PAYING LIFE FORWARD

Happy St. Patrick’s Day to The Remaining Parts of Michael

The 15-year-old was an organ donor, 25 years ago

I dropped my daughter off at school and came home to several messages.

As a computer consultant juggling clients in 1999, I was trying to train myself and my clients to take a breath before yelling fire — especially before 8 in the morning.

Cliff from TCA* often called early to complain the printer wasn’t working.

Somehow, he got the home number. My daughter Alex started answering when she was still in elementary school. “Mom’s in the shower. Plug the printer in and call back after 8 if you still need to.” At 6, she was cute. She stopped answering when she turned 7 and Cliff still wasn’t trained.

Now, she was 12 and ignored him.

Something told me to prepare myself. I poured coffee, scanned The Los Angeles Times, and watched the clock. As the minutes ticked by, I imagined an announcer’s voice at the horse races.

7:50 am: “The jockeys, trainers, and horses are on the field.”

I unlocked my home office and started up 4 computers and other devices.

7:55 am: “Captain’s Marvel, the one-year-old from Del Mar is dancing.”

Hmm… no trouble tickets, but a few “CALL ASAP!” messages from Judy and John at TCA. I’d recommended my friend Judy to John, TCA’s President when he needed a new administrative assistant. Judy was normally unexcitable and discreet. If it was a system problem, I expected Cliff.

8:00 am: “All 9 riders and their horses are at the starting line…”

I didn’t know what was wrong but felt there was something serious outside the usual business concerns. Hackers? A surprise audit?

8:01 am: “And they’re off!”

Ready to juggle, I listened to my voicemail with trepidation.

The family

Besides the “Call me right away” messages from Judy and John, there were a few vague messages from Maria, who was in charge of inventory, shipping, and sales. We’d become friends while I worked on various projects under her domain. Maria was from Brazil — a tough lady who sometimes had bruises. I told her she didn't need to stay with an abusive husband and pointed her to resources. She got a divorce and was raising two teen kids on her own.

By 1999 her son was 15 — three years older than my daughter Alex.

Michael was fascinated by computers at a time when many 15-year-old boys weren’t. I gave him a used system and walked him through various options. He was a curious kid who shared game ideas and loved the challenge of learning to code.

Michael and I had a mutual respect and admiration for one another. He gave me intricate game character drawings and music collections on CDs.

Maria’s family lived in South-Central LA where gangs were common. Guns were a part of Maria’s Brazilian culture and some of Michael’s friends.

With clients in Compton, Gardena, Santa Ana, and some other rough areas, I became accustomed to hearing gunshots. Most times, they weren’t part of violence, but celebrations as shots were fired in the air.

Maria’s family owned a couple of handguns — something I wasn’t comfortable with despite having lived in rural areas of Montana where rifles were used to scare off bears. In contrast to my opinion that kids shouldn’t have access to guns, Maria and Michael enjoyed lessons and target shooting. Michael wanted to join the police force.

My heart stopped when I heard her message.

“Patricia, I need you to come up. Pack a bag. Michael died this morning.”

I knew she had limited support with no relatives in America.

I called Judy first. She answered immediately and skipped her usual professional and polite greetings.

“What happened?” I asked. “Maria’s son shot himself and died.”

I was in my thirties but felt about a hundred as I prepared.

It was Thursday, March 18th, 1999, the day after St. Patrick’s Day.

Wednesday, March 17, 1999 — exactly 25 years ago

When Maria arrived home on Wednesday, her back was sore. Her daughter Angela greeted her and they discussed dinner before Maria laid down for a few minutes. She heard music coming from behind Michael’s closed door and could tell he was talking to his girlfriend on the phone.

She didn’t know Michael and his friends had been drinking green beer. She didn’t know he planned on hiding in his room until he sobered up, or that he locked and barricaded his door. She didn’t know his testosterone-fueled hormones inspired him to clean the guns like he’d watched his macho uncles do in Brazil.

Later, Maria told me she didn’t think she had the strength to break down his door so quickly. But she did.

Michael didn’t empty the bullet from the chamber. It hit him above his ear.

The paramedics came quickly. The night was long and Michael held on. Nine hours later, Angela convinced her mom to tell Michael it was okay for him to go.

“It was strange, Patricia. This calm peace seemed to enter the room. Michael stopped struggling and making bad noises. He squeezed my hand and sighed. Then he was gone. I signed the papers to donate everything.”

I drove the 45 minutes north and entered an emotional hell.

I stayed for a week helping make notifications, arrange the funeral, clean Michael’s room, and erase the physical trauma as best I could. Though I was making decent money, I didn’t have a lot of savings. I hoped my checks for unexpected expenditures wouldn’t bounce.

When I gave information about Michael and his family to the minister who would perform the service, Angela spoke. “Patricia, tell him Michael wanted to be a missionary. Or, mercenary. I don’t remember which. A cop.”

The ripples of a gunshot

I raised my daughter alone after leaving a bad relationship with Alex’s father. Pete was in another state and refused to pay child support. I’d opened a claim 8 years before but didn’t hear anything.

When I got home there was an unexpected check from the State of Washington for a fraction of the child support owed. It covered the amount I’d spent while with Michael’s family, almost exactly. It was the first, and last I’d ever receive.

Alex was a young twelve when Michael died. She knew what happened, but not the details. She wanted to believe the world was just and sensible.

“But what did Michael do? He must have done something bad,” she said.

“Not that I know of. He was a good kid. Kind, smart, lots of interests and friends. Being drunk and cleaning a gun were awful ideas, but I think it was just a dumb accident,” I told her.

“Everyone talks about the circle of life. Is there going to be a circle? There can’t be without Michael ever having kids.”

Maria proudly framed the National Donor’s Registry letter thanking her for donating Michael’s remains. His internal organs, eyes, skin, and many other parts helped countless others lead better lives. Some were children.

Once, Maria said, “I should have taken the gun away after the first time he put a hole in the ceiling.” I was dumb-struck. My loyalty and dedication to the family during this horrible time took a big toll psychologically.

The aftermath of a broken circle

Angela picked up where Michael left off in his computer interests. She became a network administrator for the City of Hawthorne’s Police Department. Rapid response dispatches were improved because of her careful oversight.

I coached Angela when she gave birth to her first son, whom she named after her brother, but called by his middle name — Jackson. Later, I helped deliver Michael Jackson’s little brother, Max.

Maria developed breast cancer. She credited her son’s namesake for helping her surgical recovery as she lifted Jackson high in the air to play.

Michael Jackson, Jr and I shared a close bond despite his neurotypical difficulty with focus and communication. Every few weeks I’d deliver boxes of used computer printouts for him to draw on while we listened to his favorite music. Deceased Michael’s nephew gave me pictures and music like his uncle once did. Jackson’s brain was unique anatomically.

My daughter Alex went through a bad time years later when she sustained head injuries and a broken leg. Brain injuries often result in more accidents as balance, depth perception, and cognition are impaired. The tibia fracture required multiple surgeries.

“We’ll implant a donor graft to help stabilize the area that’s become infected,” an orthopedic surgeon explained. Alex didn’t blink.

Later, she was disturbed. “Could it be from Michael? Why didn’t you make me clap to say I understood?” She was experiencing focal seizures — a disconcerting sudden “spacing out” when she wasn’t fully aware of her surroundings. Clapping sometimes brought her back.

“I doubt it would be Michael’s. But, would that be so bad?”

Alex’s ankle was a recurring problem due to her compromised brain’s ability to heal damaged bones and cells properly. I’m not sure if the donor graft was removed in subsequent surgeries. Before Alex was hurt she got an infinity circle tattoo around her ankle. The surgeries broke the circle, but she had it repaired.

We’re both fine with the idea of a donor bone graft. Alex’s ankle is stable and healed. I can’t erase some of the horrible memories surrounding Micheal’s death and they bother me on days like today. But there’s a balance in my appreciation for a boy who made me art and music collections, called with excited anticipation of learning new tricks, and brought love to the lives he touched.

Somewhere, a blind person sees because of Michael and his family. His heart may still beat. His skin may have helped burn victims. People might breathe easier with Michael’s lungs, function without kidney dialysis, and lead better lives than they did exactly 25 years ago.

I’m thinking of the recipients along with Michael and his family today.

Michael’s short life mattered profoundly. He benefited others in ways a missionary might. I was honored to know him.

Author’s note: All of this is true, but I didn’t fully appreciate the patterns until I started writing. There are progressive lines and circles from one event and person to the next. My daughter’s leg healed. I helped save the lives of other kids who sustained brain injuries. I’m sure Angela’s work helped others who needed emergency assistance. There were ripples, like circles in a pond from each seemingly unrelated event.

Alex and I carry organ donor cards and encourage others to do the same.