Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [132]
“Could you forgive Tilman, too?” I asked.
She smiled. “Yes, Tilman, too.”
Given Gabby’s continuous improvement, physically and cognitively, her doctors at TIRR set her release date for June 15. She was walking better. Her ability to comprehend what people were saying was at 99 percent or better. The thin scar on her forehead was fading. After five months, she was ready to go.
Once she was released, she’d become an outpatient, returning to one of TIRR’s satellite facilities for daily rehab. “Gabby is on the verge of complete sentences,” said Angie, her speech therapist, who expected great progress in the weeks and months to come.
Tilman and Paige invited us to move into their guesthouse, closer to downtown. “Stay three years if you want,” said Tilman, whose generosity seemed to know no limit. But Gabby felt she’d be more comfortable at my home, twenty-five miles south in League City, even though that meant she’d be spending a lot more time in the car being driven to daily rehab.
As her departure date approached, Gabby got sentimental about TIRR.
She had almost no memory of anything she experienced between January 8 and her arrival in Houston on January 21. TIRR was the place where she pretty much woke up and became aware after the shooting. In a lot of ways, the rehab hospital was now a comfortable and safe place for her. It was home.
Sure, she had complained about being there. Especially in March and April, she often said “Gotta get out of here” or “Get me out of here!” But as she got closer to leaving, Gabby was having separation anxiety. She didn’t say she wanted to stay, but she stopped saying she wanted to leave.
Gabby oversaw the packing up of her belongings. She pointed out which items should be loaded into boxes bound for Tucson, for storage, or for my house. All the posters—of Tucson, the Grand Canyon, me and Gabby—were taken down from the walls, and her mom’s artwork was parceled out to the doctors and nurses whose portraits she had painted.
On the day she said goodbye to Dr. Kim, he asked her how she felt.
“Emotional,” she answered.
As a going-away present, nurses on the night shift gave Gabby a journal they’d been writing in after she went to sleep. Their entries, often unsigned, were addressed to Gabby, chronicling her progress at TIRR. The nurses hoped she’d someday be able to read what they’d written, and be proud of how far she’d come.
The journal’s first entry was from January 26, the night Gabby arrived at the rehab center, barely aware of her surroundings. “A somewhat restless night,” a nurse wrote, “but a magic tonic is discovered. You love to have your feet massaged.”
January 30: “You gave your first thumbs-up as a sign for yes!”
February 9: “We all feel privileged to be part of your miraculous recovery. In my twelve years here, I’ve never seen a more dramatic healing process.”
February 14: “You were asleep until the pain started in your right leg. You cried. While I rubbed your leg, you said ‘Superman’ three times. Then you concentrated for a moment, and said, ‘Super nurse.’”
February 25: “You went outside again today. Your enthusiasm and joy at being outside is wonderful. You wave and greet anyone we pass. (I’m sure those people would vote for you if they could!)”
March 2: “After dozing off, you woke up and I read the Wall Street Journal to you. Your face lit up as we toured Libya, Egypt, China, Russia, and finally, Wisconsin. So much to catch up on!”
June 10: “Last night may have been the last time I got to take care of you, if you are discharged as planned. I’m sad! You’ve been a delight. I can only hope to have the same optimistic outlook that you have. I do hope to see you again under better circumstances!”
Gloria read some of the entries aloud to Gabby. She talked to Gabby about what beautiful care she had received, and what a lovely gesture the journal was. Gabby agreed.
Gabby was lucky that her workers’ compensation coverage as a federal employee allowed her to stay at TIRR for so long—more than five months. “Gabby’s rehab was once the norm, but it’s not anymore,