Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [36]
In early March, about two months after Gabby was shot, I thought it would be an OK time to finally invite the Bushes over to see her. I’d told Gabby they were coming, but she wasn’t clearly focused on everything then. When the Bushes arrived, Gabby was feeling pretty beat. She was in a chair, not her bed, but she had her head in her hand and was dozing off. The president walked in and she opened her eyes and looked up, not recognizing him at first. Then he came closer and she sat up straight.
“Wow!” Gabby said.
I could see the wheels turning through the haze in her head. It was almost as if she were thinking, “What happened to my life? I open my eyes and out of nowhere a former president is standing in front of me.” She looked around the room, perhaps wondering if Jimmy Carter would be coming out of the closet.
President Bush sat next to Gabby for fifteen minutes, holding her left hand. It was very touching to watch. “You’ve been so strong,” he told her. “I’m really proud of you. And I’m praying for your recovery.”
“Chicken,” Gabby replied. “Chicken.”
This was one of those early days, when that was still the most frequent word on Gabby’s lips. No matter what she was trying to say, that was the word that came out. “Chicken.”
“Why does she keep saying that?” Mrs. Bush asked.
“We don’t know,” I told her. “Doctors can’t really explain why patients get stuck on certain words.”
Gabby was struggling with aphasia, an impairment of the ability to remember words, to speak, and to write. But she was also coping with perseveration, the repetition of words and phrases, which is common among people with brain injuries.
When the visit ended, I didn’t think the Bushes would speed home and call Republican headquarters with insights into Gabby’s condition. The former president is now beyond politics, beyond partisanship. I could see that. He was just a veteran of public service who knew the risks of the job and wanted to show his concern.
Gabby was appreciative when she was visited by public figures such as the Bushes, but because she wasn’t communicating well, I’d sometimes see frustration and embarrassment on her face. She was a woman who used to be able to get dressed fast and look great, a woman who socialized easily and winningly. I knew it was hard for her to feel so deficient and exposed.
She was more comfortable during visits with old friends, especially Raoul Erickson. He’s a forty-three-year-old free spirit who runs a business in Tucson designing and repairing electronic equipment. Extremely bright and unafraid to be unorthodox, he always reminded me of a younger version of Doc Brown from Back to the Future. Gabby had gotten to know him fifteen years earlier when he’d shown up at El Campo Tire to fix the company’s computer system. A siblinglike friendship blossomed from there.
Raoul is the ultimate go-to friend. As Gabby’s mom puts it, if you need a rattlesnake relocated, your car pulled out of a ditch, or Wi-Fi installed in your house, he’s the guy you call, and he shows up eager and able to help. He’s there if you want to have fun, too. It was Raoul who’d gone on that long bike ride with Gabby the evening before she was shot.
The first time Raoul flew down from Tucson to visit Gabby in Houston, she was thrilled to see him. “Christmas, best ever!” she said cheerily. It was likely that she meant to say something along the lines of: “It’s great that you’re here, Raoul!” But those unintended words about Christmas were what came out of her mouth. It didn’t really matter. Her exuberance while greeting him was clear.
Being with Raoul, Gabby could connect with her best memories of Tucson—her active and athletic life there, her career before Congress, her most-cherished haunts. Gabby and Raoul didn’t have to reminisce or even trade any words. They could just be together, and Gabby felt more like herself. I saw that.
I was very grateful that Raoul was willing to spend so much time with Gabby, especially because I was caught up in training for my mission. When he visited,