Heart Ailment of 5-year-old Son Tests Pro Quarterback’s Faith

c. 2005 Religion News Service (UNDATED) Trent Dilfer, the Cleveland Browns’ new starting quarterback, sat in his son Trevin’s hospital room two years ago and cried. If you just looked at Trevin’s blond little head and not at the tangle of tubes sewn into his open chest, it looked like he was sleeping peacefully. There, […]

c. 2005 Religion News Service

(UNDATED) Trent Dilfer, the Cleveland Browns’ new starting quarterback, sat in his son Trevin’s hospital room two years ago and cried.

If you just looked at Trevin’s blond little head and not at the tangle of tubes sewn into his open chest, it looked like he was sleeping peacefully. There, on the wall near his bed, was a picture of Trevin hugging Mickey Mouse and smiling. He looked so happy and healthy, so full of life.


But the only thing keeping him alive now was the massive machine humming and whirring on the back wall. In fact, Dilfer and his wife, Cass, were faced with a heart-wrenching decision. Did they let his time run out on the machine or should they turn it off and say goodbye in a special way?

Dilfer couldn’t bear the thought of either. Trevin, 5, was his only son and his ally in a house full of girls. He loved hanging around the locker room with his dad and was in Dilfer’s arms after he won a Super Bowl with the Baltimore Ravens following the 2000 season. At Seattle Seahawks practices, Trevin would often challenge the receivers to a race. Like his dad, he was always convinced he could win.

At home, Trevin was the peacemaker. With three sisters to protect, he was always running around yelling, “Trevin to the rescue!” And now, Dilfer _ all 6-foot-4 and 225 pounds of him _ was helpless to rescue this 50-pound version of himself.

Dilfer had been through some tough times before, but nothing like this. In college, he drank every day. In Tampa, he was booed relentlessly by Buccaneers fans and was released by the team in 1999, two years after making the Pro Bowl. In Baltimore, he was dumped just after winning the Super Bowl. And in Seattle, he ruptured his Achilles tendon after finally winning the starting job.

Each time, his faith _ and his football _ kept him from crumbling. But this was different. This time, God was asking him to let go of Trevin.

Growing up in Santa Cruz, Calif., Dilfer came from a broken home, but he had two sets of parents who loved him and kept a close eye on him. Still, he found his way into trouble.

By his senior year in high school, Dilfer was the star quarterback and king of the party circuit. But he was getting mostly A’s in school and W’s on the field, so no one suspected.


Then in his freshman year at Fresno State, he tore a biceps and sat out the season as a redshirt. With all that free time, life became one big party. School was a breeze, so not even his coaches caught on. His buddies knew he was out of control, but who were they to argue with the Golden Boy?

Sometimes, the guilt would overwhelm Dilfer and he’d wander over to the Evangelical Free Church, where team chaplain Joe Broussard preached.

The summer before his sophomore season at Fresno State, in 1992, Dilfer was invited to a Fellowship of Christian Athletes camp.

Hung over and bleary-eyed, he sat and listened as a group of about 40 college athletes began to share their stories. At first, he thought, “These geeks have no clue.” But soon he broke down and wept.

He became a Christian and vowed to turn his life around.

Back at Fresno State, Dilfer had no one but his drinking buddies, and he soon lost those.

“You’ll be back with me in 60 days,” Brad Bell, his drinking buddy, said.

His football coach, Jim Sweeney, told him that his religion could divide the locker room.


Dilfer called Cassandra, his classmate and the beautiful captain of the swim team. He told her about his conversion and she said, “I don’t believe you.” So he persuaded her to meet with him.

It was true. Dilfer was different. Soon, they began dating and 11 months later they were married.

He left college after his junior season and was drafted No. 6 overall by Tampa Bay. But he missed the first two weeks of training camp in a contract dispute and never really caught up. He had a bad rookie year and got off on the wrong foot with the fans. Finally, two years after he became the first Bucs quarterback to make the Pro Bowl, they cut him in 1999.

He signed with Baltimore for the 2000 season and won a Super Bowl, but he didn’t get any credit because the team’s defense was so dominant. Two months later, the Ravens dumped him.

Still stung by the Ravens’ snub, he signed with the Seahawks as a backup in 2001 and won four games in relief of injured Matt Hasselbeck. Coach Mike Holmgren, surprised by Dilfer’s performance, re-signed Dilfer to a four-year deal in the off-season and told him, “You’re my starter.”

Dilfer was determined to prove the Ravens wrong. But he injured his knee in the 2002 preseason and missed the first five games. Then, after starting six games, he ruptured his Achilles tendon and missed the rest of the year.


The only good thing about the injury was that it gave him plenty of time to spend with Cass and their four children, Madeleine, 6, Trevin, 5, Victoria, 4 and Delaney 1.

In March 2003, the family went to Disneyland. On their second day, Trevin felt feverish and wasn’t himself. A doctor diagnosed him with asthma and bronchitis.

The Dilfers cut the trip short, and Trevin seemed fine on the ride home. But the next day, Trevin was listless and couldn’t speak. While Dilfer was out with the girls, Cass took Trevin to the emergency room.

Doctors thought Trevin might have hepatitis and sent him to a nearby children’s hospital. But his heart failed in the ambulance. They revived him, but it failed a second time when he arrived. Doctors sat the Dilfers down and said: “He’s not going to make it, for some reason his heart won’t respond. We’re pumping it manually. We have no idea what’s going on.”

Dilfer fell to his knees and sobbed.

Doctors stabilized Trevin to open his chest and put him on a heart-lung bypass machine. Still, they warned the Dilfers, “This is a temporary fix.”

Trevin needed to be moved to the hospital at Stanford University. But, because of the medical equipment, a military helicopter was required. Problem was, the United States had just gone to war with Iraq and no helicopters were available.


They decided to take Trevin by ambulance, even though it was dangerous. If it hit a bump and one of the valves came loose, Trevin would die instantly.

Dilfer’s college drinking buddy, Bell, showed up and insisted on driving the Dilfers to Stanford. When Bell attended a banquet where Dilfer was speaking about his faith, Bell decided to turn his life around and went on to become one of the most dynamic ministers in Fresno. And now here he was, taking his friend on the most agonizing ride of his life.

For three hours, the Dilfers followed the ambulance, with its red lights flashing and sirens blaring. Every bump in the road was terrifying.

Trevin made it to Stanford alive.

By the next day, friends, family and teammates flew in. They were known as Camp Trev and from the time Trevin arrived, he had as many as 40 visitors a day.

Doctors told the Dilfers that a rare virus had attacked Trevin’s heart and he needed a transplant. But before they could place him on the waiting list, they had to prove he had brain activity.

Every day, Camp Trev would sing to Trevin, rub his feet and talk to him. His sisters, who were staying with their grandparents, talked into a tape recorder and their voices were played for him over and over. One day, Dilfer put his finger in Trevin’s hand and started talking. A tear slipped out of Trevin’s eye and he squeezed his dad’s finger.


It was the happiest moment of Dilfer’s life.

It was enough evidence to put Trevin on the waiting list for a heart.

But it was a race against time.

Each day brought an increased risk of a bacterial infection. If Trevin developed such an infection, he’d have to be removed from the waiting list.

The next 25 days were excruciating. Cass stayed in the room for hours at a time, but Dilfer could only stay for 20 minutes or so. Often, he’d go to the rooftop garden and pray. Once, he went to the chapel and broke down. “God, take my life, just spare my son!” Dilfer pleaded.

On April 20, Dilfer and Cass attended Easter services, marking the first time in almost 40 days that they both were away from Trevin. But when they returned, Dilfer knew something was wrong. There were more doctors than usual, including the heads of the intensive care and cardiac units.

The next morning, Dilfer and Cass got the bad news: Trevin most likely had a systemic infection.

All this time, Dilfer and Cass trusted that the Lord would save Trevin. But that night, Dilfer had a revelation: God would save Trevin by taking him home.

On April 24, Dilfer sent Cass to be with the girls for her birthday. While she was gone, he sat in Trevin’s room and wrote him two tear-stained letters.


Two days later, Dilfer and Cass prayed and decided to take Trevin off life support. They were told the machine could only keep him alive two more weeks and he’d be in pain. Doctors and pastors assured them it was the loving and merciful thing to do.

On April 27, they told the girls up on the rooftop garden. Maddie, 7, cried and yelled, “No! You are ruining my life!” Then they all went into Trevin’s room and played his favorite song _ “One of These Days.” The song by FFH is about dying and going to heaven.

The girls left the room, and Dilfer turned off the machine.

Three days later, the Dilfers held a Celebration of Trevin’s Life at People’s Church in Fresno.

Dilfer’s pastor, Broussard, and Bell, led the service.

Dilfer didn’t intend to speak, but he felt moved to do so. He picked up Trevin’s blue blanket, the one he had in the hospital. Then he looked up at the huge picture of Trevin on the projection screen, cried and said, “He was my best friend.”

(OPTIONAL TRIM BEGINS)

The more than 2,000 in attendance, including NFL players and coaches from Dilfer’s three teams, all cried with him.

Some of the funeral was televised in Fresno, and the Dilfers received thousands of cards and letters, many saying that their lives had been changed because of Trevin.


The Dilfers set up TD4HIM, a foundation to raise money for youth sports programs, church ministries and other things they knew Trevin loved. They kept Trevin’s bedroom intact to keep him with them in spirit. They surrounded themselves with family and friends and got counseling for themselves and the girls.

Still, the grief was suffocating.

(OPTIONAL TRIM ENDS)

When it came time for Seahawks camp in the summer of 2003, Dilfer, somehow, made it to camp. It was a tough season, as he backed up Hasselbeck.

The next season, 2004, Dilfer started two games in relief of Hasselbeck and Seattle won them both. He realized that, more than ever, he needed to be on the field.

But he knew he’d have to leave the Seahawks to be a starter again. This was Hasselbeck’s team now, and it was time for Dilfer to move on.

Besides, he was ready for a new challenge, another step in the healing process. What’s more, his family was emotionally up for such a big move. He asked the Seahawks to trade him and soon received a call from Browns General Manager Phil Savage, his old friend from the Ravens. He called it a miracle.

He was back in the game as a starter, and now Sundays will be more special than ever. They’re a chance to show off for Trevin, his best friend and his No. 1 fan.


MO/JL END RNS

(Mary Kay Cabot writes for the Plain Dealer in Cleveland.)

Editors: Check the RNS photo Web site at https://religionnews.com for a photo of Dilfer to accompany this story. Search by slug or name.

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