Daydreams & Diaries

by Taylor Black

  Jeff and I are going strong although I get the distinct feeling that his family disapproves. But he has been incredibly sweet lately and he is an irreplaceable part of my support system. I don’t know exactly where we go from here. But I am definitely dreading my prison time in Durham because I know it will be upon me soon enough. Gia & Karly got an apartment & when I get there in Aug. I’ll have to share a room w/Karly until Jan. I just keep looking forward to a time when the imperative thing on my mind will be studying for a mid-term.

  Chapter Twenty-One: Katie Couric’s Sister

  I have never met the newswoman, Katie Couric, and she certainly wouldn’t know me from Adam, but as I sat here reading ACS College Scholarship Winner Enrolls in Life 101 with Taylor’s graduation picture smiling out at me, I was reminded of two small coincidences that involved Katie Couric.

  On September 11, 2001 when we were attacked by Osama Bin Laden, Sara Wilcox, the Martin County Superintendent of Schools, sent out an edict that all television sets were to be turned off. Coverage of the attack would cease. My country was under attack and Wilcox cut the cable connection. To say that she was a twit, is to insult twits. If she had been around on December 7th, 1941 she probably would have pulled the plug on Pearl Harbor reports on the radio if it hadn’t been a Sunday and there was no school.

  My high school kids couldn’t find out what was going on. The next day I wrote a complaining letter to the Stuart News and within a week Sara Wilcox was talking to Katie Couric on The Today Show, trying to explain why she cut the cable to high school students during 9/11. Sara didn’t do too well as I recall, from watching a videotape which was the South Fork High School equivalent of America’s Funniest Videos. Poor Sara had been sandbagged by the cable-cutting question and had the look of a Ph.D. caught in the headlights of reality and prattled on about high school homecoming or some other banality. Taylor, at UCF, called me after the broadcast to say that Katie Couric quoted my letter to the editor.

  “Did she mention my name?” I asked Taylor, my vanity aroused.

  “No, Dad, she just said ‘a teacher’ and I knew it was you.”

  “How?”

  “She used the word ‘coddled’ and I knew that could only be you. Who else used the word ‘coddled,’” she teased.

  True, I realized, I was just the type of teacher nerd to use an SAT vocabulary word anytime I could.

  So it seems I had a part in making the school superintendent a fool in the eyes of the nation, and I was, at that moment, one of the strongest proponents for keeping teacher tenure, but as I reread the article about Taylor in the American Cancer Society newsletter, I recalled that in the same issue, the on-line magazine had mentioned the death of Katie Couric’s sister.

  There were pieces of the article about Taylor which sounded like conversations I had had with my daughter. How often had she told me a variant of:

  Cancer changes you for the rest of your life. The little things don’t bother you anymore and you get the beauty of every second that we have here. The importance of every day.

  There were also portions of the article that would be phrases she would use at a speech at Disneyworld. Mom, you’re overreacting! and This can’t be true. This happens to other people—not to me!

  And there were references of her going off to the University of Central Florida in spite of her brain cancer. I didn’t let my parents protect me too much. I didn’t want to sit in bed; I wanted to do as much as I could. That was something I had to teach my folks.

  It was, I thought, she had to teach us that. And then there was the inference to boyfriend Jeff. She didn’t think he would be the kind of guy to suffer through looking at a bald head and watching her throw up.

  But that’s the thing, Taylor said in the article. People rise to the occasion and surprise you. And Jeff had replied, “whatever you’re going through, I want to go through it with you.” He even wants me to keep my bald head when my hair grows out.

  I had forgotten that about Jeff. Frankly I had forgotten the entire ACS article which is still on the internet (ACS College Scholarship Winner Enrolls in Life 101) and I had forgotten the coincidences with Katie Couric, who is now the anchor of CBS Evening News and still wouldn’t know me from Adam.

  Taylor’s Diary

  April 2, 2001

  So I went home this weekend (from Gainesville). Karly & Charlie picked me up on Fr. afternoon. I got a ride home w/Otis’s cousin Pearl (Otis was sister Beth’s boyfriend and future husband). Her mom died of breast cancer when she was young. It was one of those situations where you meet someone by fate who brings something to light and then passes on through. She and I had a very enlightening conversation, and although I can’t put a finger on what she gave me, it is definitely there. I spoke w/her about everything. It seems that every person w/whom I share this experience draws out a different aspect of the situation. So when I share different parts w/different people I am able to deal w/it and work through it piece by piece rather than sharing all of the overwhelming, indescribable emotions @ once. It’s kind of like a dam, only a certain amount is dispersed @ at a time otherwise there would be a flash flood. Courtney, among others, seems to think that I don’t talk much about how I feel about the situation, but what can you possibly say? It is beyond words. I have been so beat lately. I took a 6 ½ hr. nap today and I’m still tired. So w/that I bid you adieu.

  Dad’s Diary

  April 4, 2001

  I stood in for Taylor at Scholarship Night at Martin County High School since she returned to Gainesville this morning for radiation treatment. I even had my picture taken with the high school seniors as I “won” two scholarships.

  I just wished Taylor could have been there tonight, but she was thrilled when I called her and told her the good news. To both of us, it is a sign of hope for the future.

  Taylor’s Diary

  April 5, 2001

  Last night I won 2 scholarships. Nina Haven which is $2000 yr/4 yrs. And Clementine Zacke Foundation for $2500/4yr. So, as you may have guessed I have a load off my mind now. Maybe now my life can start getting back on track hopefully.

  Mom called today and said I have to do another round of chemo which I’m really against. Really, what is the purpose of suffering through that gagging when it didn’t get past the blood brain barrier in the 1st place. Other than that my life is the same monotonous routine of doctors and hospitals. I’m so sick of everything. I am ready to get my life back again. I just kept thinking of everyone. I know Martin County starts Spring Break tomorrow and everyone is going to the Keys or Europe or somewhere. But where will I be on my Spring Break of my senior year? Getting zapped in the head @ Shands Hospital. I can hardly contain my excitement. Today is just one of those days where the light @ the end of the tunnel seems miles and miles away.

  A solitary tear slides down my cheek on its journey to the ocean,

  Following a trail gallantly forged by its predecessors,

  It keeps in constant motion, the night is dark and cold,

  A coolness on my cheek, it numbs my whole insides

  And begs me not to speak.

  Gravity takes a toll and pulls with all its might

  Yanks me from my hold into the day’s sunlight.

  Chapter Twenty-Two: Two Sisters

  My little Florence Nightingale, a vision dressed in white

  She comes when she hears my cries, and consoles me through the night.

  She tries so hard, to keep up that smile,

  Unknowing I’m aware:

  The walls are thin in this home, you see

  And nothing is ever kept from me,

  No drying tears or hiding fears.

  I came across Taylor’s poem about her sister Courtney the other day and I remembered what Courtney had said to me after Taylor’s first brain surgery, as we walked hand in hand along a hospital corridor.

  “She’s my best friend, Dad.”

  Not just a sister, but a best friend. And Courtney was Taylor’s nurse in a big way, having
dropped out for a semester at the University of Florida to drive Taylor to daily radiation treatments at Shands Hospital. She also served as Taylor’s defender when CBS wanted to reschedule taping a radiation treatment at Shands that would have delayed a visit home past Good Friday. Like Taylor’s favorite heroine, Katie Scarlett O ‘Hara drew strength from “Tara,” Taylor drew strength from home as well. Knowing how important home was to Taylor’s psyche, Courtney nixed the taping so the girls could get to Stuart from Gainesville for Easter. She would later protest to the CBS producers when they wanted to ask Taylor certain questions. Courtney was Taylor’s first line of defense.

  So when Taylor had a chance to ask for a special occasion from the Make A Wish Foundation—the wonderful organization that takes sick kids to Disneyworld and other places—she chose something for Courtney.

  I remember asking her why she chose a Stevie Nicks’ concert.

  “I did it for Courtney, Dad. Everyone always is doing things for me, but everybody seems to forget about Courtney. She’s the one I’ve always counted on through all of this.”

  Not her mother, not her father, but Courtney. She was the one Taylor relied on: Her “Little Florence Nightingale.”

  “And Make a Wish will get us back stage so Courtney can meet the ‘White Witch,’” Taylor added.

  I asked her what she meant by “White Witch.”

  “That’s Stevie Nicks’ nickname,” Taylor replied. She smiled at me. “You are really out of it, aren’t you, Dad?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “That’s a good thing really,” she added.

  I think it was. If I knew too much about a group or a singer, Taylor would certainly think that performer was passé.

  A limo picked up Taylor and Courtney and took them to a Stevie Nicks’ concert in West Palm Beach and Courtney got a chance to meet her favorite singer backstage and Stevie chatted with the girls and gave them a drumhead from her band, a signed drumhead which became one of Courtney’s prized possessions and is in her bedroom along with a lot of other things that she and her husband moved into my daughters’ bedrooms for storage.

  Sisters were truly something special I realized. There is so much emphasis on the bereaved parents when a child dies. Compassionate Friends is there for the parents, but sometimes people forget how devastating the loss of a sibling can be to remaining sisters or brothers. Taylor’s death changed everything for Courtney. It changed her personality, her direction and her vision. It even changed the meaning of life for her. In spirit, Taylor has always been with Courtney, much more than she was with me. But then, they were sisters and best friends after all. And that bond was unbreakable even in death.

  * * *

  Nearing the end of her radiation treatment at Shands, Taylor made an entry into her diary. It was an exhausting time for her.

  Taylor’s Diary

  April 11, 2001

  Well, I went home this weekend and as usual it was very nice but very brief. I only have 3 more treatments left and I keep thinking how wonderful it will be this time next week. I will be @ home @ least for a brief respite. Dr. Friedman wants me to do chemo again but I’m not so sure about that because the last time we used a high dose and it didn’t get past the blood brain barrier (rendering the chemo ineffective). So it was for nothing. What’s to say that another kind would be any different? But, I guess we’ll see about that.

  So, Easter is this weekend and we’re having a surprise baby shower for Kristine. I’m thinking about going to prom but I’m not sure. It’s on the 21st of April. So it’s in about a week. I don’t know if that’ll happen or not. If I do go I doubt Jeff will go w/me but who knows? Nothing really inspirational to say today. Maybe someday I’ll become enlightened but for now my only realization is that I ought to sleep because I have a 10 o’clock appt. tomorrow. There are more important things in life than “things.” I wish I could make my friends understand that. God never gives you more than you can handle.

  P.S. On Mon. I slept for 18 straight hours. I have been dead tired.

  Chapter Twenty-Three: You Betcha

  I would never have thought a comment by Sarah Palin would stir my memory of Taylor’s first driving lesson, but when the governor of Alaska said one of her catchphrase “You betchas,” I suddenly remembered the first driving lesson I gave to Taylor. The mind is certainly a funny place.

  Taylor was a few months short of her 16th birthday and she had her driver’s permit in hand. It was the day to give Taylor her first lesson on the art of the stick shift and the driving of “Tammy Tercel,” the 1991 car she so coveted. She referred to Tammy as “the Turtle” which I guess was okay since Taylor was the one who first dubbed the Tercel “Tammy.” It is an idiosyncrasy of mine, passed down from my eccentric mother who drove “Bertha the Buick” and other alliterative autos over the years. So the kids had seen their father name “Daphne Dodge” and when “Daphne” finally clunked out, I went out and purchased a new Tercel. “Daphne” was so beat, however, they wouldn’t even give me $50 on a trade-in. So I took “Daphne” home and promptly sold her for $200 to a Freddy-Fix-It type who kept “Daphne” on the road for another two years. Where was the “Cash for Clunkers” program when I needed it?

  I remember my first chance to drive a stick shift on the hill of Locust Lane in Springfield, PA. My older brother Tom stopped his VW bug (the old-fashioned kind without the fuel gauge but with the emergency gas tank) on the hill, put on the parking brake, and told me to switch seats. So we rolled back to the bottom of the hill a few times, but then I got the feel of the clutch and we were off. The problem for Taylor, I thought, was an absence of spiffy hills on which to practice holding the car in place while getting the “feel” of the clutch.

  At the time, Taylor had, on occasion, taken her mom’s car out for a joy ride or two. It was a rite of passage among Pam’s kids, drive mom’s car before you actually had a license. So Taylor was familiar with the steering, but not the stick shift.

  Years before I had taught my oldest step-daughter Tracey how do drive a stick shift and Tracey, the girls’ big sister and surrogate mother, had wound up teaching the H pattern to the twins and Courtney, but Tracey was off living her life in Richmond, Virginia, and the job had reverted to me once again.

  “Let the clutch out slowly,” I advised Taylor.

  Kerplunkkkkk! Kerplunkkkkk! The car stalled.

  “More ah slowly,” I suggested.

  “Sorry, Dad,” she replied.

  “Try it again.”

  She turned the ignition, giving it the eerie screech. Then it was, Kerplunkkkkk! Kerplunkkkk!

  “Slower, Taylor, slower!”

  “I’m trying, Dad. I’m trying.”

  “Did I ever tell you how Uncle Tom taught me the stick shift?”

  “A million times, Dad.”

  “Oh.”

  “I think I’m getting it, Dad,” she said. “It’s a feel isn’t it?”

  “Yes!”

  Magic does happen. Taylor let the clutch out slowly. The car didn’t jerk, it moved smoothly.

  In first gear.

  “Now what?” Taylor asked me, a bit bewildered.

  “Second gear,” I replied. “Time to learn the gear pattern, just say H. It’s an H pattern.”

  Second gear was not as difficult as first gear and after a bit of gear grinding she discovered second and we stayed in second gear and a solid 15 miles per hour as she drove us around the neighborhood. Linus might have his security blanket but Taylor had second gear. I was pleased with myself that I hadn’t sworn once, and Taylor successfully returned the car to the driveway, a smile of satisfaction on her face and not even a scratch on the chrome.

  “You’re a good teacher, Dad,” she told me.

  “I had a great student,” I replied, joining the mutual admiration society which Taylor had started.

  “We are a great team, aren’t we Dad?”

  “You betcha, kid. You betcha.”

  Maybe I can tell her now what I didn’t tell her t
hen: she picked up the concept of the clutch much quicker than I had back on Locust Lane, but I suppose she knows that now.

  You betcha I do, Pops. You betcha!

  Chapter Twenty-Four: Writer’s Block

  We were on the Pediatric Oncology floor at St. Mary’s in West Palm Beach and Taylor, between vomit-visits to the bathroom, was talking about what chemotherapy had taught her.

  “You know, Dad. I don’t keep my diary in the hospital,” she said.

  I asked why she didn’t, and she replied and would later write in her journal:

  I don’t really write in here through chemo because I think of it like this: the time before and after the hospital is training for the match and then being in the hospital is like being in the ring, so you’ve got to go for the K.O.

  I remember thinking that was an interesting analogy, especially for a daughter. I had no idea she even knew a thing about boxing for we had certainly never watched the sport together. I remember thinking Taylor looked like a boxer then. She was juiced up on steroids as prevention against a brain seizure or a stroke. But the steroids made her face puffy, like someone who might have been in a ring and been hit a few times.

  “You know, Dad,” she said. “Sometimes I just don’t feel original. Why can’t I write anymore?”

  My aspiring poet had “writer’s block”? I wondered if she really had writer’s block. And then she showed me a poem in progress and I realized she could still write, at least in couplet form, her comfort food of rhyme. She would later add the poem to her diary.

  I can’t put into words my situation now,

  It disappears somehow.

  What are the emotions I’m supposed to feel,

  Which is the method that will help me to deal

  What do I need to gain in this lesson