Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [28]
Peggy was finally patched through. “I have bad news for you,” she said. “Your sister-in-law, Gabby, has been shot.”
It was forty minutes after the shooting had begun in Tucson. Peggy told Scott what she knew, which wasn’t much. NASA, meanwhile, had already cut off the system that allows astronauts to watch an intermittent, blurry satellite feed from CNN. It was decided that Scott was better off getting information directly from the astronaut office rather than from speculation in the media.
“I’d appreciate it if you could keep me informed with everything the news is reporting,” Scott said, and when the call ended, he sat in that module by himself for a moment, feeling very alone and helpless. There was nothing he could do for Gabby, of course, but he also was unable to be of assistance to me. After Gabby, he is my closest confidant on the planet, the person whose judgment I value most. But he wasn’t on the planet, and he wasn’t scheduled to return for another sixty-six days.
Scott called me and we spoke briefly. I gave him the few facts I had, but there were so many issues I was dealing with that there was no time to talk. Shortly after we hung up, Scott got another call from NASA on the privatized line. “This isn’t confirmed,” he was told, “but many news organizations are reporting that Gabby has died.”
Scott tried to call me again. I was already in the air, heading to Tucson, with my cell phone off. But Scott was able to get in touch with Tilman Fertitta, our mutual close friend. Tilman is a well-known businessman in Houston whose company owns restaurant chains such as Bubba Gump Shrimp Co. and Rainforest Cafe, and casinos, including the Golden Nugget in both Las Vegas and Atlantic City. Through our long odyssey in the wake of Gabby’s injury, Tilman would turn out to be a generous friend in a time of need.
Tilman had stepped in to help as soon as we got word of the shooting. First he offered his private plane to take me from Houston to Tucson. And then, knowing how besieged I was, he became a reassuring voice to Scott up in space. “Gabby isn’t dead,” Tilman told him. “It’s a bunch of bullshit! I’ve talked to Mark. The media’s got it wrong.” Eventually, Scott was able to get through to me, and I confirmed that, yes, Gabby was alive and in surgery.
All my life, Scott has been everything to me: my nemesis, my fist-fighting opponent, the most irritating presence in my life—and my best friend. He and I no longer go at it like we did when we were kids, but we’re never touchy-feely either. Over the next sixty-six days, while he remained in space, I had many urges to talk to him, to hear his voice.
I talked to him about decisions that needed to be made regarding Gabby’s medical care. He listened, but he couldn’t really help me decide. “I’m not a doctor,” he said.
I talked to him about the swirling political issues. The whole country was debating whether heated campaign rhetoric had played a role in the massacre in Tucson. Did I need to make a statement about that? Scott listened but couldn’t give definitive answers. “I’m not a political analyst,” he said.
However, when I talked to him about whether I should continue as commander of my upcoming space shuttle mission, that’s when Scott spoke up. He isn’t a doctor. He isn’t a politician. But he is an astronaut. He knew the job that needed to be done. And he knew me.
There was speculation in the media, and frankly, within NASA, too, that I’d be too distracted by Gabby’s injury to perform at my best. Though news reports focused on how I was struggling with the decision, in truth, NASA officials weren’t sure they even wanted to keep me on the job. They said they needed to watch me in training first, to monitor my ability to concentrate and perform. Their uncertainty about their faith in me only added to the stresses of those early days. Gabby was in a medically induced coma and I was in NASA-induced limbo.
From the start, Scott urged me not to step down. Like everyone else who knew Gabby, he told me that