MBS Ambassador of the Year

We all have specific dates in our lives that hold significance for us. Some dates are reminders of joy and excitement. Maybe it’s the start of something new, the first day of your first job, or a wedding anniversary. But some days hold significance because of the reminders of pain they may bear.

One such day, for me, is the first day I came to visit Preston in the hospital. My life was that of a normal college freshman up until that day. I was 18, green, and trying to determine what my purpose was going to be in life. That's until I received a phone call late in the evening of January 24, 2018. My dad was calling. I knew instantly something was off. If one of my parents was going to call at this hour, it was always my mom.

We spoke for a minute. 60 seconds for my dad to tell me my brother had underwent an MRI of his brain earlier that day, and the scans were bad. So bad, that his case was deemed a lost cause and too complex for the Head of Neurological Surgery at our local hospital. Preston was put in an ambulance to Ochsner Medical Center in NOLA in hopes of finding someone qualified to help him. I can vividly remember lifting my phone in a sideways manner away from my cheek so that the speaker wasn't near my mouth. I was breaking, and I could hear my dad breaking too. I didn’t realize it, but I had never seen or heard my dad cry. We didn't say goodbye. It was like this mutual-unspoken acknowledgement that we didn't want the other to hear ourselves fall apart, and we hung up.

The morning of January 26, 2018, was unusually cold for the south. I guess it was fitting, considering the circumstances. I had never been to Ochsner Medical Center before, or even the area of New Orleans it was in for that matter. That drive, however, I would soon be able to make in my sleep.

We’ve all seen the slow-motion sequences take place in TV dramas. Drawing out the effects and making a moment more serious and emotional maybe. This wasn’t that. I can still place myself in the first elevator I ever stepped foot in at Ochsner. Weird, I know. I was overloaded with bags as my dad, and I had to grab fresh clothes for my mom and Preston as they had never anticipated a hospital stay. For some odd reason, though, all I could think about in that moment was a specific scene of Meredith Grey from Grey’s Anatomy. It was one of those drawn-out scenes where she was in an elevator, and she stared up at the ceiling and closed her eyes. Clearly overwhelmed, as this was the scene after her husband, Derek’s, fatal accident, and she had come to see him. Was this my Meredith Grey moment? I stared up at the ceiling as if that would do something, but all I could grasp was that, unlike Meredith, this was real.

I’ve never not known what to say to Preston. He’s my little brother, and naturally, I have always been truly myself with him. Seeing him in a hospital bed in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU) for the first time, however, I was at a loss of words. I don’t know exactly what I was expecting, even though I had seen him the weekend before. But it wasn’t for him to look and seem completely normal. Not having anything smart to say but wanting to fill the air in the room, I said the only thing that came to mind, “You didn’t have to outdo me on my knee injuries this much.” His response stopped me. I had never heard him say anything with such conviction behind his words, “I didn’t ask for this.”

I worked to distract Preston from the clear, serious discussions taking place between our parents and the doctors outside of his room. Strategically, I positioned myself so that I faced our parents in the hallway, so his back was to them, and I had his attention. A part that would become my role of sorts in Preston’s journey.

That afternoon Preston’s new Physical Therapist and Occupational Therapist came by to work with him. At one point, they took him into the hallway to walk, and they each held onto one of Preston’s arms, fully supporting him. He could hardly walk. At that moment, I had a pure hatred for myself. How had I not seen the signs so clearly in my face? It was then that my mom approached me in the doorway of Preston’s room and began sharing the severity of the situation. She told me she hadn’t told Preston how bad it was. Nothing would ever be the same. That’s if we had Preston.

It wasn’t until later that afternoon that I learned the full severity of Preston’s case. For reference, it’s not a good sign if two world-class neurosurgeons come in your room with monitors to show scans on a Friday evening. That’s when I learned about the beast, as they referred to it, the AVM. Science had never been my strong suit, but looking at the scans on the monitors, I could clearly see things were very wrong. For starters, there was this large, fluid-like sac that went clear across his brain. That was the cyst. And it was causing Preston’s loss of mobility and it had also clearly pushed his brain off-center. And then there was the source of all our problems, the AVM. I don’t have an educated way of explaining what the AVM looked like on the scan other than my first reaction. It looked dead. Taking up the right frontal lobe of Preston’s brain, next to the unaffected areas, it just appeared lifeless.

I sat there stunned. This wasn’t real. But here we were, as I sat directly to the left of Preston. Dr. Valle, the clear lead on Preston’s case, was now explaining what everything meant. Before he could continue, however, my mother interrupted, asking if Preston should be present to hear this. He replied simply, that it was Preston’s body. I think we all needed to hear that. Preston was only 16, but many big decisions were going to be made that would determine his future.

There were zero good avenues. Preston had a Grade 5 AVM. If they operated, he would lose his life because of its significant size and, thus, would rupture during the operation and be catastrophic. If they didn’t operate, Preston would lose his life because it was only a matter of time until the AVM ruptured on its own. Which, it had already slowly begun to, thus the formation of the cyst. How it hadn’t ruptured fully up to this point was astronomical. Best case? If Preston were to survive that surgery, it would leave the entire left side of his body paralyzed, not to mention other deficits.

My first night with Preston in the hospital

It was my job to be Preston’s cheerleader. To tell him he could beat this. But in this moment, I couldn’t hold myself together. I craned my neck up and to the left towards the ceiling, away from Preston, quickly blinking my eyes to stop the tears. I worked to slow my breathing, praying that he couldn’t hear me break. And that was just my first day.

January 26, 2023, 5 years from the day my world crumbled before my eyes. Because of that day and the journey it brought, I created Preston Strong. I took Preston Strong to the Miss Mississippi stage and even began serving as an Ambassador for The Aneurysm and AVM Foundation (TAAF) and Mississippi Blood Services (MBS).

As we near the end of National Blood Donor Month, I don’t think anything could be more fitting than attending an awards ceremony at Mississippi Blood Services to honor individuals and groups who furthered its mission in 2022. Not to mention, on this day in Preston’s journey.

Just in the year I have worked with MBS, I have gained lifelong friendships, especially my dear friend, Brittany Mitchell. Brittany, you are amazing in every way. I was initially looking for a partnership to benefit our collective missions, but I gained that and more.

My day today begins like any other. I’m in my office before 8am and soon find myself in meetings most of my morning. No one at work knows the significance of today, and I don’t care for them to. It has no significance here, but it’s all I can think about.

I don’t think I could be happier than I am right now. I’ve come a long way from being that determined, yet terrified college freshman. I found purpose through that pain, and I’m better for it.

Like most things Preston Strong, it ultimately becomes a family affair, and today is no different. I haven’t told my family what my speech entails. I never do. It feels weird honestly, because of how personal the entirety of Preston Strong is. Numerous awards have been given out to the nominees, now turned winners, as I wait for my queue to go to the front to speak. I’ve gotten quite good at keeping myself composed when speaking about Preston’s story with others, whether it’s a conversation or a public setting like tonight. I don’t break apart, that is like I did the first few years in trying to find normalcy after everything. Let alone during his battle.

My name is called, and unlike the other award recipients, I am asked to say a few words, and I’m honored to do so. Since creating Preston Strong, I’ve had the privilege of speaking to numerous groups, but I don’t think I have ever been more present than I am at this moment. I clearly know the message I want to convey. I watch the audience’s expressions as I share and take special note when I talk about how Preston’s final surgery entailed removing the entire right frontal lobe of his brain. I think it’s the shock that comes across most peoples’ faces when they hear it, and I can’t help but think of the shock my family and I had when we first learned of that surgery.

We end the day as a family. Just like we did 5 years earlier with pizza in the hospital room just tonight, we’ll sleep soundly.

With MBS CEO, David Allan

Thank you, MBS, for this incredible recognition. I am honored to be your 2022 Ambassador of the Year and to work with an organization made up of incredibly passionate and driven individuals.