Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [65]
Early on, the baristas recognized me, and they’d nod politely. After they realized I was buying coffee each day for Gabby, they began decorating her cups with different messages. They’d write “Have a great day, Gabby” or they’d use colored markers to draw simple illustrations—a rising sun or a smiley face.
Gabby was touched by their efforts, and she enjoyed each day’s new message or design. After I told this to Jim Bradley, the manager at Star-bucks, he decided to expand the creative process. Another regular customer was a second-grade teacher, and Jim wondered if her students might pitch in by designing cups. The kids loved the idea and got to work.
After that, Gabby was always glad to see me each morning, but she seemed more interested in the colorful Starbucks cup in my hand, designed with butterflies, rainbows, stars, flowers, a cactus here or there, and my favorites, rockets, space shuttles, and astronauts. Gabby not only loved the illustrations, but as a visitor from Arizona, she appreciated the welcoming embrace of the children of Houston.
I’d hang out with Gabby for forty-five minutes or so as she ate breakfast, then I’d give her a kiss goodbye, wish her well in therapy, and drive thirty-five minutes south to NASA. Once at work, my days were spent training in the space shuttle mission simulator with my crew, as we tried to master every detail and potential hazard that awaited us in space.
After a long day at NASA, I was usually pretty weary when I arrived back at TIRR each evening. Gabby’s parents, who were logging fourteen-hour days with her, would fill me in on the day’s successes and setbacks, the meals and the visitors. Then they’d take off for a while to give Gabby and me some private time together. The nurse would leave the room, too.
Some nights I’d climb into bed with Gabby before she fell asleep, and we’d talk.
Well, mostly, I’d talk. Back then, it took her an enormous amount of effort to try to articulate anything close to a complex thought, so she was usually pretty quiet. But she listened.
To fit together in the bed, we’d both lie on our sides, and I always made sure I was on her right side. That way, I could get her to focus more on the right side of her body.
One night in mid-April, we were in her bed together, face-to-face, just inches apart. We were both pretty tired, and we were just relaxing, not saying anything. Then I realized that Gabby was looking closely at something on my face.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Hair,” she said.
She reached over and started to mess with an extra-long hair in my right eyebrow. Gabby had developed a keen eye for detail since her injury—she’d notice the spot on a doctor’s tie or the scuff on his shoes. Now she had zoned in on my eyebrow.
The next word out of her mouth was “scissors.” She leaned toward her nightstand in search of a pair.
YIKES!
“Gabby, hold on!” I said. “Let’s think about this. You’re newly left-handed, your vision is damaged, you’re not wearing your glasses, I’m about to launch into space, and you want me to let you come at my eye with a pair of scissors? Are you crazy?”
She and I laughed and laughed and laughed. The bed was shaking from our laughter. It was a nice moment.
Astronauts do a lot of joking around, and we have a shared appreciation of gallows humor. That’s because we know the odds of our chosen occupation. A visually impaired spouse coming at us with a pair of scissors is among the least of our worries.
In my fifteen years at NASA, I found that behind the jokes there was a sobering reality that we didn’t often address. We loved our jobs, we knew we were helping mankind increase its knowledge of the universe, and we were proud when our efforts inspired children to dream. But we also knew that the achievements of the space program came with human costs—and always will.
There were 135 space shuttle missions. Two of them resulted in the deaths of all crew members. Fourteen astronauts in total. Of the