Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [44]
Interacting with Gabby in my dream, I could see that she still struggled with certain words, and that her right arm and leg were functional, but not yet totally back to normal. That didn’t dampen my elation. I’d think to myself, “This is completely great! She’s ninety percent there! And that’s more than enough for me. Ninety percent? Gabby, we’ll take that!”
Each morning, when I’d wake up, I had a sense of what I’d been feeling during these dreams: relief, exhilaration, appreciation. But within seconds, of course, I was back to reality. Gabby was certainly making meaningful progress every week, working as hard as she could in therapy. But mostly, she was taking baby steps. There would be no instant miracle.
That was not easy for me to accept, especially in the early stages of her recovery. I was demanding of doctors, always trying to determine the best treatments and the fastest paths to recovery. But eventually I adjusted to our new reality and, in the process, I learned things about myself.
One thing I discovered was that I have the capacity to be a patient guy. I learned to give Gabby the time she needed to say something, even if it was just one word. Often, that meant there were long, empty silences. I noticed that some visitors felt they had to fill those silences by chattering. This was frustrating for Gabby, who would still be trying to express herself. And so I had to become someone who taught patience to others.
It’s funny that patience has become a virtue of mine, because in certain ways, a large part of me is very impatient. Starting in young adulthood, I was always so achievement-oriented, climbing each step of the ladder without slowing down or stopping. Always aware of “the urgency of now,” I wanted to seize every opportunity. Maybe I was fearful that I’d lose everything I’d worked for if I allowed myself to relax.
Gabby, on the other hand, was always pretty patient, especially in her dealings with others. She’d let constituents say whatever they needed to say without interrupting them. She was wonderful interacting with people, whether young kids or old folks in nursing homes, always listening closely as they expressed themselves.
I also think back to the time, after my second space flight, in 2006, when Gabby and I got to have lunch with the legendary British astrophysicist Stephen Hawking, who is paralyzed due to a form of Lou Gehrig’s disease. It takes him an excruciatingly long time to say anything, and I pretty much gave up on conversing with him beyond a few pleasantries. But Gabby was just incredible. She intuitively knew what to do.
After my failed attempt at interacting with Dr. Hawking, she kneeled down in front of his wheelchair and said, “Dr. Hawking, how are you today?” She then stared into his eyes and waited. As far as she was concerned there was no one else in the crowded room. She waited silently and patiently. Using a device that tracks the motion of a single facial muscle, he took at least ten minutes to compose and utter the phrase “I’m fine. How are you?” Gabby was in no rush. She could have kneeled there for an hour, waiting for his answer. I was so impressed.
After Gabby was injured, I found myself thinking about her encounter with Dr. Hawking. In fact, that memory helped me understand how I’d need to interact with her. It’s almost like something out of The Twilight Zone: Dr. Hawking theorizes about time and space, and it was this moment in time that gave me a window into what our future would look like. It was as if Gabby was giving me a message back in 2006: “Watch me. I will be your teacher. Someday, you’ll have to be patient with me and this is how you’ll need to do it.”
Emulating Gabby’s gift of patience went beyond giving her time to talk. I also had to force myself to dial back my expectations, and to be patiently realistic. Doctors repeatedly said she was making remarkable progress. Just living through that kind of injury was rare. Still, I had to accept the obvious. Gabby would get better, but not at the pace I yearned for in my dreams.