A Life That Matters

by Terri's Family:

  “I was in House Majority Leader Tom DeLay’s private room at the Capitol, watching the bill being debated on television. I remember looking out the window. There was a full moon, or close to a full moon, in the cloudless sky. I thought, I’m sitting here in Washington among the most powerful people in the world. The president is flying here in the middle of the night just to sign Terri’s Law—to sign a bill that will save my sister. It was more than surreal. I felt awed—and humble.

  “Mr. DeLay hugged me when victory was sure. Representative Sensenbrenner came up to shake my hand, but I hugged him instead. He’s well over six feet tall and virtually smothered me. Everybody in the room was laughing. I could see how happy they all were. And then we went outside the private room and were swarmed by the media.

  “Burke Balch, the National Right to Life lawyer who had been so helpful, had told me earlier, ‘Even if this bill passes, there’s a chance that the federal courts could reject it.’ So I was happy, but still frightened by what he said. I called my parents, keeping my reservations to myself. They were ecstatic.

  “A few of us waited in the apartment of a friend for my parents to call to tell me Terri’s nourishment had begun again. One hour went by, then another. I called Suzy. She hadn’t heard anything. Then the doubt set in hard, and I started getting really nervous. At dawn, I went back to my hotel room. There was no news.”

  “Dad and I watched them arguing the bill,” Suzanne adds. “We didn’t have cable TV in the odds-and-ends shop, so we sat in the CNN truck, asking, ‘Did it pass? Did it pass?’ Then Bobby called and told us it had passed, and everyone went crazy. David Gibbs called. He was on the way to federal court with the paperwork that had been faxed from Washington. It was just a formality, he said. The judge would sign it, and the feeding tube would be put back in.

  “Dad and I went to a little room in the hospice to wait. Mom was home, and we didn’t want to wake her until we were sure everything was all right—and there was only silence. Bobby kept calling: ‘Hear anything?’ The suspense was unbearable.

  “Finally we called David, who was waiting at the courthouse for the judge to sign the papers. ‘Don’t worry,’ he said, sounding upset. ‘They had to go wake Judge Whittemore up.5 He’ll come when he’s had his breakfast.’

  “That made Dad furious. ‘Terri’s starving to death and the guy won’t come to the courthouse until he’s had breakfast?’ Meanwhile, Bobby was flying home, going out of his mind because he’d heard nothing.”

  Eventually Judge Whittemore decided that a hearing was necessary. Michigan Senator Carl Levin had inserted language into the Senate bill changing the phrase “shall issue a stay” to “may issue a stay,” meaning that the insertion of the feeding tube was up to the discretion of the court. The House had refused to adopt the changed phrase (it was the reason the two chambers had to meet to reconcile the bill in the first place). Levin and Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist should argue the point for the Congressional Record, Levin said. Frist agreed, and it was Levin’s argument that Judge Whittemore used to rule that a hearing was necessary.

  “I wasn’t at the hearing,” Bobby says, “but the moment I landed in Florida, I called Suzanne. ‘What’s going on? What’s going on?’

  “‘Oh, Bobby, the hearing was horrible,’ Suzy sobbed. ‘The judge was arrogant, ornery, and basically just painted a very bad picture. He didn’t say when he was going to rule, and we’re still waiting.’

  “This is bad, I thought. This is awful. I just couldn’t believe it. Here we were with a bill to save Terri’s life, and the court won’t allow it.”

  “When Jeb Bush wrote that letter to Judge Greer,” Bob said later, “Terri’s case became politicized. The judicial branch fought with the executive branch and with the legislative branch, and Terri was nothing more than a pawn. The media made it a right-wing, left-wing fight, but that wasn’t accurate. The bill to save her life was a bipartisan bill. Not one senator objected to the bill, and except for a few in the House, Congress voted to save Terri’s life. The court let the few decide the issue.”

  Bobby describes a poignant episode, that, if anything, shows how un-political Terri’s situation was for us.

  “It was Easter Sunday,” he says. “Terri had been starved for eight days. I was visiting with her. As I was about to leave, I gave her a big hug and said, ‘I love you, Terri, and I’ll be back soon to see you.’ Then I broke down and started to cry.

  “When I got to the hallway, Suzy said, ‘Look at your shoulder.’

  “I looked. They had put Vaseline on Terri’s lips to ease the dehydration, and the Vaseline had stained my shirt as I was hugging her and saying good-bye.

  “I put the shirt in storage, never to wear it again. The impression of her lips remains on my shirt to this day.”

  Once more, a judge, in this case a federal judge, decided Terri should die. Earlier, Pat Anderson had described what she called the Rule of Terri: “If it will help Terri die, then we, the courts, definitely observe every nicety in the rule or statute or the case law. If it will impede her death, we will ignore it completely.”

  I think of these words often, and I think of the words of John Paul II. Which laws are right? The laws of man or the laws of God?

  Our last faint hope lay in Tallahassee, where the Legislature was trying to come up with a bill, even as Congress was working on a bill of its own. Just prior to the removal of Terri’s feeding tube, David Gibbs told us we had an appointment to see the state attorney general, Charlie Crist, followed by a meeting with Governor Bush himself.

  “So we jump on a plane,” Bob remembers, “and fly to Tallahassee. Well, Crist never shows, but rather sends in an assistant who apologizes for him. From there, we walk down the hall to the governor’s office. David Gibbs is with us, but two of Jeb Bush’s attorneys funnel him off to a side room, and we go to see Bush alone. The governor is gracious, polite, sympathetic. But he’s not promising anything—indeed, he’s not saying anything of substance. And I’m kind of looking at Mary and she’s looking at me, and all we want to do is get out of there. Finally he says, ‘What I suggest you do is lobby with the state senators and representatives to get the bill passed’—and that was that.”

  I’m not a lobbyist by nature, and I was too exhausted, too emotionally drained, to muster up any energy for the job. We let a veteran handle it: my valiant Bobby.

  “After I got back from Washington, there was still activity going on in Florida,” he says. “We were having trouble in Tallahassee. A new bill to save Terri that seemed like a slam dunk ran into a roadblock. It passed the House, but State Senator Jim King, who was against anything being passed for Terri, had enrolled nine of his Republican colleagues to vote against it—enough to defeat it. If that weren’t enough, even if it passed, it would have to go in front of Judge Greer. Still, getting it passed was a first step. So I flew to Tallahassee and started lobbying the nine Republicans. Again, someone from Right to Life arranged the meetings.

  “The Capitol was mobbed. Several of the representatives angrily told me they were getting threats—pass the bill or you will die. ‘Please believe me,’ I said. ‘Our family has nothing to do with this. We can’t control it. But can you please understand why I’m here and how important this is?’

  “Later that day, it went to the floor and was debated again. Terri had had no food or water for over a week. If the bill doesn’t pass, I thought, there’s no recourse left.

  “It failed. Several of the senators apologized to me: ‘We’re sorry, but we can’t vote for this.’

  “I held an impromptu press conference expressing my sadness. Several of the reporters told me that Governor Bush was about to hold a press conference. The rumor was that he would take Terri into protective custody. Washington had failed. Tallahassee had failed. Was Jeb Bush going to save Terri, after all?

  “I felt a surge of optimism and hope: At last, the governor’s going to do something!

  “An hour later, I was taken to the room where Gove
rnor Bush was going to speak, but was quickly told to leave—only media people were allowed. So I went outside and waited.

  “Jeb Bush didn’t say he would take Terri into his custody,” Bobby continues. “He did announce that William Cheshire, a neurologist from the Mayo Clinic, had evaluated Terri and found that she was not in PVS. Rather, he believed she was in a minimally conscious state—enough evidence for the governor to ask the Department of Children and Families to further investigate. I believed that Dr. Cheshire’s findings gave the governor sufficient authority to take Terri into protective custody—but he still didn’t say that he would.

  “I had started to leave, half hopeful, half discouraged, when someone stopped me. ‘Bobby, come with me. The governor wants to meet with you.’ Hope soared.

  “Christa Calmas, one of the governor’s attorneys, met me at the door to Bush’s outer office. I had spoken to her on the phone in the past; now we made small talk. The governor’s lead attorney, Rocky Rodriguez came in and greeted me warmly. Several people I didn’t know ran around, doing God knows what. The place was frantic.

  “I was ushered into Governor Bush’s office. Senator Mel Martinez was there. ‘Hey, Bobby,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

  “‘Hey, Senator, how you doin’?’ My pal Mel. Surreal.

  “After Senator Martinez left the room I sat across from Governor Bush. ‘Bobby,’ the governor said, ‘we’re working on getting your sister fed right away, on getting her hydrated right away.’

  “Joy exploded in me. ‘Well, thank you, Governor,’ I said. ‘That’s great news.’

  “Rocky Rodriguez came rushing in and spoke to Bush quietly. ‘Rocky,’ he said, ‘whatever you need to do, get it done.’

  “She left. People were running around. Christa Calmas was sitting next to me. I was making small talk with the governor. Then Rocky came in again and said something else, which frustrated the governor. ‘Rocky, you make the decision. Get it done!’

  “Again she left. ‘We have a few things we’ve got to take care of, but we’re going to get your sister hydrated right way,’ Christa told me.

  “‘That’s wonderful news,’ I said, and a few minutes later, we get up to go. I turned to Governor Bush and thanked him over and over again. I couldn’t seem to stop thanking him. ‘Please call me when Terri’s getting hydrated,’ I asked Christa. She said she would.

  “I had flown to Tallahassee, but now rented a car to drive home. On the way, I called Suzy to tell her what had happened. ‘Don’t tell Mom and Dad,’ I warned her. Christa hadn’t called yet.

  “About forty-five minutes later, my cell phone rang. It was Christa. ‘We’ve run into some problems,’ she said. ‘At this point, I don’t know if we’re going to get Terri hydrated today. I’ll let you know what’s going on.’

  “It was the last I heard from her.

  “I got home and turned on the news. The governor had been thwarted. Evidently his press conference hinting that he might take Terri into his custody telegraphed his strategy, and Felos got a restraining order against him. Who approved the order? Judge Greer.

  “Several lawyers later told me that Bush, as state governor, could have gone ahead despite the restraining order, using Florida Department of Law Enforcement agents, if necessary, to remove Terri from the hospice into his custody. I don’t know. What I believe is that Jeb Bush did more for our family than any of the governors of the other forty-nine states would have done. Could he have done more? Maybe. Only Governor Bush knows. But I recognize the position he was in, and I’m not bitter.”

  “The story that I heard,” Bob says, “is that the governor had dispatched the FDLE and they were en route to take Terri into custody—they were literally blocks away from the hospice. And Greer apparently said that if Bush allowed them to take Terri, he would issue an order to have the governor arrested by the Pinellas Park Police Department.

  “And so the FDLE was called off—and that was it.”

  Our last chance, our last hope, was gone. The fight for Terri’s life lasted fifteen years, and, even knowing the outcome, I wouldn’t have given up a day of it. She died despite our efforts, but there is no doubt we did everything we could.

  And as I listen to my family in preparation for writing these pages, I’m plunged back into the turmoil of those final days. But what comes to me—what salves my wounded heart—is the knowledge of how heroic Bob and Bobby and Suzanne are. Terri gave them new lives—or if not new, then different, better ones. My pride in my family exceeds any emotion I’ve ever felt. I feel blessed by them. I feel blessed by God.

  CHAPTER 22

  Grieving

  Terri Schiavo died at 9:05 on the morning of March 31, 2005. Suzanne called to tell us that Terri’s two weeks of suffering had ended, that she had died. Bob and I had been expecting the news for several days, and I thought I was prepared for it. Death would end her suffering, I rationalized. She was in a better place now, and at peace. There was a measure of relief in her dying.

  Still, I began to cry and couldn’t stop crying. The will I had needed to keep myself available for my family—to get through the days—was no longer necessary, and I could weep for as long as I wished without regard for those around me: Bob and my brother, Mikey, who were weeping, too.

  My muscles seemed to have lost their capacity to hold me up. I slumped in the backseat of Mikey’s car as we drove toward the hospice, silently but gratefully accepting Bob’s comforting embrace. As always, he was strong when I was at my weakest.

  We stopped at the odds-and-ends shop, where we were met by David Gibbs. David was dressed in a business suit and tie, very proper and formal, once an outsider, now part of the family, who had glimpsed the depth of our pain and did all he could to alleviate it. He suggested we go right away to the hospice, and we walked outside.

  Shouts. Screams. Television cameras and microphones thrust into our faces like attack birds. Police surrounded us, pushing away the crowd, but still the questions flew: “How do you feel, Mrs. Schindler?” “Anything to say, Mrs. Schindler?” “Last words for Terri, Mrs. Schindler?” As though I could talk with a voice stifled by tears.

  Finally we reached the hospice entrance. Bobby and Suzanne were there, their faces white with grief. Unbelievably we were stopped and searched and made to show our ID. Finally the guards let us through, and we walked toward Terri’s room for the last time. Michael Schiavo’s lawyer Deborah Bushnell was standing at the doorway. I remember thinking she was the devil herself. I didn’t see Michael or George Felos, but the hospice administrator was there, and a lot of nurses, and five or six police officers. Father Pavone was there, too, a welcome presence among the enemy.

  We had to sign in again, than started to enter Terri’s room. Bushnell stopped us. “Only the family,” she said, and pointed to my brother. “That guy’s not allowed in there.”

  The four of us pushed into the room. Terri was lying on the bed, still as marble.

  “The scene was unforgettable,” Suzanne says. “Horrible. Mom throws herself on Terri and is just incoherent, sobbing uncontrollably. There are three policemen in the room—Michael had ordered them to be with us—and one of them tries to pull her away from Terri. Dad’s screaming at them to give us privacy. They’re saying no. Meanwhile, Bobby turns and yells for Mikey to get into the room. And Dad’s shouting, ‘You let Mikey in the room. He’s family!’ They finally let Mikey in, but they wouldn’t let him go near Terri.”

  Bob remembers screaming at the police to let Mikey in and give us some privacy. “I told them to get out of the room,” he says, “and they refused. I said, ‘For God’s sake, she’s dead! Do you think we’re going to steal her body? Will you please have the courtesy to give us some privacy?’”

  “I told Dad to forget about the policemen,” Bobby continues. “I thought he was going to have a stroke. ‘Tend to Mom,’ I said, and Dad went over to her. And then we all sat there and things quieted down. Everyone kind of got their composure, all except Mom, who was crying—lying on T
erri, hugging her, and crying hysterically, not wanting to let go.”

  I was holding Terri. Mikey came over and put his arms around me. “You’ve got to get up,” he said. “You’ve got to get up.” And Bob kept saying to my brother, “Leave her alone for a little while. Let her stay there.”

  So Mikey let me be for a few precious minutes more. I hugged Terri and told her good-bye. Then Mikey took my arm. I stood up and let him lead me to a chair at the foot of Terri’s bed. The policeman came over and said, “You can’t stay here. You can’t stay here,” and Bob said, “Leave her alone. She wants to sit here for a little while.” The policeman said, “You cannot stay here.” “That’s not fair,” Bob told him. “She has a right to stay here with her daughter.” The policeman said, “I’m sorry. You can’t stay. You have to get up.” That’s when I did get up and went outside in the hallway. Father Pavone was standing there giving Terri last rites. He hadn’t been allowed in her room. For twelve years, Michael had been using Terri to torture us. Even at the end, he didn’t stop.

  I don’t remember who ushered us all into a private room, probably someone from the hospice staff. We were alone with David Gibbs and Mikey.

  “We never saw Michael,” Suzanne says. “In the whole two weeks Terri’s feeding tube was out, we never saw him. The funny thing about that is that there’s only one road in and out of the hospice. And no one ever knew how he got through all the media, what car he came in. He was like a ghost.”

  The problem we faced was how to get out of the hospice without being trampled by the media. They knew by this time that Terri had passed, and, as Suzanne says, “they all wanted a piece of us.” Bobby and Suzanne were strong enough—and angry enough at the way we were treated—to talk to them, but Bob didn’t want to see them, and I was muted by anguish: the idea of the crowds outside filled me with horror.