Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [54]
“Gabby, you’ve been amazing,” Angie told her. “It’s been just five weeks since you were hurt. It’s a long road but we can do it. Are you a fighter?”
“Yes,” Gabby said, and used her left arm to deliver a positive fist pump.
Angie showed some more photos. Gabby looked at a photo of a set of car keys and said “Tooth berry.” She looked at a photo of a desk lamp and said “Tooth berry” again. She’d been saying those two words together a lot. We didn’t know why and she didn’t either.
Angie tried to get her more focused. “What are you wearing on your head?” she asked.
“Chicken,” Gabby said, but then she tried to force the right word out of her mouth. She furrowed her brow and squinted her eyes as she thought. “Hack,” she said, finally.
“Not hack,” Angie told her.
“Hat,” Gabby said. She’d gotten it right, but she was overcome by a wave of emotion. She started crying.
“You’re doing amazing,” Angie said. “Can I tell you something? It will get better. You’ve come a long way.” Angie rubbed Gabby’s back, then brought her a tissue. “Do you need a hug?”
She and Gabby hugged, and as they did, the water bottle in front of Gabby fell over. Gabby’s tears were interrupted by a little giggle.
“You look much prettier when you smile,” Angie said. “Now wipe your eyes and let’s sing.”
Angie began slowly singing “This Little Light of Mine”—they’d practiced it before—and Gabby joined in. “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine, this little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine . . . let it shine, let it shine, let it shine . . .”
When they finished, Gabby was very subdued. “I know it’s frustrating,” Angie said. “But you’re going to get through this.”
“Yes,” Gabby said, but softly.
“Say it like a congresswoman!” Angie instructed.
“YES!” Gabby replied, with a little more enthusiasm.
Watching old footage of herself in therapy was not easy for Gabby. She could certainly see the strides she had made from February to March, and that was encouraging. But at times, she couldn’t help but cry while the video played. Watching herself saying the wrong word then the right word then a word that made no sense at all, she saw clearly that she had a long road ahead. It would take a great many baby steps—and much bigger steps, too—to get back to the woman she had been.
Gabby’s first run for public office was in 2000, when she sought a seat in the Arizona House of Representatives. Before the election, she knocked on as many doors as she could. She spoke to any group that would have her, touting her business experience at El Campo and her volunteer work. (Only thirty years old, she served on the boards of the YMCA, the Tucson Regional Water Council, and a support group for the Arizona Air National Guard.) She explained to people that she was a moderate Democrat who until 1998 had been a registered Republican. Growing up, she was the daughter of a Republican mother and Democrat father. “I learned about bipartisanship at the kitchen table,” she’d say.
Gabby was determined. Her strategy to win the election was to talk to every single person in the district of about 172,000 people. Each day for weeks, she’d put on her white tennis shoes and a pair of shorts, she’d pull her hair back in a ponytail, and she’d walk. And walk. She walked door to door, all day, almost every day, for weeks. She walked from one end of the district to the other, and by election night, she truly felt like she had spoken to every registered voter—or at least she had tried. Maybe they didn’t like her or agree with her positions on every issue. But thousands of them did meet her, and got a firsthand impression, which they’d hold on to when she’d later run for the U.S. House.
The Arizona Daily Star in Tucson endorsed her, writing: “Giffords is the youngest of the four candidates, but she has packed a lot into her years.” Gabby won the election and threw herself into learning the intricacies of state government.
In the spring of 2002, she decided to run for the Arizona state senate, and she was required to collect four hundred