Gabby_ A Story of Courage and Hope - Alison Hanson [98]
I met with Christina’s parents and the rest of her family. “I am very, very sorry,” I told them. I didn’t know what else to say. During the service, I sat near Senators John McCain and Jon Kyl, and Representative Jeff Flake.
Later, I went to John Roll’s funeral, which was a testament to a smart, capable public servant and community leader. He was a faithful Catholic, and it was as if the entire Catholic Church was there. There seemed to be dozens of priests.
I didn’t attend the funeral of Phyllis Schneck since it was in New Jersey, her home state (and mine). But I spoke to her daughter about it and, by her account, it was a beautiful service. I was out of town on the day of Dorothy Morris’s funeral, so I regretfully had to miss it, but I heard that was very moving, too.
I was able to visit Dorwan Stoddard’s family at his home. I found myself thinking about how lucky he and his wife, Mavy, were to have rediscovered each other later in life; two widowed people able to return to being “boyfriend and girlfriend” again after a four-decade break.
Mavy wasn’t expected to speak at Dorwan’s funeral, but at the end of the service, she asked to talk. She had come in a wheelchair, having been shot three times in her legs. She started by saying that Dorwan made her a better person. “He made me kinder. He made me know there are good men.” People at the service noticed that her hand was trembling on the microphone, but then she regained her composure. “He spoiled me rotten, and oh gosh, it was fun!”
Everyone knew that Mavy survived the shooting because Dorwan had protected her with his own body. “He died for me,” she said, “and I have to live for him.” Her final message: “Hang in there. Hang on to your loved ones. Keep kissing them and hugging them because tomorrow they may not be there.”
Gabe Zimmerman’s memorial service was held outside. It was one of those warm winter days that explain why people move from elsewhere to the Arizona desert. I looked around at all the people gathered. There were friends, former classmates, congressmen, local military, and almost all of Gabby’s Washington, Tucson, and Sierra Vista staffers, past and present. There was even a representative from Speaker John Boehner’s office, as Gabe was the only congressional staff member murdered in the line of duty in the history of our country.
I was asked to say a few words at Gabe’s service. “Today is a hard day,” I began, “and what makes it harder is that Gabby can’t be here to share her feelings about Gabe. But she’s getting better, and someday, she will get to tell you herself.”
I spoke about Gabe’s training as a social worker. “His whole mission in life was to take care of other people, to enhance their well-being, and—as the Social Workers’ Code of Ethics puts it—‘to elevate service to others above self-interest.’ Well, losing a person who tried to live his life according to that code can only hurt us all.
“I remember Gabe’s ready smile, and his being a big brother to other staffers in the office when they needed help. The interns nicknamed Gabe ‘The Constituent Whisperer.’ If someone came in angry, Gabe was the person who’d hear them out. He’d try to make a plan to help them solve their problem. It’s no wonder that Gabby was drawn to him, and to having him in her office. He was able to calm people down and lift them up.
“Even last Saturday, during the Congress on Your Corner, two people were having a heated argument about politics, and Gabe came over. One was liberal. One was conservative. Gabe calmed them down, got them to listen to one another. Gabe spent his last hour alive doing the thing he loved, using his gift of empathy, warmth, and communication to enhance the well-being of other people.”
I ended by addressing Gabe’s family and fiancée. “Gabe is loved by everyone gathered here,” I said, “and on behalf of Gabby, I thank you for sharing him with the rest of us for thirty years.”
When I returned to the hospital that day, there was no way to tell Gabby where I had just been, or that I had been