Friday, December 21, 2018

Another year's remembrance - #14

It was fourteen years ago, right about this time (1:30pm) that we received word that Jacob's heart transplant (the first one) was successful and that the new heart was strongly beating within his chest.

The worries of him not receiving a heart transplant in time and then that he would not survive the arduous surgery were replaced with overwhelming joy, gratefulness, and a pang of sorrow for our gift of life and the loss of life that was the cost.

Here is an oft shared remembrance of that whirlwind of a day. It was that night that we were able to see Jacob for the first time post surgery.

 He is very much aware of what's going around him. Though, he can't speak because of the ventilator tube down his mouth and his hands are secured to restrict movement he is communicating his desires.

A doctor walked in with a cup of coffee in his hand. When Jacob saw it he pointed to it with his finger and stuck his tongue out. He was thirsty! The nurse said that if things go right tonight, they may take the tube out and he would be able to eat. I joked, "no hot wings yet," and Jacob snapped his finger as if to say, "oh, man!"
He has not lost his spirit! But pray that his spiritedness won't cause frustration as we can't understand a lot of his motions or he can't have all that he wants - like a coke!

 That spirit of wanting to live life in its fullness - hot wings, flaming Cheetos, and all - taught me and many others to do the same (the living of life, certainly not the flaming hot Cheetos!).  That extinguished life is sorely missed at these times when families gather but, hopefully, we will honor him in the way we enjoy that precious family time.  I also hope that his nephews and nieces will ask questions and want us to share stories about their Uncle Jacob.  There are plenty to tell.

Merry Christmas to all that read this.  Many of you knew Jacob and loved him.  Thank you for investing in his life and I trust your life has been made richer as a result. 


Thursday, June 14, 2018

Nine Years and Counting

The anniversary of Jacobs’s death has come around for the ninth time.  It doesn’t seem possible.  Memories of him are still fresh and frequent. I still -


  • See his smile
  • Hear his gravelly voice
  • Chuckle at his odd sense of humor
  • Tear up at thoughts of numerable and interminable surgeries, procedures, and hospital stays
  • See him at our dinner table laughing about events of the day
  • Hear him giggling with his brother and sister (when they weren’t bickering)
  • Watch him worshiping through song

















However (that’s a word that stabs at my heart), in the nine years since his fatal cardiac arrest while fighting off his body’s overwhelming rejection of his second heart at the way too young a year of 21, it grieves my spirit to think - 


  • He couldn’t develop his strong desire to be a doting and fun loving uncle to Tucker.
  • He missed the births and becoming the same type of uncle to Libby and Abby.
  • And now, after our initial meeting of and visit with our newest member of the family, Zane, it is a certainty the two would have quickly bonded while they compared chest scars from their heart surgeries. I know that Jacob would have been able to show off, with pride, his ‘shark bite’ surgery scar.  They would have giggled themselves silly doing this
  • He missed the proud opportunity to represent his love at Katie’s wedding.
  • He has missed numerous times to see and spend time with extended family at various gatherings and reunions.
  • He has missed keeping up with dear friends and teachers in high school (chorus, drama, and BTEC) 
  • And his wonderful and supportive group of friends at Shorter (BCM, dorm dudes, his ‘harem’ and Δ∑Ф). 
  • He never got to begin and pursue a career.
  • He never got to fall in love, get married, and have kids that could play with Tucker, Libby, Zane, Abby, and the little Guice boy coming later this summer.
  • He’ll never spend any time by the creek at our NC home.
  • He’ll never grow older with the rest of us, enjoying all the things listed above that would have given him such joy.   


Instead, it is a day of dread and depression over what could have been but will never be.

Love you, Jacob.  You’re missed; you’re loved; you’re not forgotten.