“When I got back to my dorm,” she told me, “the APU Campus Safety officers and a real Azusa city police officer were there! Since I was the only one who had actually seen the guys who threw the smoke bomb, the police asked me to give an official statement as an eyewitness. I ended up talking to the Campus Safety officers for a long time—and they offered me a job!”
“That’s terrific,” I said. “But, honey, just out of curiosity, what would you have done if you had caught up with those two smoke bombers?”
“I would’ve brought ’em to justice!” she said with mock toughness. “But seriously, Mom, I just had to give chase. It was instinct. I had to do something.”
I thought of penguin-nappers and yellow jackets and Jael. Chasing smoke bombers across campus, barefoot, fit Katie to a tee.
A couple of weeks later, she called home, elated.
“Mom! I just finished my first shift as a Campus Safety dispatcher!” she said. “I have a whole manual of real police codes to memorize! I already know what a 211 is—and a 415. And I get to wear a real uniform.”
“That’s terrific, Katie,” I said. “Congratulations!”
“But there’s a downside, Mama. The smallest shirt size for my uniform is a men’s medium. The short sleeves come down past my elbows, and the bottom of the shirt hangs to my knees!”
“Could you get it tailored to a women’s small?”
“Already checked! It would cost thirty-five dollars—and I’m not paying thirty-five dollars for a work shirt.”
“So the princess has met her match?” I asked.
“Hardly! I just roll up my sleeves and wear the shirt with leggings and a belt, like a dress. It’s pretty dang cute!”
Undoubtedly.
She loved her new job as a Campus Safety dispatcher, as this e-mail attested:
April 14
Hi, Mommy and Daddy!
Life is good and busy! This dispatching job is humbling because there’s a stigma about Campus Safety, and it’s not easy work. It’s good for me. And the paycheck will be really nice. Woo-hoo!
The students here mock and belittle the Campus Safety officers, who are really just good, different guys. I’m understanding in greater depth the Dwight Schrutes of the world. I’m finding myself saying, “Campus Safety” with more pride in my voice, and I’m defending their honor whenever people complain about Campus Safety—which is frequently.
I’m excited about my roommates for next year! There are five of us—Marissa, me, Amber, Red, and Courtney—and we are all easygoing. They are kind and sweet. We got an apartment in Crestview—same as Bethany! It has a balcony and two bathrooms, plus our own washer and dryer. We will be living in luxury. Our unit is not near Bethany’s, but all the apartments are pretty close!
Miss you and love you,
Katie
As her freshman year drew to a close, Katie became reflective. During finals week, she wrote this prayer in her journal:
I’ve learned a lot in these months, Jesus . . . I have changed so much in eight months. In four more months, God, I want to return to this place different than I am right now. These eight months did not fail me, and I don’t want to waste my days.
Jesus, help me number my days. Remind me to be in constant dialogue with You. I am so much more myself when I am Yours. I want a deeper capacity to love—I want to love in a way that transcends me. I want my family and friends and Dan to feel valued and loved, cherished, in a way that transcends me. Light this fire in me, God.
Katie wrapped up her freshman year with straight As, an abundance of new friendships, and plenty of excitement about returning in the fall to live near Bethany with her new girlfriends. Bethany planned to stay in California through the summer to work, so Katie sweet-talked her big sister into storing all her stuff in Bethany’s apartment for the summer.
Katie packed up her stuff, said goodbye to her friends, and on Thursday, May 1, rode with Bethany to the airport.
17
6:30 A.M., SUNDAY, JUNE 1
The attachment I feel to Katie’s body surprises me. I want to be near it, to touch her skin, to feel her warmth.
When each of my babies was a newborn, how I savored the privilege of caring for their tiny, fragile bodies. I loved bathing them, patting them dry with a soft towel, caressing their delicate skin with Johnson’s Baby Lotion, and dressing them in fresh clothes. I loved wrapping them in soft blankets and kissing their noses and foreheads, the palms of their tiny hands, their toes, and the pudgy folds of their necks.
Long before they were old enough to be cognitively aware of what these loving caresses communicated, I always believed that at some level beyond cognition, they knew. They knew they were being loved.
Now here lies one of my babies, all grown up. Her beautiful little body, so capable for so many years, is once again helpless and in need of a mama. Does she know the meaning of these kisses I am showering on her hands, her nose, her forehead? She is not cognitively aware. But perhaps at some level that transcends words, she knows. She knows she is being loved.
It’s six thirty in the morning. The second hand on the industrial clock above Katie’s door marks the time in steady, unforgiving ticks. I have about eighteen hours remaining to offer my love in these tender and tangible ways to my daughter. The privilege of being able to touch her, stroke her hair, push her tongue back in her mouth, close her eyes, cover her feet with a blanket—each of these is a short-term privilege. I won’t be able to nurture her fragile body tomorrow, or the next day, or ever again.
I cannot believe I am sitting here in a hospital room, next to Katie on life support. This pain in my chest goes deeper than anything I’ve ever experienced—yet there is such a strange familiarity to it. When have I felt like this before?
Three other times in my life I have felt this type of earth-shattering emotional pain—though not at this depth: my junior year of college, when Scott and I found ourselves expecting our first baby and I dropped out of college (glad to marry Scott and glad to become a mama—but mortified at being an “unwed mother” and heartbroken to drop out of school); in 2004, when Scott and I went through significant marital struggles—mostly at my hand; and in 2006, when Sam was diagnosed with retinitis pigmentosa, a progressive eye disease that leads to blindness.
During each of these seasons—when the pain seemed unbearable and I wondered how we would possibly make it through—I sensed God’s presence in such tangible ways. Through the kindness of others, through timing that seemed beyond coincidental, through a resilience and strength that far surpassed my own, and through a peace that certainly didn’t match the circumstances, God was faithful. He provided the guidance and strength we needed. He carried us.
In those seasons, I learned there is a commonality to emotional trauma—that pain is pain, no matter its source. And true healing from deep trauma requires facing the pain head-on. No shortcuts, no avoiding, no easy back trails. Just raw, honest grieving, which means walking out of the pit one step at a time. It’s hard work. From your vantage point at the bottom of such a pit, you think the pain is more than you can stand, but it’s not. And there is life along the way.
Looking back, each of these painful seasons was powerfully transformative. I encountered God in ways I’d never experienced Him before. I grew. I became a better version of myself. And as I walked out of each of these pits one step at a time, I found ever-increasing glimpses of healing and beauty along the way. I had lived. We had lived. And we had learned lessons about life and love and God during those seasons that have marked us forever.
As I look down at my daughter in this hospital bed, I recognize it’s these past experiences that make the pain in my chest feel so familiar. But will the lessons I’ve learned from those experiences hold true for this depth of pain? Can our family survive a blow of this magnitude? Can I?
The pit we are now in feels bottomless. I cannot begin to comprehend better days ahead without my daughter. But I have always found God to be faithful. And I know w
hat it takes to climb out of pits, no matter their depth. I can take a step. One step. One step at a time.
In the stillness, exhaustion sets in. I snuggle my forehead against Katie’s side and drape my arm across her legs. A moment later, her legs move! I bolt upright. A surge of hope washes through me. I try to calm myself with logic: You know she can’t move. She has no motor function left in her brain. She is brain-dead.
But hope trumps logic: Perhaps all the tests were wrong! Perhaps the miracle I have been begging for has occurred. She moved! I felt it with my own hand!
“Katie!” I say in a loud whisper. “Katie, move your leg. Can you move your leg?” I grab her foot and gently shake. No movement but the rhythmic rise and fall of her chest from the vent.
Louder now. “Lift your leg, Katie. Can you wiggle your toes?” No response. I feel silly talking to her—I hope no one else is listening—but I can’t hold back.
I squeeze her toes. “Katie! Wiggle your toes!” I run my thumbnail up the inside arch of her foot, trying to trigger a positive Babinski sign—an automatic reflex that would show something is synapsing in the nerves between her foot and her brain.
Nothing.
“C’mon, Katie. Move your legs!” I say with command. I shake her legs with increasing rigor, and then I pinch her big toe—hard. Still nothing. Finally I throw back her blankets, and—
And then it all makes sense.
Each of her legs is wrapped in some sort of automated blood-pressure cuff. The nurse must have applied them during the night. For preventing blood clots in her legs. An air pump sounds, and the cuffs inflate, stirring the blankets. And then slowly they exhale—along with my brief, irrational surge of hope.
I lay the blankets back down on her legs, tuck in the edges, and resume my station in the plastic stacking chair. Of course she didn’t move. What was I thinking? Did anyone hear me? I feel stupid—but only for a moment.
If a mama can’t chase the tiniest glimmer of hope in a situation like this, then who can?
A little before seven thirty, Dr. Yun and a nurse appear. “Mrs. Vaudrey, we must conduct a final test on Katherine to certify for the State of Illinois that she is brain-dead,” he says. “By law, in order for a death certificate to be issued in the case of brain death, two such tests—conducted at least twelve hours apart—must result in clinical findings of zero brain activity. We completed the first test last night, and I am here now to conduct the second test.”
“Okay,” I say. “Can I stay with her?”
He looks at me for a moment. “If you like. The test is called ice water caloric stimulation, in which ice water is squirted into each of the patient’s ears. If there is any brain stem activity at all, the ice water will trigger rapid side-to-side eye movement in the patient. If no brain activity is found, the eyes remain stationary. We will conduct the test in both ears.”
Seriously? I am surprised by how untechnological the test sounds.
The nurse wheels a metal cart into the room. It holds a pitcher of water packed with ice cubes, a pink bowl, and a giant, needleless syringe. She fills the syringe with ice water from the pitcher and then hands it to the doctor. She pulls back Katie’s hair and pushes the pink bowl under her right ear. With his thumb and index finger, the doctor opens Katie’s right eye wide, exposing her entire iris. Her brown eyes have flecks of green, gold, hazel, even a slight splash of blue around the edges—all the colors of autumn—and the look startles me. I avert my gaze and swallow hard, but then I look back. Please, Lord, last chance! I pray. Any movement at all! Even a flicker . . .
The doctor gently inserts the tip of the syringe into Katie’s right ear and squirts the ice water deep into her ear canal. The nurse catches the backsplash in the pink bowl.
Katie’s eye stares straight ahead, motionless. Nothing.
The doctor fills the syringe twice more and empties it into her ear canal. No movement. Not even a flicker. He quietly shakes his head to the nurse, who scribbles something on her clipboard. They move to Katie’s left ear, where the same procedure is repeated with the same results.
Dr. Yun turns to me. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Vaudrey, but Katherine shows no sign of brain stem function whatsoever. Her brain death is confirmed.”
I nod, my throat too tight to speak. I rest my hand on Katie’s warm foot.
He looks at his watch. “Time of death, 7:45 a.m.”
The nurse scribbles the time in her chart and hands it to him. He signs it, nods to me, turns, and leaves. She follows him out the door, pushing her metal cart. The ice cubes clink inside the water pitcher, and I think of lemonade and summertime. The tinkling sound dances down the hallway, fading, fading, until I can hear it no more.
18
THURSDAY, MAY 1, 2008
We were all giddy with excitement.
Katie’s flight home from college was due to land at O’Hare at 10 p.m., and by 9:30, Sam, Tember, Scott, and I were at baggage claim, pacing, with butterflies in our stomachs.
I saw Katie coming down the stairs long before she was close enough to recognize by face—the bouncy walk, the flowing skirt and layered tops, the dark hair pulled into a messy bun and loose curls brushing against her face—I knew it was her. Katie was home!
I trotted through baggage claim and scooped her into my arms. The rest of the family was at my heels, and we were soon an entangled mass of hugs and chatter. Then Katie stepped back and took us all in, one by one.
“Sam, you’ve grown another two inches since Christmas, I swear!”
“Hey, sis!” he said, wrapping his arms around her and swinging her around, just like he used to do at Fremd.
“And Tem, you’re more beautiful than ever!”
Tember grinned an orthodontics-filled smile as her big sister held her tight and stroked her silky hair.
“I have missed you so much,” Tember said, her lashes wet.
“Bug,” Scott said.
“Daddy!” she squealed, standing on tiptoe and holding him tight. Scott closed his eyes, and the corner of his mouth twitched. As she withdrew her arms from around his neck, she stroked both his cheeks with the back of her fingers. “I love you, Daddy!”
“I love you too, Bug. So good to have you home.”
At last it was my turn. I hugged her again.
“Katie, I’ve really missed you! I am so glad you are home.”
“Mama! Me too! How’s your wrist?” She picked up my left hand and kissed the surgery scar on the wrist I’d broken last fall.
“It’s all right. Surgery number four next week, though,” I said. “Outpatient.”
“I’ll take you!” she said—and turning to her dad—“I’ll take her, Papa. I’ll take good care of her!” Then to us all, she added, “I have so many stories to tell! And we have a whole summer to catch up!”
As we headed to the baggage carousel, the butterflies in my stomach began to settle. Three of my chicks would be home in the nest. It wasn’t the full five-count, but it was a solid majority.
FRIDAY, MAY 2
Katie slept in the next morning, her internal clock still set on Pacific Daylight Time. By the time she awoke and made her way downstairs, Scott and the kids had already left for work and school. I poured her a cup of coffee, and we sat at the kitchen table.
“I want to be really purposeful about my summer, Mama,” she said. “At the last APU chapel for the year, Jon Wallace [APU’s president] challenged us to make our summers count. He told us, ‘You have one hundred days until school starts up again in the fall. Don’t just loll away your summer. Make the most of each day. Don’t come back the same.’ I want to spend my one hundred days well.”
Later that morning, I found her sitting on her bathroom counter, dry-erase marker in hand. Along the top of the bathroom mirror, she had written, “Katie: You have 100 days. Don’t go back the same.” The next morning, I noticed she had lowered the number to 99. Each day thereafter, she dropped the number by one, counting down the days until school started—and reminding herse
lf to make each day count.
MONDAY, MAY 5
The weekend went quickly, and Monday was a school day for Sam and Tember, who had another five weeks to go before their summer break began. When Monday morning rolled around, Katie was standing at the kitchen counter, blurry eyed but cheerily mixing pancake batter. It was six o’clock.
“What are you doing up, Katie?” I asked when I came into the kitchen. “You’re on vacation! Go sleep in!”
“I want to make Sam and Tember a hot breakfast,” she replied.
“I can do that for you, honey. I’m up by five anyway.” The truth was it was cereal or bagels for the younger kids on most mornings. Now I was feeling pressure!
“That’s okay, Mom,” she said. “I want to cook it myself. I want it to come from me.”
Make each day count.
So the kids awoke that morning to the smell of chocolate chip pancakes in the kitchen. Katie served breakfast, saw the kids off to school, and then climbed back into bed. And she continued to cook for them each school morning—pancakes or eggs, something special to start their day.
FRIDAY, MAY 9
Friday morning, Katie drove me to a day surgery center for the arthroscopic surgery on my wrist. The procedure went well, and afterward Katie helped me into the car with my still-numb wrist in a fresh cast, my head groggy from the anesthetic, and a bottle of pain meds in my pocket.
“Let’s get Thai for lunch!” I suggested. Katie was game: It was my nickel, after all, and our favorite cuisine.
We chatted over chicken curry, glass noodles, and peanut sauce.
“After this, let’s go see a movie!” Katie suggested. “Have you seen Baby Mama yet? It’s a comedy with Tina Fey and Amy Poehler!”
We spent the rest of the afternoon munching on popcorn and Junior Mints, sharing a large Mr. Pibb, and laughing at the antics of our two favorite comedians.
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