Brandt's
Wish
by
Lorraine Thompson
When life gets dark, a wish can shine like Polaris.
Since 1980, the Make-a-Wish Foundation has granted the wishes of over 80,000 kids with life- threatening illnesses. Cancer-stricken Brandt Yardley didn't want a trip to Disneyland or Africa. He wanted to write and publish a book about his life. This is his story.
I remember shutting my eyes as a child, puckering my face in intense contemplation, and asking, "If a genie granted me one wish, and I couldn't wish for more wishes, what would I choose?"
A year ago I was given the chance of a lifetime—the opportunity to go back to a world where wishes are still enchanted, yet real, and they come true. It started on a crisp, late-November day when I picked up my phone and heard a voice say, "Hello, I'm Sandra Lord, a wish granter for Make-a-Wish Foundation. I have a favor to ask you." I was going to be given the chance to make a little boy's wish come true—a boy with cancer who only wanted one thing—to write a book about his experiences.
On December 8, 1999, the book rolled off the presses at Alexander's Printing, and into the hands of my fourteen-year-old friend, Brandt Yardey, a brain cancer survivor. He pulled his book close to his chest. "It's warm," he whispered.
Juggling to catch the second copy one-handed, he raised the books high above his head, like Olympic gold, and turned to face a small crowd of family, friends, and to his delight, television reporters. Brandt likes the spotlight, and why not? After two years of work on his book, and a decade long fight for life, he has earned his day in the sun.
Brandt handed me the first copy and said, "Hold onto this. It's mine. You can have the second one, but don't mix 'em up." I smiled at the familiar spark of mischief in his voice, and I smiled my promise.
After working together for over a year, he knew me well—well enough to know I could mix things up, and well enough to know I would feel honored by being entrusted with something important to him. It wasn't the first treasure he had shared with me. Over the past twelve months, he had shared his stories, his jokes, his fears, his hopes and his friendship. He'd shared his wisdom, and of course, he'd shared his wish. In return, I had written his book (something his brain tumor made too difficult for him to do alone). Now, watching books roll through the binder, we stood close, and tall.
"If anyone tries to say wishes don't come true," Brandt said, "I'll say remember my book and keep believing."
Believing is hard-won in Brandt's life. His oligodendroglioma-astrocytoma brain tumor was first diagnosed a few weeks before his fourth birthday. Like so many things about Brandt, it is an unusual tumor in a child. Its name, astro, means star. Each point can send rays, or feelers, from which new tumors can begin, spreading like a galaxy through the brain.
 Brandt and Grandpa |
Brandt's parents, Mark and Patricia, were young. Their first child, Ray, was born with Down's Syndrome, so their little family quickly learned that children bring with them both unexpected love and unplanned challenges. Still, they had high hopes when they learned another baby was on the way. "Brandt was supposed to be perfect," his father wrote.
But from the beginning, Brandt faced difficulties. As an infant, he underwent eye surgery. Still, it was easy to see he had many star like qualities, he was bright and active, and loved to be in the middle of things. He was walking at nine months, and exploring everything.
As Brandt neared his second birthday, however, family members began to question why this inquisitive boy was not talking. He didn't say much, and his voice sounded forced and gravelly. They asked the doctor, even did a brain scan, but in the end, it was decided that perhaps Brandt was parroting his older brother, Ray.
Brandt was nearly four when his mother began noticing his little legs buckling from time to time. His dad, Mark, began to wonder about seizures. The doctor recommended a trip to Primary Children's Medical Center for an MRI scan just to be safe.
"It was the worst day of my life," Mark [said.]. "That morning, Patricia and I had to leave our precious Ray with his new Professional Parenting family in Salt Lake City. As hard as it was, we knew there wasn't much available in Beaver for a boy with Down's Syndrome. Ray needed a chance to go to school if he was to have any kind of life. It tore us both up to pack his things, kiss him good-bye and leave him there...
"Patricia and I were physically and emotionally drained by the time we took Brandt into Primary Children's for his appointment. We went there thinking they would run a few tests, prescribe some seizure medication and send us home. We both assumed that once his seizures were under control, his speech would catch up, and his problems would be over. He'd always been such a bright little guy. When they told us he had a brain tumor, I felt like I had been kicked by a bull. It knocked the wind right out of me...
"The treatment options were lousy," Mark continued. "They could surgically remove the tumor, and Brandt could lose his ability to walk and talk—temporarily or permanently—they made no promises. Either way, we should plan on a two-month hospital stay for rehabilitation. The other option was to let the tumor keep growing until . . . well, that wasn't much of an option. We were in a living nightmare!...
"It's amazing how much one day can change the way a guy thinks and feels about himself, "Mark added, almost to himself. "That day changed everything for me. By the time we had driven back to Beaver, I couldn't stand to look at my face in the rearview mirror. I dropped Patricia off at the house and headed up the mountain. I listened to myself cuss my life and every person in it, as if the knot inside would finally disappear when I found the right person to blame; but somehow I knew that worn-out habit wouldn't work any more. I found a secluded place off an old logging road and I prayed for the first time in . . . well . . . let's just say I was sadly out of practice. I offered God a trade. If He'd pull Brandt through this in one piece, I'd turn my life around. That was the deal.
"I thought my part would be easy," Mark... continued, "inconvenient, but easy. I could place my order, hand God a check, and He would deliver, no fuss, nobody needed to know. This deal was just between me and my Maker...
"I'll never forget when the nurse brought him back into his room and he sat up, tubes and all, and yelled, "I want chicken!" After two days, they said, "take that kid home; this place is for sick people." He was driving everyone nuts—riding his tricycle up and down the halls and talking the nurses' ears off. Patricia and I wept with gratitude half way to Beaver. I think that boy came to save my soul."
Two weeks and one day after his sixth birthday, Brandt was back in Primary Children's Hospital for his second surgery. His third surgery, at age eight, was followed by a lifetime dose of radiation, using up that option, but giving Brandt the gift of nearly four tumor-free years, his longest stretch ever. But even those years were dissected by a surgery to remove scar tissue from his brain.
Physically, surgery was not difficult for Brandt. His shaved head caused a few problems with bullies at school, but nothing Brandt couldn't handle. It was his ability to interpret symbols and his memory that took the heaviest toll. With every surgery he had to start the learning process all over again. In his book, Brandt shared this recollection.
"The two surgeries before kindergarten weren't so bad," he thought. "The other kids didn't know much either, and I wasn't the only boy who started one year late. But this surgery is causing a pile of problems. I'm almost a second grader and I can't read or add worth beans. How dumb does that make me look? To make things worse, this treatment has messed up my muscles, so now, writing is in the trash can too."
He remembered asking Dr. Walker why he forgot everything every time he had brain surgery.
"You don't," Dr. Walker had said. "Not everything. You're walking and talking aren't you? I know it's tough to start some things over, but you're still a mighty lucky boy. As smart as you are, you'll do okay. Just try your best and give yourself time."
"Lucky?" Brandt had pouted. "Every time you shut down my brain, I come out feeling dumber than a dead rat! What's so lucky about that? I'm like . . . duh! I can't even tell you what two plus two is."
School was definitely bugging Brandt, but there was something else too. He kept telling himself it was no big deal, but he kept waking up at night thinking about it. It was what that kid in the hospital recreation room had said.
"How old are you?" he'd asked.
"Just turned eight."
"Me too."
Then came the kicker—the words that kept playing, rewinding and playing over again in his head.
"Be glad you're not twelve," the boy had said. "No twelve-year-old has ever had his brain operated on and lived to tell about it!"
Thinking the kid was making a bad joke, Brandt started a pretend laugh. Until he saw the kid's face. This was no joke, and as these two boys looked into each other's eyes, they both knew how serious he was. To this day, Brandt had never repeated those words to anyone, not to his dad and especially not to his mom! If he did, they'd just say the kid didn't have a clue. They'd say not to worry. Then, they would worry. They'd worry all day and all night, just like he'd done for the past week and a half. Right now, they had enough stuff to worry about. He'd keep this quiet.
Just as Brandt had feared, at age twelve, a new tumor raised it's ugly head. His primary tumor was still in remission, but this tumor was new, and was growing in the vital brain tissue of his frontal lobe. Removing it would require cutting into gray matter which controls speech, reasoning, memory, temper, personality, concentration, and motor skills. Surgery was no longer an option. I remember how matter-of-factly Brandt explained it to me.
"I would have done radiation again, but I can't. Besides, I don't have that much strength to give up. Back in first grade, I was the strongest kid there was. But now, that's ancient history. I have to make up for it with speed. Dr. Walker could have operated on me again, but he wouldn't. If he did, I couldn't talk or move. It wouldn't be worth it. So I guess chemo's the best they have for me. But the best they have stinks."
Chemotherapy is tough at any age, and at any time of year, but Brandt got a nice feast of chemo for his twelfth Thanksgiving with a second helping scheduled for Christmas. He went downhill fast. Mark and Patricia started searching for something to keep their son going. They contacted Make-a-Wish.
Every wish, like every wish child, is important. Each wish is granted with one purpose in mind: "to create a magical experience to last a lifetime." For some children, that lifetime is much too short. For some, like Brandt, every year of life is both a blessing and a battle. In these battles, Make-a-Wish is definitely one of the good guys. Their motto declares, "There's nothing like the power of a wish." As Brandt and other wish-kids fight for life, hope is a potent weapon, and a wish is hope made personal—hope brought to life.
More than once, I have seen hope's power in Brandt's eyes. I saw it the day Sandra Lord, Brandt's wish granter, introduced me to Brandt and his family.
"Why a book?" I asked. It was a question that had captured my interest from Sandra's first phone call. For a thirteen-year-old boy to wish for a book both intrigued and touched me. "You could have wished for a trip to Alaska, or to play basketball with Karl Malone." Noticing his pointed, polished cowboy boots, I added, "You could have met Garth Brooks."
"Oh yadda, yadda, yadda," he cut in. Then he got serious, pointed to the six-inch scar and circular indentation over his left ear, and said, "I've wished for a book since I first found out about this thing—when I was four. I didn't know what the heck was going on. I didn't even know what a brain tumor was. Besides, I want to accomplish something no one other kid with a brain tumor that I know of has ever done."
Could a child without hope afford such ambitious dreams? Having faced the mental challenge of learning to read and write five times in twelve years, could you or I muster such courage?
Brandt seemed to understand the wisdom in the saying, "The forest would be a quiet place if the only bird who sang was he who sang best." I instantly liked this boy—a lot—and I liked his wish. And I knew he liked it, too. This wish was from his heart.
To begin with, that was reason enough for me. But as Brandt and I have worked and played together, other motives and deeper hopes have surfaced. With each one, I have learned to treasure both Brandt and my own life a little more. In his short life, he has learned some things—powerful things. For both of us, these lessons have become the purpose of his wish, and it's power.
"If I had a normal functioning brain," I heard him tell a group of university students, "I'd read books and learn everything I can in a heartbeat. But I don't learn like most people. I learn by listening."
In ways, Brandt's wish is a lament for lost potential. And at the same time, his wish is a celebration of his abilities. He wants to read and write. His is a wish for the skill to put what he has felt, learned, and lived into a form he can share and keep forever—no matter what memories fall victim to future treatments or tumors. His wish is a memorial. For Brandt's life is more than his cancer, much more. It is filled with hopes and plans. A published book isn't the only thing he wants to accomplish.
If you hadn't wished for a book, what would you have wished?" I asked Brandt one day.
"I'd travel all over the world and talk to kids who are sick, like me, and I'd talk to their friends."
Brandt's wish is a wish for unity. I am beginning to understand how he developed the capacity to lie in the isolation of an MRI machine without sedation—an experience that terrifies most adults. Even with the support of remarkable friends and family, Brandt knows isolation. Brothers, sisters, and friends know when Brandt is sick. They know when his school desk is empty, and they care. Brandt's friend Michael even shaved his head, so Brandt wouldn't be the only hairless kid in school. But they have no experience to tell them what he is doing while he is away, or how he is feeling. No one knows how dark his fears are, how weary his body, how grateful his heart, or how deep his longings for learning, love, a future, a life. How could they?
On the day we traveled to Alexander's Printing to design Brandt's book, Brandt talked to me about his life. His voice was full of emotion. He was excited, but tired and worried about the results of his last MRI and cancer clinic. Our conversation became a closing chapter of Brandt's Wish.
"I hope you like my book. Many good people have helped make my wish come true. I want to say thanks to all of them.
Since my last chemo treatment, my life has been like it's always been up and down, up and down. Sometimes it's great; sometimes it's in the trash.
Last March, when I went to get my central line out, I felt great. Then they said, "maybe your tumor is growing again, or maybe you wiggled in the MRI machine. It's too soon to tell."
With that hanging over my head, I had to wait months for another MRI.
A month before the Relay for Life in September, my dad and I went for another cancer clinic, and they said I must have wiggled. I was definitely in remission. They said I should stay in remission for five or ten more years. I felt great at last!
Pretty great, at least. I want to live to be older than nineteen or twenty-three. I want to get through college and earn a little money, so I can buy my dad's Arco station. Or, I might want to join the Air Force and be a helicopter flyer. The only bad thing about the Air Force is that I couldn't live in Beaver. That's where I've lived my whole life, and it's my home.
I want to get married someday and be the kind of dad kids like. I'll play a lot with my kids, like my parents and grandparents have played with me. I'll let my kids choose a lot of things they want to do, but I'll expect them to do a few things. I think kids should go to school and learn about everything they can, and they should go to church on Sunday so they can learn about the gospel. When they're fourteen, maybe they should get a job.
There's one other thing I want to do before I die. I'm not a big history nut, but I want to visit England, where my ancestors came from. If I go with Grandpa Ray, I can just hear him telling stories everyplace we go, like how Robin Hood saved everybody.
My name, Brandt, is a last name. It's the name of a Spanish hero. My history teacher was reading something, and I heard her say my name.
I won't ever do chemo again. I saw something on the television about how many people die from chemo. It said, "Chemo is killing people, not cancer." I know chemo killed my tumor, so I guess I'm glad about that, but I still don't like it.
I still have a lot of questions about chemo, like how it kills the cancer, and why it makes you lose your appetite.
One thing I learned about chemo is that you have to have something to believe in to get through it. I can tell you one thing—without my family, my friends, and my book, I would have given up. My friend Chantell takes a big part in that. She could tell when I didn't want to live any more. She would make me swear on my soul that I wouldn't die—so, I didn't. She would pass me in the hall and say, "keep believing." It was like a secret code word.
Two days ago, I had another cancer clinic. They said a part of my old tumor is back. They thought it was scar tissue, but this MRI showed that it was tumor. They are going to watch it for a while. If it is shrinking, that's good. If not, I'm back in trouble again.
The doctor said the cancer could go into the roots of my brain. If it does, it could spread here, or there, or anywhere, and start another tumor; and there is nothing they could do to stop it.
Now, I'm waiting again to find out what's going on. If it's growing, they might try a different kind of radiation this time. Instead of radiating all around my whole brain, they will use a laser to zap it. It blows the part they want to smithereens. Maybe cancer will kill me, maybe chemo, maybe radiation, or maybe none of them. I don't know. Scientists are always finding new ways to kill cancer.
Now that my book is finished, I have a lot of plans for it. I'm going to give the first copies to my family and friends, then put some in my grandma's store and my dad's Arco station to sell...I want to ask my principal if we can use part of the school one day, so I can sign books for kids.
When I talk to the kids, there are some things I will tell them. I'll say, "You guys should read and study and learn as much as you can. I'll tell them to take one step at a time and to always try—try their best. It's all you can do. If you try, you can do just about anything. Like when I crashed. I didn't know if I could get up, but I did. I got up and ran back for help, and all of my fear went away.
Once, I gave a talk. One of kids asked if I had a hero. I told him, "Yes. Thats my job, to be my own hero."
Keep believing,
Brandt Mark Yardley
Editors' Note:
Thanks to the overwhelming response of those who have watched and read the news releases about Brandt in Utah and throughout the western United states, copies of Brandt's Wish are now available at his dad's Arco in Beaver, at most Deseret Book stores, Barnes and Noble, and from his web site at http://www.inetmktg.net/wish Brandt is donating a portion of all books sales to the Make-a-Wish Foundation so he can help other kid's wishes come true.
You can e-mail Brandt and Lorraine Thompson at brandtswish@netutah.com
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