40 stories for Addie: The lives she changed

Karina Bland
The Republic |
Four-year-old Addie Parker loved books and knew if her parents tried to skip even a sentence, let alone an entire page. She was desperate to go to school and insisted on doing homework in the afternoons with her big brother, Alec.

Micki Parker stood at the end of the hospital bed and looked from the beeping machines to the faces of the doctor and the nurse. Her daughter’s blood pressure and heart rate were dropping.

It felt like her own heart had stopped — and then she could feel it again, racing this time. She said to her husband, Darrell, softly, “It’s not good,” and then, “This is bad.”

Addie looked impossibly small on the big bed, still wearing her teal shirt and tan shorts under her fuzzy pink blanket. Her nite-nite.

“We need to intubate your sweet peach,” the doctor told Micki. "Sweet peach." The doctor had been calling Addie that since they arrived at the hospital emergency room hours before.

Now the doctor would run a tube down Addie’s throat to help her breathe. Micki held her own breath. “Breathe,” Darrell told her.

The doctor was going to send Addie by ambulance to Cardon Children’s Medical Center in Mesa, where there was a pediatric intensive care unit. She called for a helicopter.

Micki squeezed in behind two flight nurses and pressed herself against the window. Darrell and their son, Alec, 9, would drive and meet them there. It was 5:30 p.m.

Addie’s eyes were closed, like she was sleeping. They didn't know it then, but for the Parkers, nothing would ever be the same again.

A decision: 'Absolutely. Absolutely.'

Micki couldn’t believe this was happening. Just 24 hours earlier, Addie had been fine, riding her pink-and-white Red Ryder tricycle on the sidewalk in front of their San Tan Valley house.

She had padded into her parents’ bedroom at 1 in the morning in her green nightgown, the one dotted with monkeys and hearts, and whispered that she had thrown up and peed the bed. Her mom had made a blanket bed on the floor next to theirs, got a bucket and smoothed her daughter’s long hair back into a messy bun.

Kids throw up all the time.

But Addie kept throwing up, curled up on the couch next to her dad and watching "SpongeBob SquarePants." When she complained she was dizzy and couldn’t see, her parents rushed her to Banner Ironwood Medical Center, 1 mile away. The waiting room was mercifully empty at noon.

Addie asked for her brother, Alec. When he got out of school, he sat on the edge of Addie’s bed, sharing her strawberry Jell-O.

At Cardon, the helicopter touched down. Tests showed Addie’s blood sugar level was 543 milligrams per deciliter, dangerously high. And then one thing after another seemed to go wrong.

In a darkened room in the pediatric intensive care unit, Micki watched the doctor examine her daughter’s eyes with a flashlight. Her pupils were dilated and still.

For six days, doctors worked to save her. Family and friends came and went, unsure of what to do to help.

There was nothing anyone could do.

The undiagnosed diabetes had caused Addie’s brain to swell and hemorrhage. A scan showed the damage. On Aug. 18, 2011, doctors confirmed her brain dead.

Addison Maureen Parker would have been 5 the next month.

She had been desperate to go to kindergarten and insisted on doing homework with her brother at the dining table. She flashed peace signs instead of waving goodbye. She loved to swim.

Now her parents would have to let her go. Micki buried her face in Darrell’s chest. And in that harrowing moment, they were asked to make a decision. Would they consider organ donation?

Micki had known the question was coming. She worked at a hospital as a patient-care specialist. The day before, she had noticed a lime-green organ-donor card had been placed in Addie’s folder.

Micki sat up. “Absolutely,” she said. Darrell echoed her: “Absolutely.”

Addie wouldn’t go to school, or do any of the other things they had imagined for their daughter. But the little girl who shared her Jell-O and made sure everyone else had a cookie before she took one, who liked to help fold the laundry — even folding the dryer sheet — could do this.

The Parkers left the hospital to go home, their world changed forever.

In Minnesota, 1,600 miles away, Addie’s liver was tucked into the belly of a 14-month-old boy, a perfect fit. There, everything changed, too.

A letter, a picture, a second letter 

Grant Thompson was diagnosed with a rare liver disease when he was an infant. By the time he was 14 months old, doctors said he would die without a transplant.

Two months later, a letter addressed to “Dearest Donor Family” arrived at the Parkers' house. It was from Minnesota, where Kyle and Jackie Thompson had been told that without a transplant, their toddler son Grant had just weeks to live. Their names had been redacted.

Micki read the three-page letter and studied the enclosed pictures of the brown-haired boy — a picture before, in a hospital gown, his skin yellow-green, the whites of his eyes mustardy; another after, taken two weeks later, outside, on his mom’s lap, skin normal, clear-eyed and grinning.

She made copies of the letter to send to family and showed her co-workers. But she didn’t write back. And Darrell couldn’t bring himself to read it.

Two years later, a second letter arrived, addressed the same way. This time, Darrell opened it while Micki was at work. A picture was enclosed. He put it on the refrigerator, next to one of Addie.

The Parkers and Thompsons met for the first time in August 2014 in Minnesota. Nationwide, only 5 percent of donors and recipients ever meet.

At that first meeting, Micki would rub her hand across Grant’s belly, where a 14-inch scar runs diagonally from high on his left side to his lower right abdomen.

A piece of Addie is in there.

In the time since then, the families' friendship has grown, with regular texts, phone calls and visits. Micki was the first person Grant called to tell he had lost his first tooth.

After the meeting, Micki wanted to know about everyone else who had received organs or tissue from Addie.

Micki started with the little girl in Washington who got Addie’s heart. In all, it was 40 people. Forty. A stunning number from a 36-pound girl.

'So many things I want you to know'

A table built by Darrell Parker and his daughter, Addie, is pictured with her shoes and other items in her room on Sunday, Sept. 20, 2015, in San Tan Valley, Ariz.

Dear Heart Recipient and family,” the letter began.

“I cannot begin to tell you how many letters I have started to write you. So many letters started but never printed or mailed. Not for any reason other than I have so many things to say and so many things I want you to know.”

The letter had been difficult to write. Micki had written it in her head several times, but when she sat down at the computer to write it for real, she would go blank.

There were so many things she wanted to say, other things that she needed to say, and she didn’t want it to come out wrong.

“That Addie was able to save someone with her heart was huge to us,” Micki said. “I just want to reach out and give hugs, and I don’t want to scare anyone.”

Then on the night of Oct. 22, 2014, while she was doing homework for her college biology class, part of her studies to be a nurse, she suddenly switched screens on the computer and began to write.

She wrote about her family, how she and Darrell had been married for 15 years and that their son, Alec, was 13 now. And then she wrote about Addie:

“She was mellow and kind. She was happy and silly. She was outgoing and loving. Addie was so funny. She did things to make us laugh every single day. Addie was pretty. Not just because she was my daughter do I say that, but she was a pretty baby and just got prettier by the month. She had huge bluish aqua colored eyes and long brown wavy hair. Her smile was infectious and it would light up a room.”

It was late. Alec came up behind her and asked, “What are you doing? You need to go to bed.”

“I will, buddy,” she told him. “I want to finish this first.”

Micki wrote about how Addie got sick and then she asked about the girl who now had her daughter’s heart. She would have been almost 4 years old, just like Addie.

“Do you like Hello Kitty, like Addie did? Do you love to swim? Do you have siblings? Do have pets?  Are you funny? Do you love to snuggle after bath time?”

She knew from yearly updates from Donor Network of Arizona that the girl was doing well medically, that she had not rejected Addie’s heart. But Micki wanted more.

“I didn’t want to scare them, so I didn’t say, ‘I want to hold you. I want to hear your heart beat,’” Micki said.

But she wanted that.

She would like a picture of the girl. She would like to visit.

Micki wrote, “My family and I are open to whatever communication you want to have. We would love a letter, a card, a picture, a phone call! When you are ready. Would you like a picture of Addie?”

She was unsure how to sign the letter:

“Sincerely? Love? Thank you? Talk soon?

"I don't know. Probably all of those things. :)

"Micki Parker”

At 3:11 a.m., she emailed the letter to Donor Network of Arizona, which handled Addie’s organ donation. From there, Micki knew it would be redacted, their names removed to protect their privacy until both parties agreed to the contact. Then it would be printed out and mailed to the transplant coordinator at the hospital in Washington, who would forward it to the family.

Micki knew it could take weeks to get there and weeks more to receive a response. She would have to be patient.

In the meantime, Grant and his family were coming to visit.

The first visit to Arizona: Sharing stories

Jackie Thompson (right) with Grant Thompson, Nov. 6, 2014, looking on is Micki Parker. Micki’s daughter, Addie was 4 when she died, suddenly and unexpectedly. The Parker’s donated her organs and Grant received Addie's liver. The Thompson’s, from Minnesota were visiting the Parker’s in San Tan Valley, Ariz.

It was 66 degrees and sunny on Nov. 6, 2014, and 4-year-old Grant and his twin brother, Zachary, were in the pool in the Parkers' backyard.

Back home in Minnesota, it was 33 degrees, their dad, Kyle Thompson, explained. So this was practically summer.

Grant jumped off the edge and into the water. He was the same age now as Addie had been when she died, and he was wearing her Hello Kitty flotation vest and Avengers swim trunks.

This was the Thompsons' first visit to stay with the Parkers.

Grant still was a little smaller than his twin, but he started out that way. The boys, identical twins, were born June 16, 2010, Zachary first at 5 pounds, 11 ounces, and then two minutes later, Grant, at 3 pounds, 7 ounces. Zachary spent a week in the hospital; Grant stayed for two.

Grant had jaundice, so the Thompsons put him in the window for a little bit each day to get some sun. But Grant didn’t eat much. He didn't gain weight like his brother.

At 7 weeks old, Grant was diagnosed with a rare liver disease called biliary atresia, which backs bile up inside the liver, causing damage and eventual failure. A surgical procedure to fix it failed.

In November 2010, doctors told the Thompsons that Grant would need a transplant. A feeding tube helped him gain enough weight for surgery. He was put on the transplant list July 19, 2011. And then they waited.

The worst part, Kyle said: “We knew somebody else would have to lose their children to save ours.” How could they pray for that?

“We thought about it all the time,” he said.

Maybe the child would come from a dysfunctional family, where he or she had been abused or something. For Kyle, a police officer and volunteer firefighter, it was the only way he could deal with what had to happen.

Because Grant was growing sicker all the time. As the weeks slipped by, Jackie began to plan a funeral.

Zachary started walking at a year old. At 14 months old, Grant took his first tentative steps, seven of them.

Five days after Grant took those first steps, on Aug. 19, 2011, at 2:30 a.m., they got the call. There was a liver for Grant. They were told the donor was a 4-year-old boy from Mesa, in Arizona.

'I think my son has your daughter's liver'

Kyle Thompson looks at a photo album with his son, Grant Thompson, 5, on Sunday, Sept. 20, 2015, in San Tan Valley, Ariz. The Parker family donated their 4-year-old daughter Addie's organs after she died in 2011. Grant received Addie's liver, and the two families have been friends since they met about a year ago.

It fit perfectly. Grant left the hospital in a week. By October, Grant was walking, and Jackie wrote that first letter to his donor’s family.

They got no answer, but they included the young donor in their prayers every night. On the one-year anniversary, they released green and white balloons. The second year, the balloon had an airplane from Disney’s “Planes” movie on it.

It had been the second letter, received at just the right time, that brought the two families together.

Darrell had opened that letter and then got on the computer. There were no names, but the mother had written that they had spoken at an event about their son’s liver transplant.

Darrell found a news story about the event online and, for the first time, learned the name of the boy who got his daughter’s liver, and his parents. He searched for them on Facebook and saw that they had since had another son, Owen.

Darrell called the organizer of the event and gave him their contact information to pass along to theThompsons. And then they waited.

The Parkers thought maybe the Thompsons had changed their minds about meeting. In Minnesota, the Thompsons had almost given up, too.

“I just settled on the fact that we weren’t ever going to know who it was or where it came from,” Kyle said.

But then, six months after Darrell had contacted the event organizer, the man stopped by to visit the Thompsons and realized the two families had never connected. He went back to his office for the names and phone numbers.

With that information, Kyle searched the Internet and found the Parkers' Facebook page for a charity walk for juvenile diabetes. The child’s gender was wrong. Their donor was supposedly a boy. But the date of death was the same.

“This is it,” he thought. “This is real.”

He called Jackie, a nurse, at work. “I think I figured it out,” he told her. It was five hours before he could bring himself to call Arizona.

When Micki answered the phone, he started, “I don’t know how to say this,” and then he paused. Micki was quiet, too. So he just said it: “I think my son has your daughter’s liver.”

And Micki had said softly, “Yes. Yes, he does.”

'They didn't deserve to lose their little angel'

Addie Thompson, 4, and her brother, Alec, 9. If Addie got a Capri Sun, she'd get a second one for Alec. If the ice cream truck came when Addie wasn't home, Alec would ask for enough money for two. "I need to get one for my sister," he'd say.

The Parkers were nothing like Kyle had hoped. He had let himself imagine the donor's family as bad people, who had maybe mistreated their child. But the Parkers were good people, warm and kind. They had loved and doted on their daughter. Alec was devoted to her.

“Immediately, I felt guilty," Kyle said. "They didn’t deserve to lose their little angel. We benefited. We got to keep ours."

He looked at Jackie, who nodded. It weighed on them both. “You imagine it’s your fault somehow,” she said.

Blood tests every month show how Grant’s new liver was functioning. “He’s been really, really stable,” Jackie said.

He takes immunosuppressant drugs to keep his body from rejecting his new liver, always a lingering fear. It’s important that Grant hang on to it, Jackie said, for him, and for Micki and Darrell.

“That’s the piece they have left of their daughter,” she said.

Grant shrugged out of Addie’s swim vest and wrapped a towel around his neck like a super hero.

“What’s in there, Grant?” his dad asked, pointing to the scar on his belly.

“Addie’s liber!” the boy said, pronouncing the “v” like “b.”

'You have to let that go'

Zachary (left) and Grant Thompson, 5, plays in the pool at Darrell and Micki Parker's home on Sunday, Sept. 20, 2015, in San Tan Valley, Ariz.

Wrapped in towels, Grant and Zachary came into the house through the sliding door from the pool. Addie had loved to swim, too. “She was a little fish,” Darrell said.

Addie is everywhere in the house. That's the couch where she watched “Three Stooges” movies and “The Andy Griffith Show” with Darrell, a stay-at-home dad. She danced to Katy Perry and Justin Bieber on that coffee table.

Her bedroom is almost as she left it. Her pink Converse tennis shoes sit in the closet. “My Chucks,” she called them. The books are piled on her nightstand, “Amelia Bedelia” on top. The castle alarm clock and stuffed toy frog perch on the dresser. Stuff of princesses.

Addie would introduce herself to new people: “My name is Addison Parker. I go by Addie. I don’t like to be called ‘Addison.’" And then she’d rattle off her phone number.

“She was fearless," Micki said. "She would just talk to everyone, like people in the store. If she said hello, and the person didn’t say hello back, she’d smile anyway, but then whisper, “They’re rude, Mom.”

The memory made Micki laugh. She ran her hand across a quilt she was showing to Jackie, the squares made of Addie’s things — a soft T-shirt, flowered pajamas, her pink gingham bedspread.

“I always feel guilty,” Jackie said suddenly. “It feels like we won, and you lost, and it’s hard for me to look at you sometimes.”

Grant Thompson shows his scar, Nov. 6, 2014, from receiving Addie’s liver.

This was the first time they have spoken of this so directly. Micki took Jackie’s hand on top of the quilt.

“I don’t want you to feel that way,” Micki said. “What happened was going to happen.”

“I feel less guilty now that I know you,” Jackie said.

Darrell looked at Kyle, who had dropped his head and looked at the floor. “Our daughter was going to die anyway,” Darrell told him. “You have to let that go.” Kyle nodded.

“I thought maybe you got the letter, and you cried really hard and thought, ‘This lady has her baby, and I don’t have mine,’” Jackie said.

“No, not at all,” Micki said. She wasn’t sure what she felt. But since she met Grant, she had felt better. More at peace.

“I feel like I can’t keep my hands off him. I want to feel his ears and rub his tummy,” Micki said and then reached for the boy. Grant didn't seem to mind. She hugged him, and he twirled his fingers in her long hair.

Then Grant was up and throwing himself onto the other couch. He would have hit the coffee table if Darrell hadn’t caught him with one arm.

“Let’s do that again!” Grant shouted.

“Don’t hurt your liber,” Micki told him.

Another letter: 'Dearest kidney recipient'

Addie  Parker, the daughter of Micki and Darrell Parker, was 4 when she died, suddenly and unexpectedly. The Parker’s donated her organs.

It had been four months since Micki sent the letter to the little girl who got Addie’s heart. She still hadn’t heard back.

“It’s hard,” Micki said. “I know how Jackie felt now being on the other side waiting for the response.” She feels bad that they hadn’t answered sooner, but grieving takes time.

So while she waited, Micki tried to write another letter, to the 55-year-old woman in Scottsdale who received Addie’s kidneys. If there is no child patient who is a match, donor pediatric kidneys can be transplanted into an adult, either separately or two tiny kidneys functioning as one.

Micki started the letter a couple of times, writing the same few sentences.

“Dearest kidney recipient,” she wrote. “I have so much to tell you about your donor. First though, I hope you are healthy and doing well.”

It tapered off after that.

“I don’t really know how to write it,” Micki said.

It is hard to understand why the people who were helped by Addie haven’t reached out to them as the Thompsons did. The organ-procurement agencies and hospital transplant coordinators are eager to help.

Darrell understands that they may feel guilty, that what helped them came from a little girl. “We’re never going to get our child back, but we could be happy that theirs is healthy,” Darrell said.

“I just want to know — is your kid doing great? I don’t need anything," he said. "I’m not asking for anything.”

Micki thought about writing another letter to the heart recipient’s family. “I don’t want to push,” she said. She would wait.

“I hope if they don’t want communication, they say so," Micki said, "so I can stop wondering.”

An advocate for donors

The list of people Addie helped is long. Her heart went to the girl in Washington. Her two kidneys to the Scottsdale woman. Her liver to Grant.

One of her corneas went to an 88-year-old man, the other to a 37-year-old woman, both in Arizona.

Her lungs were supposed to go to a 10-month-old boy on the transplant list in Utah, but he had already passed away. “I remember feeling so sad that little guy didn’t make it,” Micki said.

At a symposium for funeral directors in Tempe on March 19, 2015, Micki spoke about her experience on behalf of Donor Network of Arizona. Usually, at events like this one, the speaker is an organ recipient with a happy ending.

With a slide show of pictures of Addie on the big screen behind her, Micki talked about her daughter and how she got sick. And then she read the list of people who received her tissue:

A 52-year-old man from South Carolina.

A 23-year-old woman from Colorado.

Two 15-year-old girls, one from Maryland, one from Missouri.

Micki planned to write to each recipient.

It was an unusually high number of donations from a pediatric donor, according to Donor Network of Arizona. The expectation for a pediatric donor would typically be 15 to 25. From Addie, the number was 40.

By the end of the list, Micki was crying. People in the audience pulled tissues from boxes on the tables.

'Addie would have loved that'

From left: Zach Thompson, Jackie Thompson, Kyle Thompson, Micki Parker, Addie Thompson, Darrell Parker, Kevin Swafford, Alec Parker, Grant Thompson. The Parkers donated their 4-year-old daughter Addie's organs after she died in 2011. Grant received Addie's liver, and the two families have been friends since they met about a year ago.

The Thompsons came to Arizona in April to join the Parkers in a charity walk for the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation. When they came to visit again in September, there was one more of them, a girl born in July.

Her name is Nora Addison, for Addie. Micki and Darrell are her godparents.

The baby was crying when Darrell took her from Jackie, nestled her on his shoulder and rubbed her back. She immediately stopped crying. Jackie grinned at Micki. He was like that with Addie, too, Micki said.

Grant and Zachary were in kindergarten. Owen was 2.

The boys were by the pool again. They were just supposed to put their feet in at the steps, but Zachary bumped his brother until Grant fell in, laughing.

Everyone was gathered in the kitchen, where Micki was making tacos. Grant ate only the sour cream and cheese off of his. And then he picked up a book of pictures of Addie.

“Look at little baby Addie,” he said to his mother.

They talk about Addie a lot and in their prayers every night. Grant wondered what she would have been for Halloween next month. Jackie suggested Wonder Woman.

“Micki, what do you think?” Grant asked.

“I think Addie would have loved that,” she told him.

The next day, on Sept. 21, the Parkers would receive the Outstanding Donor Family award from Donor Network of Arizona at the Desert Willow Conference Center in Phoenix.

Micki was nervous. “There’s so many people here,” she said. About 300 were in attendance, scattered at round tables that filled the ballroom.

Micki took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Grant was not nervous at all. He ate candy from a dish on the table and then crawled onto Alec’s lap. Alec is 14 now.

When Micki's name was called, Jackie stood with her at the podium, along with the twins in their same shirts of different colors, Grant in white, Zach in blue. Micki told their story.

“I’d like to say that each day that passes without Addie gets easier. I’d like to say that each year that passes without Addie gets easier. But that wouldn’t be the truth,” she said.

It helps to know that pieces of Addie live on, in Grant and the other recipients.

“The love I have for Grant, I can’t put into words,” Micki said. “Grant gives me hope that Addie lives on and her life mattered.”

As they left the stage, Micki reached for Grant's hand at the same time he reached for hers.

A terrifying turn

Grant Thompson plays in the living room of Micki and Darrell Parker's home.

In January, Grant’s regular liver-function test came back abnormally high. Subsequent tests a week later and a week after that showed no improvement, so doctors scheduled him for a liver biopsy on Jan. 20.

“Overall, he’s been pretty healthy,” Kyle said. Now the Thompsons worried, could he be rejecting his Addie’s liver?

If he was, there were treatments, of course. But no one wanted to imagine having to go through that, nor another transplant. Especially since it could mean losing that piece of Addie.

Micki was a wreck. She couldn’t imagine losing Grant. “It would not be the same as losing Addie all over again, but it would be close,” she said.

On Jan. 21, results from the biopsy showed no rejection. Jackie texted Micki. Kyle called her. She sobbed in relief.

But four days later, Grant was back in the hospital with a high fever.

Grant gets sick more easily than other children because the drugs he takes to prevent rejection suppress his immune system. A cold can send him to the hospital.

This was different.

His fever reached as high as 104.8. He was burning up but shook and complained that he was cold. “It was pretty terrifying,” Kyle said.

At the University of Minnesota Masonic Children’s Hospital, doctors put him on IV antibiotics and ran all sorts of tests.

Jackie assured Micki that Grant would be fine. He was a fighter. Look at all he had been through already.

The fever was up and down for five days before it finally broke.

Grant had had a slight case of pink eye, and doctors suspected the normal childhood virus had been the culprit.

Grant was fine. He was a fighter. He had to be. For his family. For Addie.

One more letter: Be happy, sweet girl

The picture of Addie Thompson that her mother sent to the family of the little girl who got her heart.

“Dearest Heart Recipient,” Micki started again. “I hope this letter finds you and your family well. I wanted to reach out to you again because I have so many things to share with you and want you to know about your donor. I have lots of funny stories to tell you.”

Micki wrote about how she had met Grant and his family and how much it has helped her family and theirs.

She asked about the girl again: "What are your favorite foods? Do you like to swim? Do you have pets? What is your favorite color? Who is your favorite Disney princess?  What color is your hair? What color are your eyes? Are you silly?”

But then Micki told her that it was all right if she and her family didn’t write back.

“When the time is right, we will be ready, whether that is in a month, a year or ten years. We understand this process and know it takes time.

"We just have one small request, if you don't want to have any contact with us right now or at all, will you let us know that. Please know that we are grateful for an update from the Donor Network each year that gives us peace of mind that you are well and that your heart is functioning great. If that is to be the only connection we have with you, then that will be fine. We won't reach out again. We will respect you and your privacy. We would only want the best for you and your future. If maybe someday, we can talk via letters or even on the phone, wonderful.

"Be happy, sweet girl. Know you are loved by so many people.

"Micki and family"

 'I want to know everyone's story'

Micki mailed the letter to the heart recipient's family on Feb. 2. She enclosed a picture of Addie.

She still plans to write to the other recipients. “Addie’s DNA and Addie’s blood were in those organs. There’s literally a piece of her in those people,” Micki said.

In those 40 people. Forty.

“I would like to meet and hear from all of those people,” Micki said. "I want to know if they can golf again or play with their grandchildren. If they were teenagers, are they able to run and they couldn’t before?

“I want to know every single person. I want to know everyone’s story."

All 40 stories. Forty stories for Addie.

“But if I never hear from anyone ever, Grant is enough," Micki said. "Grant is more than enough.”

Reach Bland at or 602-444-8614. 

How to become an organ donor

Sign up online at, call 1-800-94-DONOR, or check the box to become a donor when applying for a driver’s license or state ID at the Motor Vehicle Division.

Join 'Addie’s Army' at the JDRF One Walk

Join the Parkers and the Thompsons at the Juvenile Diabetes Research Foundation One Walk 5K at 9 a.m. Saturday, April 9, at Sloan Park, 2330 W. Rio Salado Parkway in Mesa. Check-in starts at 7:30 a.m. Registration is free. Donations benefit juvenile diabetes research.

To donate or walk with Addie's Army, click here.  For more details, click here.