Stories and Tributes: Brady Smith
July 31, 1979 – July 4, 2010
I am anxious to tell you of my son Brady. I knew as a little girl that I wanted children; I grew up with sisters only, so knew I could handle girls, but I had always had a strong desire to have a boy. I was first blessed with two beautiful daughters; Brady was my third child, baby, and only son.
On the maternal side, in the extended family in which I primarily was raised, Brady was the first boy in many generations of strong, loving women. His father was a professional musician, and music has always been an important part of my life, so Brady was swaddled in it from birth. I raised he and his sisters as a single mom from the time he was eight months old until I remarried when he was nine. I often express myself through both music and writing, and my children have always inspired me. I would like to share a poem I wrote when Brady was four:
My children
strong and separate
grown from seeds
planted lovingly.
Three people
small but absolute
I love them
each differently.
Little girls
with fragile hearts
one small boy
grinning impishly.
One day, nine-year-old Brady tucked an envelope in my purse, along with a quarter from his piggy bank, and asked whether I could buy a stamp and mail it for him. I had forgotten about it until I was at work the next day and noticed it was addressed to a company. Out of curiosity, I opened and read the carefully folded letter inside, then made a copy before mailing. It read:
Dear Continental Baking Company,
I really like the snacks you make for Hostess. My mother buys them whenever she can. So you can imagine my surprise when I bit into a Twinkie, only to find there was no filling. I am not writing to complain but merely to alert you to possible faulty machinery. Please keep up the good work.
Your friend,
Brady Smith (they sent him a whole case)
And Brady could fix anything. At about age 10, he took my vacuum cleaner completely apart. He explained:
Mama, I just wanted you to know that I fixed your vacuum cleaner.
It wasn't broken, Brady.
Well ... it was gonna be Mama, but it surely won't be now.
Repairing, installing and building would become his life’s vocation.
Finally, if you’ll permit one more story, as a single mom, I had scraped together enough money to buy all three children new Easter outfits. After picking out the clothes, Brady sobbed all the way to the checkout. When I pressed him as to what was wrong, thinking it wasn't like him to be unhappy with what we'd chosen, he finally said "no mama, you never buy you anything, so please please don't buy me anything either."
In writing this, I carefully pondered the words people have most used to describe my son: loving, kind, sweet, gentle … unselfish. Indeed he was all of those, but he was also witty, charming and articulate. I can't remember his ever having been in trouble, anytime, for anything. From birth, he was a unique individual.
Brady died of a brain aneurysm on the 4th of July, just a few weeks shy of his 31st birthday. Healthy and robust, his last conscious moments were spent laughing with friends. In fact, he had just made the statement before he collapsed, "I've never laughed so hard in my life." I have to say here, that is exactly how he would have wanted it. I have since come to realize that perhaps we all should endeavor to end our life here on Earth in just that manner … laughing.
Brady had always cherished relationships and people, and as my last story depicts, he was unselfish in nature. Unselfish … indeed. Years before, he had made the decision to be an organ donor on his driver’s license. Brady lingered for two weeks before his death. In those dismal days and nights I sat in the hospital at his bedside, my heart was breaking for my child, for unborn blue-eyed grandbabies, for music we would never hear together ... for just the loss I knew I would feel … just him being there.
But my thoughts were also of my son’s future organ, cornea and tissue recipients. I knew they were out there somewhere, possibly very ill, waiting and hoping ... and I knew someone loved them just as much as I loved my son. I found myself being comforted not only in the certainty that my child would soon step into the arms of Jesus, but that others would be given a second chance, that someone else would be given an opportunity to “never laugh so hard in their life.”
