Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [91]
How far might Gabby go? How close could she come to returning to her former self? Could she meet the expectations of her constituents? “Those answers won’t come until rehab in the weeks and months ahead,” the doctors said. “Some answers may not come for years.”
My resolve defined me in those first days. My instinct was to take charge. I was going to supervise Gabby’s recovery and get her back as quickly as possible. Maybe I wasn’t always realistic, but that attitude helped me stay focused in the early going. I was tired, I was angry, but I just kept running on adrenaline. I was on a mission.
I had a place to stay at the Arizona Inn, but I never went there until about a week after the shooting. I just couldn’t leave Gabby. On the third night, hospital staffers kindly found an empty room for me in the pediatric intensive-care unit. I was able to sleep there for several hours each night, and I developed a routine. On my way to or from bed, I’d stop by the nurses’ station to see how all the little patients were doing. “How are the babies today?” I’d ask the nurses.
“They’re going to be OK,” they’d say. “And how is the congresswoman?”
I’d see young mothers holding their babies, most born prematurely or with serious health issues. Those mothers were like Gabby’s mom, wishing they could take away their children’s pain, hoping that their love would serve as a form of medicine. When I was away from Gabby, Gloria sat beside her. “I feel like my breathing is helping Gabby breathe,” Gloria said. “I just want to share the air in the room, like maybe my breath will sustain her.”
My intimate moments with Gabby were not fully private. There were always people hovering over her—nurses, doctors, aides. For protection, the U.S. Capitol Police were with us twenty-four hours a day. Tucson police were in the hallway. At one point, even the director of the FBI, Robert Mueller, showed up and asked if he could speak to me outside Gabby’s room. The FBI wanted to know about any previous threats to Gabby’s life, and whether she had enemies. I told him about the political climate in Arizona, and he vowed to use every resource possible to investigate the attack.
Meanwhile, Gabby’s sister, Melissa, and our friends signed up on a duty roster to be available, night and day, to sit at Gabby’s bedside. Gloria felt, and I agreed, that we didn’t want Gabby to be by herself—ever.
As I sat with Gabby, e-mails poured into my BlackBerry from friends, family, colleagues, and just about anyone who had or could get my e-mail address. It never stopped. I didn’t know many of those who’d written to us, but I appreciated their concern and support.
I was especially touched that so many astronauts, dating back to the Mercury program, sent heartfelt notes. “We hope you will sense God’s strength and presence in Gabrielle’s recovery, as well as in your cockpit during your upcoming space adventure,” wrote Jack Lousma, the pilot of Skylab 3 in 1973 and later a space shuttle commander.
Neil Armstrong tracked down my e-mail address and wrote: “Dear Mark, We know that you need not be in a combat zone to be in harm’s way. But Gabby was just doing the kind of thing that she should be doing.” The previous summer, he had gone to Congress to discuss space exploration issues. He wrote that Gabby had been a huge help to him: “Her questions of witnesses were the absolute best.” His graciousness extended even to the last line of his e-mail. “Please do not bother to answer this, but know that we are pulling for her—and for you. Most sincerely, Neil Armstrong.”
In 2006, when Gabby and I were dating, I’d given her the book First Man: The Life of Neil Armstrong as