Four days after Gabby was shot, her friends Senator Kirsten Gillibrand of New York and Representative Debbie Wasserman Schultz of Florida came to the hospital to see her. They were nervous walking into the room. How would they find her?
Gabby was motionless in her bed, nonresponsive. Her eyes hadn’t opened since she was shot on January 8. Both women were tearful as they talked to Gabby about the fun they’d have together after she recovered. “You’d better get better!” Debbie said. “We need you!”
I wanted Gabby’s friends to be closer to her bedside, so I moved farther back in the room and stood beside Pia, Gloria, and Spencer. (Pia took my cell phone and began shooting video of Gabby and her two friends together.) Nancy Pelosi was there, too. As a leader in Congress, Nancy had come to show her concern and let us know about the out-pouring of support on both sides of the aisle on Capitol Hill.
The five of us in the back stood silently as Debbie and Kirsten kept talking to Gabby. Debbie has what she herself has described as a thick “Long Island Jewish” accent. It’s very distinctive. Gabby could pick out Debbie’s voice across a crowded room.
As Debbie spoke, all of a sudden, Gabby’s left eyelid began to flutter. Maybe Gabby was thinking, “I know that voice!” Or maybe it was, as Debbie and Kirsten later put it, “the power of sisterhood.” In any case, I pushed myself forward to see this moment. “Open your eyes, Gabby!” I said again and again, my voice rising, urging her on. “Can you see me? Open your eyes!” And then she did just what I asked. All of us in the room, including Gabby’s parents, were overcome with emotion.
Gabby really opened just her left eye. The other was covered with a bandage. But it was an amazing moment. At first, her eye was just a slit, but then she opened it wider. “Honey, if you can see me, put your thumb up,” I said. We could tell she was using every ounce of energy to comply, and to focus her one eye on those of us in the room.
Her left arm rose from the bed, her thumb pointed toward the ceiling, as we wiped away our tears.
When Dr. Lemole learned what had happened when Gabby’s friends visited, he smiled. “We are wise to acknowledge miracles,” he said.
That same day, January 12, President Obama and the First Lady also visited Gabby and others who were injured. The president had come to town to speak at a public memorial for the shooting victims, but he first wanted to stop at the hospital.
Before he arrived, a question came into my head. I said to Pia, “If Gabby could talk and was able to ask the president for something, what would it be?”
Pia didn’t hesitate. “She’d want the president to visit the border, to see what’s really going on down there.” Over the years, Gabby had sent numerous letters, first to President Bush and then to President Obama, asking them to see the border crisis in southern Arizona with their own eyes.
Each day in Gabby’s district, an average of 660 illegal immigrants are apprehended trying to cross the border. That’s 240,000 a year. No one knows exactly how many thousands make it through undetected. Gabby was also troubled by the hundreds of thousands of pounds of drugs confiscated at the border of her district each year. How many pounds got through? “This is an emergency,” she’d say.
And so when the president came to visit, I waited for my moment to issue an invitation on Gabby’s behalf. He and Mrs. Obama were extremely genuine in the few minutes they spent at Gabby’s bedside. She was comatose, but they each had a moment when they took her hand and spoke to her. The president told her that many Americans were wishing her well. He also embraced each of us in the room.
Just as they were getting ready to leave, with Gabby silent in her bed, I said, “Mr. President, Gabby really loves Arizona, and as you know, this community has a crisis on its border.”
He was giving me his full attention. I continued. “We’ve been trying to think what Gabby would want us to say to you today. We think she’d ask you to come back sometime and visit the border, to see for yourself the problems down there.
“So I’m asking you, Mr. President, after Gabby recovers, would you come back to Arizona and let her take you to the border of her district? She’d be so grateful if you’d get a firsthand look at the crisis on the border.”
“Absolutely,” the president said. “When she’s ready, let me know and I’ll come back.”
(On behalf of Gabby and the people of her district, I hope to hold him to that promise. He and Gabby can ride Warner Glenn’s mules out to one of the harshest areas of the United States–Mexico border, and Gabby can show him the problems in her district up close. The Secret Service can follow on their own mules. The president will certainly see the border issues from a new vantage point.)
After visiting Gabby, the president invited me and Gloria to join him and Mrs. Obama for the limo ride over to the University of Arizona’s McKale Memorial Center. More than 26,000 people were waiting there, crowded into the main arena and an overflow area.
There were just the four of us in the back of the limo, and though we were all aware of the tragedy that had brought us together, we tried to remain upbeat. Gloria joked about the presidential seal on the two packages of M&M’s on the armrest. She asked if the seal meant the candy was for the president only. “No, they’re for you,” Mrs. Obama said.
When we arrived at the arena, Gabby’s staffers and the families of the other victims were waiting for us in private areas, and the president and Mrs. Obama seemed to have a real sense of the pain everyone was feeling. They hugged and kissed them all, one after another. Gloria happened to be standing near the end of the line, and when the president reached her, she said to him, “I already got mine.”
The president kissed her anyway. “There are always more hugs and kisses to give out,” he told her.
Many people say that the nationally televised speech President Obama gave that day was the highlight of his presidency. He wrote it mostly himself the evening before, and delivered it with his heart. It’s often said that people need to turn to their leaders in times of national tragedy, so that’s when a president’s words have the most power. I thought President Obama’s speech rivaled the soaring remarks President Reagan gave after the Challenger tragedy in 1986, and the 1995 speech delivered by President Clinton in the wake of the Oklahoma City bombing.
“There is nothing I can say that will fill the sudden hole torn in your hearts,” President Obama said to the audience in Tucson. “But know this: The hopes of a nation are here tonight.”
He talked about each person murdered, sharing glimpses of their lives. And when he spoke of Gabby, he announced the news we’d told him minutes before, that she had opened her eyes. He shouted it out four times, like a preacher—“Gabby opened her eyes!”—and the crowd’s applause truly enveloped those of us who loved her. “She knows we’re here,” the president said. “And she knows that we are rooting for her through what is undoubtedly going to be a difficult journey.”
I was sitting next to Mrs. Obama, and she kept taking my hand while her husband spoke. I appreciated her gesture, as I tried to remain composed.
“Already,” the president said, “we’ve seen a national conversation commence, not only about the motivations behind these killings, but about everything from the merits of gun safety laws to the adequacy of our mental health system. . . . As we discuss these issues, let each of us do so with a good dose of humility. Rather than pointing fingers or assigning blame, let’s use this occasion to expand our moral imaginations, to listen to each other more carefully, to sharpen our instincts for empathy.”
Toward the end of his speech, the president again paid tribute to those who died.
“The loss of these wonderful people should make every one of us strive to be better—to be better friends and neighbors and coworkers and parents. And if, as has been discussed in recent days, their deaths help usher in more civility in our public discourse, let us remember it is not because a simple lack of civility caused this tragedy—it did not—but rather because only a more civil and honest public
discourse can help us face up to the challenges of our nation in a way that would make them proud.”
Back in the ICU, Gabby had no idea that the president had stopped by to visit her, or that he’d left her bedside and spoken about her to the world. I returned to her that night and told her about the speech, the crowd, and the hope we all felt in that arena. Her eyes were closed shut and she gave no indication she’d heard me, but I wanted her to know.
That first week, I tried my best to get away from the hospital to attend the funerals and visitations of those who had died on January 8. I felt a great responsibility to serve as Gabby’s representative.
Funerals are tough under any circumstance. I’ve gone to many of them over my long military and NASA career. Usually the memorial services were for people I knew—whether space shuttle crew members or Navy pilots—who died serving their country, knowing full well that they were putting their lives at risk.
I had never before attended funerals like the ones in that second week of January 2011. Those people died because they chose to visit with my wife. I couldn’t help but feel some sort of transferred responsibility for their deaths. It’s not that I felt Gabby was responsible. But I did think: If she hadn’t worked so hard to win her last election, these people still would be alive. Gabby won the 2010 race by such a narrow margin. It took days until she was finally declared the winner, and then by just four thousand votes. Had she narrowly lost instead of narrowly won, she wouldn’t have held a Congress on Your Corner that day.
In some ways, Christina-Taylor Green’s funeral was the hardest. New York firefighters had flown in with the large flag that had survived the collapse of the World Trade Center on September 11. They displayed it between two fire trucks, a tribute to the little girl born that day.
When I walked into the church, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow” was playing. I saw the tiny child’s casket, and hundreds of children filling the pews. Many were her classmates from Mesa Verde Elementary School. I was teary along with most of the other eighteen hundred people there. For a nine-year-old girl to die because she was passionate about democracy—it was just so unfair.
Suzi Hileman, the family friend who’d brought Christina to meet Gabby, was still hospitalized with three gunshot wounds and a shattered hip. Her husband, Bill, said she was having flashbacks, and at times had been shouting out Christina’s name. (When I had visited Suzi in her hospital room, she described to me the moment the shooting began. “Christina and I were holding each other so tightly that we almost broke each other’s hands,” she said.)
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 asked to speak because she couldn’t. I just sat with her, holding her hand in mine.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
What Would Gabby Want?
In the early weeks after the shooting, Gabby couldn’t speak. People didn’t know what she was thinking. At times, it was hard to know if she was thinking at all. And so, several times a day, whenever a decision needed to be made, I’d ask myself the same questions: What would Gabby do? What would she want me to do?
I thought about what Gabby would want at every step in the medical process, and as I planned her long-term care. I thought about how she’d weigh in as I considered the ramifications of her condition on her career—and on mine. In my case, I was set to command the next space shuttle mission in just three months. Should I step down? What would Gabby want me to do?
I wondered what Gabby would want even on more minor issues. Before I agreed to let someone visit her—a friend, a colleague from either party, whomever—I’d ask myself: Would Gabby want to see this person? Would she want this person to see her in such a vulnerable position?
Others closest to Gabby also spent a lot of time wondering what Gabby would want.
After the shooting, Pia led Gabby’s congressional staff forward by constantly asking herself: Which of the many issues on Gabby’s plate would she want us to prioritize? How would she want responsibilities in the office divided now that she was unavailable? What would Gabby want to do about her apartment and car in Washington? And what exactly should her communications staffers be saying publicly? They were flooded with re
quests from journalists; one day alone there were nine hundred media inquiries.
To hold on to Gabby’s voice in her head, Pia found herself scrolling through old e-mails. She kept coming upon the buoyant all-staff messages Gabby routinely sent out, all of them signed “Gabrielle.” It was hard for Pia not to be emotional reading them. They reminded her of Gabby’s priorities and principles, her exuberance, and what she wanted from her staff.
The e-mails reiterated for Pia how much Gabby believed in the power of saying thanks.
After the health-care town-hall gatherings of 2009, Gabby sent an e-mail thanking everyone. She was especially grateful to Gabe Zimmerman, who organized the events. His hard work helped draw thousands of attendees. “I will never, ever forget the Tucson event!” Gabby wrote. “Never, ever. The crowd was tremendous but unfortunately extremely rude at times. However we got through it and will live to tell about it. Our staff deserves a medal. Gabe, you are awesome!”
Pia was reminded again and again of the ways in which Gabby encouraged optimism among her twenty-five staffers and interns, especially the younger ones. She began 2010 with a Happy New Year e-mail: “Dear Team: I think January 1 is my favorite day of the year. I love the idea that we can get a fresh start and push the reset button. The endless possibilities for the coming months are glorious. Whatever challenges we meet ahead, on our own or as part of our office, I feel confident that 2010 will be remembered for its positive outcomes. I say this because all of you are especially smart and hard-working, and because you are dedicated to the highest calling, one of service to your country.”
To Pia, these e-mails were quintessentially Gabby.
Gabby referred to her constituents as “my peeps.” Again and again, she told her staffers, “You rock!” She wrote to them about her travels to the Middle East to visit troops, about a hike she took in Arizona’s Sabino Canyon, where she saw “a desert tortoise, eight deer, and a big bushy-tailed skunk,” and about her official visit to the Hickman family egg farm in Buckeye, Arizona. “I had no idea what 3.2 million chickens would smell like. Now I know. Don’t ask.”
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