Saving Graces - Elizabeth Edwards [167]
There were more Democrats, admittedly, who wrote, but despite the fact that most of these people had gotten to know me in a political campaign, there was very little politics, even from those we knew from politics.
Sweet Ashish Patel wrote. Ashish was in high school when I met him, earnest and energetic and smart. Time and again he would reach out to us, with photographs or magazines or something for the children. He made booklets for us with news stories and calendars from the campaign, something the busy staff promised but never had the time to do. He sent a cake once, flowers another time, and he called to tell us when he got into Vanderbilt University. The most important thing Ashish gave us was Ashish himself. It was no surprise to see that he had posted. “Just from meeting you a couple of times,” he wrote, “I have no doubt you will get through this. You have become like a part of my family through the campaign trail. All of America is behind you and rooting for you to win this battle.”
The theme of family came up over and over. Sapphire wrote, “Your extended family across America is wrapping you up in their arms, hugging you tight, and offering you the strength of millions of well-wishers. All with the same goal in mind…to see you beat this easily! Namaste!” Loquatrix wrote what I was feeling, “I became quite fond of you all these last many months. Quite the extended family you have in this fine country!” And there were people of such naturally good hearts, like Sandy and Joe A., who wrote, “Our thoughts and prayers are with you. I feel like you’re part of our family. You have worked so hard this last year. It is now time to rest and take care of yourself. We love you.” I was lucky, I knew, to have the loving and supportive family I did, but I was doubly blessed to have this huge circle reaching out and embracing me. And, I hope, my larger “family” made it a little easier on my family at home.
Cate used to call home to check on me and to rib her father that she was the only one in the family with a job. John was devoting a lot of time to caring for me, but I could see he was also restless. We talked about what was next. The people he trusted most called him and talked to him about what was next. He probably tossed and turned at night wondering what in fact was next. And finally we pulled everyone together, and John and I had meetings with the people whose opinions he trusted. At the first meeting, the people who had been so important to John—and to me—in the past, Robert Gordon, who coordinated John’s domestic policy agenda; Derek Chollet, who was invaluable on foreign policy; Wendy Button, not just John’s speechwriter but a clear thinker; Miles Lackey, who had been John’s Senate chief of staff and knew John as well as anyone; David Ginsberg, who was with John longer than anyone; Peter Scher, from the vice presidential campaign, who had been quickly wrapped into our little family; Bruce Reed, the youngest elder statesman and one John trusted completely; and Jennifer Palmieri, who had been John’s press secretary in the primary campaign for president and whose wit was matched by her good sense. These people had come into our lives at different times, in different roles, but now we were wrapped up in their lives and, even more so, they were wrapped up in ours.
The meeting was run by Nick Baldick, who had run the primary campaign and who was the most organized no-nonsense person in the room, excluding John. Nick walked through a list of things John might do as John sat and listened to the vocations and avocations he might consider. His expression didn’t change. It all sounded too political, too calculating, too mundane, and I could see that he was just as restless in that room as he was when alone thinking about the future. And then Robert Gordon brought up poverty, and it was as if a flame had suddenly been ignited in John. He became so animated, happy, really. To him, all