Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [21]
Gloria leaned over and whispered to Gabby’s dad, Spencer: “Tell Gabby to sit down or they’re going to throw us out!” But actually, Gloria was secretly enjoying her daughter’s performance. She thought to herself: “Unlike that songbird onstage, at least Gabby can carry a tune and keep up with the conductor.”
As Gabby got older, “Tomorrow” became a connection between her and her mom. Whenever Gabby would be frustrated or disappointed, her mother would sing to her: “Oh, the sun will come out, tomorrow . . .” And then Gabby would respond: “Bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun . . .” They’d sing in unison: “Tomorrow! Tomorrow! I love ya, tomorrow. You’re always a DAY A-WAY!”
It may sound corny, this mother-daughter ritual, but it connected them. And in the early days after Gabby was shot, when she was still in a medically induced coma, Gloria would sit by her bed, softly singing that song to her.
Gabby was silent, of course, her eyes closed tight, but as night became daybreak, and tomorrow arrived, Gloria wanted that song in Gabby’s ears. It was remarkable, actually, for me to watch this as a son-in-law.
I got to see how fierce a mother’s devotion can be. I saw how optimism is a form of therapy and hope is a form of love. And when Gloria wasn’t singing to Gabby—or advocating on her behalf to doctors, nurses, orderlies, custodians—she was tapping out e-mails on her BlackBerry, letting friends and relatives know that she had great faith that Gabby would recover.
“I am convinced that inside that small, still form in this hospital bed in Tucson,” she wrote in one e-mail, “attached to and surrounded by blinking machines, my daughter Gabby is struggling to find a lifeline that will pull her back up to the surface. On my watch, ‘Tomorrow’ is one of the songs I sing to her.”
Weeks later, after Gabby arrived at TIRR Memorial Hermann, the rehab hospital in Houston, she began attending regular music-therapy sessions. The therapist explained to us that singing aloud could possibly help Gabby regain her ability to speak in sentences. The reason: When Gabby was shot, the bullet went through the left hemisphere of her brain, where speech tends to be processed and formed. But “music centers” are found in various spots in the brain, right and left, meaning Gabby still had access to her ability to sing.
Through therapy, she reconnected to familiar tunes—“Happy Birthday,” “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” “American Pie”—first by mouthing the words, and then, eventually, by actually singing aloud. We were told the repetition of these songs would help create new pathways in Gabby’s brain, strengthening her vocabulary. In those months, she could speak only one word at a time, and often it was the wrong word. But in time she could sing whole verses correctly, almost without hesitation. And one of her favorite songs, of course, was “Tomorrow.”
One day in early April, three months after Gabby was injured, she sang “Tomorrow” for her speech therapist Meagan Morrow. Gloria was there and joined in on the chorus.
“That’s beautiful,” Meagan said. “And I bet I know why that song is a favorite of yours. Maybe you identify with the hard life in the song. It’s about a little girl’s hard life in an orphanage.”
“No, no!” Gabby said.
Gloria added her own “no” almost instantaneously. Then she explained. “Gabby and I have always thought the message in that song is one of hope and perseverance,” Gloria said. “That’s why we love it and find it so meaningful.”
Gabby nodded in agreement. “Hope,” she said.
I spend a great deal of time with Gloria now. We’re the two top decision-makers in Gabby’s life. I’m still the son-in-law and she’s still the mother-in-law, but since the shooting, our relationship has grown into a respectful, loving, sometimes stressful partnership. We’re constantly interacting, discussing, weighing treatment options, and trying to figure out what’s best for Gabby. We’ll agree, we’ll disagree, and sometimes we’ll go to our separate corners and revisit a discussion in the morning. I