Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [4]
Angie decided to move on. “A chair,” she told Gabby. “You sit in a chair.”
I had recently begun taping Gabby’s therapy sessions here at The Institute for Rehabilitation and Research, TIRR Memorial Hermann, the rehabilitation hospital in Houston where Gabby had come to recover from her injuries. The video camera was on a tripod, and we often forgot it was there. I was making the tapes partly to chart Gabby’s progress, and partly to have a record of all she went through, in case she ever wanted a road map of her journey. I’d end up recording dozens of painstaking therapy sessions just like this one.
On this day, the next photo in Angie’s pile was of a lamp.
“Yes, yes, yes,” Gabby said. She recognized it, but couldn’t produce the word.
Angie offered a hint. “You turn on the . . .”
“Spoon,” Gabby said. She knew as soon as she said it that she was wrong. She scrunched her face, closed her eyes, tried to think.
“You turn on the . . .” Angie said. “It’s an ‘L’ word. You turn on the . . .”
Gabby stared at the picture on the table in front of her.
“Think of an ‘L’ word,” Angie said. “What word do you say to Mark?”
This Gabby could answer very clearly. “I love you,” she said.
“Right!” Angie said. “An ‘L’ word.” She tapped the photo. “This is the same sound. You turn on the lllll . . .” Angie rolled the letter on her tongue, but Gabby couldn’t follow through.
“Cheeseburger,” she said, finally. She knew that wasn’t it. She sighed, looked down at her lap, and readjusted herself in her wheelchair.
“Are you frustrated? Do you need a break?” Angie asked.
“Yes, yes,” Gabby told her, relieved. That’s about when I entered the room, bearing tulips, which I presented to Gabby with a light kiss. It was the eve of Valentine’s Day.
I asked her, “What kind of flowers are these?”
“Chicken,” she told me. That was another word she was inexplicably stuck on in those early days.
I gave her a clue. “It’s your favorite flower.” She looked at the tulips, then at me. She didn’t answer.
I wasn’t always comfortable pushing Gabby and testing her. I knew this was all terribly hard for her, and that she often felt like she was disappointing us. But her doctors had told us that engaging and challenging her would help her brain repair itself. We had to help her think.
Angie offered Gabby something to mull. “These aren’t roses, they’re . . .”
“Tulicks!” Gabby said triumphantly. She’d gotten it. Almost.
“Tulips,” Angie corrected. “Yes, Gabby, tulips. Mark brought you tulips.”
“Tulips,” Gabby said.
Angie returned to the photo of the lamp. “You turn on the . . .”
“Lice,” Gabby said. She’d gotten close. Angie helped her: “Light.”
“Light,” said Gabby. Then they both looked over at the flowers, which were attached to a balloon with the words “I love you” on it.
“Tulips,” Gabby said. As Valentine’s Day approached, I was happy to hear her deliver those two syllables, and Gabby was happy to have said them. Both of us were learning to appreciate small victories.
Five weeks earlier, when 2011 began, the new year was shaping up to be a very meaningful one for Gabby and for me. We were both excited by the prospects and the possibilities. Maybe it would be the best year of our lives. Gabby would be returning to Congress for a third term, I’d be returning to space for a fourth time, and we also had high hopes that Gabby would finally become a mother.
She had just won a close reelection to the U.S. House in a campaign that had been draining and disturbing. She was troubled by the hostile political rhetoric, and we both worried that the angry discourse might even descend into violence. But now that the election was over, Gabby was her usual optimistic self. She looked forward to redoubling her commitment to serving her constituents in southeastern Arizona, including those who didn’t like her or her positions. “I represent them, too,” she liked to say.
As for me, I was at a turning point in my career as an astronaut and naval officer. NASA’s space shuttle program was winding down—I’d be commanding the second-to-last mission—and the next