision had already been made: Logan was to be allowed to become a resident there.

Jaymee was floored. They had never taken a pediatrics patient before; Logan was their first. All the same, they did have the ability to care for him, and what’s more, would comply with our wishes. The following day, Logan was loaded up and brought to the new care facility. A part of Jaymee was torn, as the day-to-day staff at Logan’s facility had grown to love our little boy; you could see that in the tender way they cared for him. And while that was nice for us, and provided the level of confidence we needed, we had no choice. The well-being of our son, and doing what was best for him, mattered most.

Logan got settled into his new place easily. The nursing staff was very direct and straightforward about all that they would offer. We felt good about the change; it was clear that they really did care. My father was there as well, at the opposite end of the hall. Dad was sent home soon after, but for that short period, we had the best of both worlds—the chance to see and be with Logan and my dad at the same time.

Just after Logan arrived at his new facility, I had a chance to speak with the doctor we’d chosen to be his attending physician. Mike was the partner of the man who’d been my physician since I was 9. My mother sat near him at church every Sunday. I knew him, I trusted him, and I admired his abilities as a physician. He let us know that he would be there to help us get through the worst of it. I had no doubt that this was true.

One evening, Jaymee got the call. Logan was throwing up. I told her to go to him, quickly; I would handle putting Brennan to bed. Brennan had seen Logan that afternoon; he never realized that he wouldn’t see him again. According to his therapist, we were supposed to make things as normal as possible for him. But what the hell
is
normal, anyway?

Jaymee was gone for almost four hours. When she got home, she looked drained. She was spent. Logan had stopped tolerating the food they were putting in his tube. My instincts, and my knowledge of previous cases like this, had told me that this would happen. The next morning I spoke with Mike. He confirmed what I already knew: our options were few. His doctors could try a new nutritional solution, hoping to find one his body would tolerate, while running the risk of the same thing happening; or, they could put him on Gatorade (so that he had enough electrolytes) and water (so that he was hydrated).

Our discussion on this subject didn’t take long. Jaymee had already experienced Logan’s agony when throwing up. We saw no reason to attempt to extend things by placing him on a different nutritional regimen.

Three days later, Logan stopped tolerating the Gatorade. His body could no longer handle it. Reduced to just water, I could feel everything the doctors had told us, all their predictions as to Logan’s condition, coming to fruition. It was all happening exactly the way they had described. All Jaymee and I could do was cling tighter to one another. We had to; we both knew that the end was near.

One Wednesday morning, we dropped Brennan off at school and went in to see Logan. We had already made arrangements
with one of his classmate’s mothers to ensure that Brennan had something to do after school. Brennan loved playdates, so he was thrilled. But Jaymee and I knew that this day would be different. We just knew it.

We spent the morning by Logan’s bedside; talking to him, hugging him, and loving him. I got calls from Marty and John, and updated them on what was happening. Later on that morning, I received a call from Coach Steve Kragthorpe, a former head coach I’d been introduced to by friends we’d made when we lived in Tulsa. At the time, Steve was working as the quarterback coach at LSU. Steve had been diagnosed with Parkinson’s disease several weeks after starting work as quarterback coach; we’d met through a mutual friend who had wanted me to help Steve understand that his diagnosis did not spell the end of everything. Steve and I spoke that day about Logan, specifically; I will always remember his call, and the way it helped to ground me and give me a few minutes of calm and clarity.

It had already been a maddening day; I could see a desperation on Jaymee’s face that was indescribable. We were both asking the same questions. How do you let go? How do you say goodbye? At one point, we spoke about somehow letting him know that it was all right to “let go.” I had already been praying that God would bring peace. Peace for Logan, as well as Jaymee, Brennan, and me. For anyone and everyone who loved and cared for us. Peace was what we all needed, and an end to the craziness we were immersed in.

During the early afternoon, our pastor and a few members of his staff stopped by. We spoke about the pending plans for Logan’s memorial, but they were primarily there for support. In the middle of our conversation, the nurse caring for Logan stepped in. She explained that, while she did not intend to interrupt us,
she needed us to know that Logan had entered the “active phase” of death. Medically speaking, the “active phase” of death refers to a state in which the patient is beyond recovery, and expected to pass within the next 72 hours.

We said a quick goodbye to our visitors, as the part of me that makes plans took over. “Honey,” I began, “We need to go get Brennan. He and I will go home. You need to come back and be with Logan.” Not knowing how long the active stage would last, I thought it was important that Jaymee be here without interruption. “Just, give me 10 minutes to say goodbye to Logan,” I went on. “When I get home, Brennan and I’ll order Chinese food, and have a guy’s night.” I looked her in the eye. “I will not let on to Brennan about what’s going on.”

Once in Logan’s room, I sat next to his bed and put my hand in his. I told him that I loved him. That it had been a privilege to be his father. I thanked him for allowing me to love him and his mom, and that I was sorry for everything he had been through. Although I knew he couldn’t technically hear me by this point, I knew we connected, and that every word went exactly where it needed to. I did not say goodbye, as I knew that we would meet again. For now, I was content with the knowledge that he knew I loved and cared for him. And that for a long time I had wanted nothing more than what was best for him. I promised to protect Jaymee and Brennan. That our time here together would be well spent. I then leaned down and kissed him on the cheek, saying, “See you.”

I was nervous as I picked up Brennan. I wasn’t sure exactly what I would have to say to him about his brother. But my son was too smart for any dissembling. After all, we had explained to him just a few days ago that, in the week that Logan passed, things might be a little different. That Jaymee might spend the night
with Logan. That we might order takeout, another oddity for us.

“Is my brother going to die this week?” Brennan asked the question as straight-faced as I had ever seen him.

“That might be possible, sweetie.” I did not want to lie to him.

“Well, Dad, it’s all right if he lets go. God will protect him from now on. I know it.” For a kid who had just turned 5, he came across as wise beyond his years.

Once we got home, Jaymee quickly took a shower and changed clothes. “I didn’t feel right,” she said. No other words were needed. She then proceeded to call my mother. Mom wanted to be there for Logan, and for Jaymee. Brennan and I had dinner, took a bath, and watched a movie. He maintained calm. But even as we were beginning to say prayers, Brennan knew. Somehow, he just knew.

“Dad, it’s going to be all right. Logan will be an angel soon, and he’ll be watching over us.” This kid never ceased to amaze me. At that moment, I felt so blessed to be his dad.

After Brennan went to bed, I lay down in our bedroom and tried to watch television. Nothing I did really mattered at this point. I couldn’t focus on anything.

At 10:35
P.M.
, the phone rang. I answered it. The display said it was Jaymee’s phone.

“He’s gone.”

At the time, I had no idea that it was my mother, and not Jaymee, at the other end of the phone. I began to cry, even as I hung up. I didn’t call anyone to let them know. I couldn’t; there were no words that fit.

A few hours later, I heard the garage door open. Jaymee pulled in, seemed to take a minute or two to regain her composure, and entered the house. When she walked into the bedroom, I motioned her toward me. She sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped
her arms around me, and we embraced for what felt like days. Our tears flowed, but with them came all of our happy memories of Logan, full force. He was finally gone, but he would live within us for the rest of our lives. As we held one another and cried, the words, “I heard his heart beat for the last time” were whispered into my ear. After hearing that, there were no more words.

The following morning, I busied myself with plans for Logan’s memorial. A few people suggested that we wait until after the weekend to celebrate his life, but we decided very quickly that it needed to be sooner, not later. The strange thing was, for the previous 31 months, life had been about Logan. The morning after he was gone, life felt like it was only about Jaymee—at least for me. She needed the attention at this point, and I planned to make sure she got it. Those asked to attend the service were only those whom both Jaymee and I had a relationship with. I saw no point in opening things up to people who only knew me, or my family, without having ever met Logan or Jaymee. It just didn’t feel right.

About midway through my day, I received an email from John Besh’s assistant (and sister-in-law), Kim, asking me about how many people we had invited to the memorial. I responded with the number, curious as to why she’d asked. Her response surprised me; John had called her that morning to say that he was hosting a reception for our family at La Provence (one of his restaurants) which was located about 15 minutes from the church. He did not want us to have to host things at home and go to all that trouble. His offer is something I will always treasure.

Later that evening, I got a call from Jodi. Jodi and I had known one another for many years. Her son Sam was friends with Brennan; they played together on occasion, and enjoyed their time
together. The week before, Jodi had mentioned that she and her husband, Keith, another solid friend, would take Brennan for a night after Logan passed away. This would give me and Jaymee the opportunity to be alone; to grieve together, and compose ourselves. Jodi arrived at our house on Friday, the night before the memorial, and picked up Brennan. The little guy was ecstatic to have his first sleepover, and off they went.

Meanwhile, Jaymee and I mulled around the house trying to keep busy. I cooked dinner. She wasn’t hungry. We made small talk, discussing this and that; nothing of much importance. Finally, we went into the bedroom, and lay down next to one another.

“I am so sorry, baby.” My words barely made it through my tears. I was bawling like a baby.

“Sorry for what?” Jaymee was only a bit more composed than me.

“For taking you for granted every day for the past two and a half years.” But I was surprised out of my sobbing by her sudden laughter.

“And what the hell are you laughing at?” I was more than curious.

“David, if you think for a second that I have not taken you for granted just as much as you have me, you are out of your mind.” Her frankness startled me. “Honey, we have taken each other for granted because we didn’t have any other
choice
. We had to; otherwise, there would be nothing left of us by now.”

I thought of all the families I had dealt with through my work with ALD, all the ones that did not manage to stay together. We were exceptions. In an oddly methodical manner, we
had
overcome the odds. Here we were, on the other side of life’s greatest disruption, and we were still in love. In fact, I felt more in love with Jaymee that night than I had since the day we were
married. What’s more, I respected her in a new way that I had no previous concept of. She was my girl. That wasn’t going to change for any reason.

Jaymee and I held one another all night. We cried, laughed, and shared. As she gently faded to sleep that night, I stayed awake another 45 minutes, just watching her. Wondering to myself, how did I become the most fortunate man live? It is a question that I still cannot answer. My life has been far from what most would consider ideal. There have been challenges aplenty, as well as obstacles and hardships along the way. Yet through it all, I have maintained myself with a steadfast attitude that has allowed joy to flow into my heart. Jaymee and I are intertwined in a way that lets us live our lives the way it was meant for us. It’s not a question of the right way or the wrong way; it’s just our way. And no other way will do.

Two days after Logan’s memorial, Jaymee was visiting with my dad. She had recovered beautifully after the service, explaining to me that my mother and father needed her.