Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [105]
I was in a different vehicle, and I rolled down my window to feel it as well. As I waved to people, I caught glimpses of the signs they were holding, with messages such as “Godspeed Gabby” and “Tucson goes with you. Come home soon!” I deeply appreciated their support and affection for Gabby.
On the flight to Houston—on a twelve-seat Challenger jet—Gabby and I were joined by her mom, Dr. Friese, her staffers Pia and C.J., her intensive-care nurse Tracy Culbert, two flight nurses, two pilots, and Lu Cochran of the Capitol Police. As a precaution, we flew at just 15,000 feet to prevent Gabby’s brain from further swelling, which is a risk at higher altitudes. Gabby wore her helmet, decorated with an Arizona flag. There were IV bags hanging from the ceiling, and Gabby was on a stretcher-bed, hooked up to monitors.
Gabby’s father, Spencer, stayed behind. He later said that watching the plane depart from Tucson was the loneliest moment of his life.
Gabby couldn’t articulate how she was feeling. She mostly slept or gazed out the airplane’s window as the clouds went by and the town she loved drifted farther into the distance. For what seemed like the millionth time that month, I thought about that question: What would Gabby want?
I knew the answer because I knew Gabby. Someday up the road, sooner than later, she’d want to find her way back to Tucson, healthy and whole. She’d want to return to the Safeway at the southeast corner of Oracle and Ina. She’d want to set up a table and put out a flag and reach out her hand. She’d want to host a Congress on Your Corner to say thank you to her constituents and to ask them what was on their minds.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The Parameters of a Miracle
When Gabby arrived at the Texas Medical Center two weeks after she was shot, she was first taken to the Neuro Trauma Intensive Care Unit, where doctors evaluated her. Hours later, they told me that the medical team in Tucson was right: Gabby’s progress so far had been stunning. “Miraculous” was not an inappropriate description.
The Texas doctors were relieved that the advance word on Gabby’s condition was so accurate, and they were pleased to see how alert and aware she seemed to be. Several of the doctors said she was recovering with “lightning speed,” but I was quickly learning that when it comes to a brain injury, speed is relative. The doctors were comparing her with others shot in the head, 95 percent of whom die almost immediately, and with the few who survive, most of whom are seriously impaired for life. Some never come out of a coma. Against those markers, Gabby’s recovery appeared to be in the top 1 percent. Still, she had a long, excruciating slog ahead of her.
Intellectually, I understood this. I listened carefully to every doctor, trying to interpret the nuances of their word choices. They promised that Gabby would improve, but I wanted answers: By how much? By when? They resisted speculation. I let them know that my goal, and the goal of all of Gabby’s loved ones, was clear: We wanted 100 percent recovery.
Doctors and therapists spoke of “the new normal.” We spoke of the old Gabby. We wanted her to get all the way back to the woman she was on January 7, 2011.
Gloria, Gabby’s mom, was the constant optimist. Spencer, her dad, had great faith, too. Meanwhile, I’d taken on the role of taskmaster. I tried to make sure that all of us—hospital staffers, friends, immediate and extended family—were doing whatever we could to help Gabby fully recover. I wanted no impediments.
From the start, Dr. Gerard Francisco, TIRR’s chief medical officer, tried to keep our expectations in check. The good news, he said, was that Gabby had a lot going for her. She was fit and healthy before the shooting, which would help in her recovery. She had already made phenomenal progress in the hours and days after her injury. And given her spirit and tenacity, she’d likely take the lead eventually and chart her own course.
“It’s possible that she’ll return to herself in every way,” Dr. Francisco