Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [111]
Later in the day, Gabby’s speech therapist would arrive with a box of cards featuring pictures of objects, or she’d bring the objects themselves. Sometimes they’d play tic-tac-toe. They’d also leaf through People magazine, discussing what the celebrities were wearing and doing. This was sometimes an exercise in futility because, even before Gabby was shot, she couldn’t tell you anything about celebrities and what they were up to. She didn’t pay attention to celebrity culture. So why would she know now? Still, it was helpful if Gabby looked at clothing, objects, and scenery, and tried to identify the names of things.
Often, Gabby and her speech therapist would just talk. Sometimes they would sing. “American Pie” was a favorite.
Music therapy may seem like an idle entertainment to help patients pass the time, but it’s a crucial and fascinating part of healing. Singing familiar lyrics, a right-brain activity, helps those injured on the left side of their brain. Stimulating a part of the brain that wasn’t damaged can help rebuild a patient’s broken circuitry. When a patient undergoes an MRI while singing, many different areas of the brain light up. “Singing,” the doctors told us, “is a pathway to language. It’s great exercise for the brain.”
Because lyrics to well-known songs are imprinted in people’s minds, those with brain injuries often find it easier to access lyrics than spoken conversation. Many can sing in sentences before they can speak in sentences. In Gabby’s case, music therapy also helped her with physical issues. Sometimes, while she walked the hall, a certain rhythm was played, and the cadence helped her improve her gait. And, of course, there were also emotional connections when she sang, such as the memories evoked when she and her mom shared duets of “Tomorrow.”
Gabby’s parents sat through countless hours of therapy, and they appreciated seeing it all unfold. In those months, they were staying at a friend’s home in Houston, but they were reluctant to leave the hospital at night. “I’m afraid if I go, I’ll miss something,” Gloria told me. Sometimes she’d return to the hospital at 5 a.m. She couldn’t stay away. “I realize that even while Gabby is sleeping, bits and pieces of her brain are rebooting and coming on line,” she said. “I want to be there when things happen. I want to watch her get better.”
Sometimes, Gabby would repeat the same sing-song phrase: “Wondering what’s happening to me.” She wasn’t exactly singing it, but almost. Her delivery was mischievous, as if she were really saying, “There’s something you guys aren’t telling me.”
“Wonder what’s happening to me,” she’d say again, her inflection rising.
I’d respond in my own sing-song voice: “You’re getting better. That’s what’s happening to you.”
Gabby often used the word “hazy” to describe her memory. And then one night she couldn’t think of the name of Longworth, her office building in Washington. “What I know I can’t remember,” she said.
For a while, she also repeatedly said, “I’ve been beaten.” I didn’t like hearing that. Did she mean her injury had beaten her? That she was down for the count?
“You haven’t been beaten,” I told her. “You’ve just been beaten up.”
She’d pump her fist when I said that. “Yes,” she’d say, and give me a half smile.
Sometimes, I’d ask her what she missed about the life she left behind. “The office,” she said. She was referring to her congressional office. And then she said: “The people are important.” She hadn’t forgotten her constituents, either.
Pia, Gabby’s chief of staff, spent a lot of time in Houston, and often gave Gabby updates on legislation and