Memorial Funds for Nicholas Marchant

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We received the devastating news that Nicholas Marchant was taken away from his family and all of his friends in a tragic car accident this past Friday, December 10, 2021. It's hard to comprehend the amount of tragedy and loss the Marchant family has dealt with the past few years. Nicholas and his brother Stefan lost their father Marc in June of 2019 after a battle with cancer. Marc loved his sons more than anything in this world and cherished watching them grow into the men they became. Their mother Edicleia Marchant has the same amazing pride and affection, and has always loved and cared for Nicholas and Stefan to the fullest with her big Brazilian heart. As many of you know Nicholas has severe autism and is also non-verbal, but that never stopped him from carrying a big smile on his face and a heart full of love and affection towards those around him. Raising a son with a disability is a full-time job in itself, but Edi always worked at American Airlines to help support and give her sons the best possible life. Stefan and Edi have both sacrificed hundreds and thousands of hours to try and give Nicholas as much help, tools, and support to live as normal a life as possible.

The passing of Nicholas was devastating and shocking. For a family who's has worked so hard to financially support and raise a family member with a disability the cost of a funeral isn't something that's easy to prepare for.

We are asking that you'd consider donating to the funeral services for Nicholas Marchant. Any amount would be appreciated if you choose to do so. Nicholas will be greatly missed by his family and friends and will live forever in their hearts.

Services for Nicholas will be held on Saturday December 18th 10:00 am at

Lucas Funeral Home and Cremation Services
1321 Precinct Line Rd.
Hurst, TX 76053

https://www.lucasfuneralhomes.com/m/obituaries/Nicholas-Marchant/Memories

Brotherly Love

(Stefan's beautiful Facebook post remembering his brother Nicholas)

Yesterday was the worst day of my life.

I woke up to the news that my little brother Nicholas died as a passenger in a car accident. We don’t know exactly how she lost control of the car, but the person driving died instantly upon impact. When the paramedics arrived at the scene, they had to cut the car open to get to my brother. Both of his legs and both of his arms were broken. After they were able to get him out of the car, he was barely breathing and had a very faint pulse, so they rushed him to the hospital. Once they arrived, my brother stopped breathing, so they intubated him to try and get him breathing again. Despite their best efforts, they were unable to resuscitate him, and he was pronounced dead shortly thereafter. The official cause of death has not been disclosed yet, but preliminary reports are that it was due to the effects of a traumatic brain injury. My brother was 21.

If you know me, then you probably know that Nicholas had severe autism and that he was non-verbal. He could mimic some words/phrases, and he could spell things out, but he never was able to put a sentence together himself. People with autism have a higher mortality rate than average, so I was always scared that I might outlive him, and yesterday those fears were realized. I always thought that he might get really sick, he wouldn’t be able to tell us how he was feeling, and we wouldn’t recognize it until it was too late, but I never imagined that I would lose my brother like this. Growing up with a sibling who had autism was an emotional gauntlet, but I loved my brother with all of my heart, and I wasn’t ready for him to go.

Despite my brother’s inability to talk, he had an uncanny ability to spread joy to those around him. Everyone who spent any time with him grew to love him. He had an infectious laugh - well, it was more of a boisterous giggle - and when you heard it, you couldn’t help but smile yourself.

He also loved to help people. My dad hated commercials, so when my brother heard commercials come on in the living room, he would run in, grab the remote, and mute the TV until the commercials were over. He would bring my mom her shoes when it was time for them to leave the house, and he always made sure that she remembered to take her medication. He was always doing little things to help those who spent their lives helping him, and that’s one of the qualities that I’ll remember the most about him.

I’ll also remember his weird, little quirks. He loved shrimp so much that he didn’t even bother taking the tails off before he swallowed them whole. He would sometimes do puzzles upside down, to where he could only see the cardboard on the back, instead of what the images were on the front. He would blast T-Swift on the radio in his room at the same time as he would blast Criminal Minds on the TV. He loved spelling out words he saw on the TV, especially when Wheel of Fortune and Jeopardy came on, and trying to say them back to you. He was just a unique guy, and I wish I could’ve talked to him. It has always been the thing that I’ve wanted most in my life… just to share at least one conversation with him.

Sometimes I have dreams that him and I are simply talking to one another, and every time I wake up from those dreams, I close my eyes again just to see if I can listen for a few more sentences. Those have always been my favorite dreams, and even though they are going to be much harder to wake up from now that he’s gone, I hope I continue to have them.

Being the realist that I am, over the years, it became pretty clear that my brother would probably never be able to talk. Even still, I always held out hope that one day we could figure out a way for him to communicate with us. I just had this idea that, eventually, we’d find a way for him to tell us what he was thinking and feeling. I always hoped that my brother would be able to tell me what was going on inside his head, but that hope died today. I will go my entire life on this earth without being able to talk to my brother. It will never happen, and I don’t know how to cope with that.

The feelings of sorrow have come in waves since I found out about his death. One specific thought about him, or one little reminder of things he used to do, can bring me to tears. I can’t help but think about what was going through his head at the time of the crash. I hope that he wasn’t conscious after the impact, because I don’t want to think about him being scared and alone in his last moments of life. I hope that my brother didn’t feel any pain while he was clinging to life on the way to the hospital. I hope that he’s at peace now.

I pray that he’s able to speak in heaven, because I know he’s got a lot to get off of his chest. I pray that, one day, I’ll be able to speak to him on the other side. I pray that he’s with my dad, our aunt Mari, our uncle Pete, our grandparents, and everyone else in his life that has passed on. I pray that he’s able to feel their embrace again.

I’m thankful for every family member, friend, caregiver, babysitter, teacher/educator, bus driver, speech-language pathologist, doctor/medical provider, and anyone else who has ever cared for my brother. Taking care of someone who is unable to take care of themselves is one of the most selfless things that we as humans can do, and I thank you all for it.

I’m grateful that I can remember the days before my brother was diagnosed - before the autism started to manifest itself - when he was just my happy-go-lucky baby brother.

Nicholas, I’ll always remember how you used to grab my hand and put it on your stomach, so that I could tickle you and make you laugh so hard that you could barely breathe. I’ll always remember how much you loved to stand on the bed and have me push you over so hard that you would fall down and bounce right back up. I’ll also remember how sometimes I just had to pretend to push you, and you would fall anyways, which made you laugh even harder. I only got a year or so of those memories, but I’ll cherish them for the rest of my life.

Nicholas, thank you for the privilege of experiencing what it was like to be a big brother. Thank you for always throwing up a peace sign whenever I threw one up to you. Thank you for every hug that you gave me, whether it was forced or not. Thank you for being you, and may you Rest In Peace.