My belief that God sends you special people when you are most in need was reinforced when in 2004 we were befriended by a group of Franciscans, members of the Franciscan Brothers of Peace out of Minnesota. Brother Paul O’Donnell, their founder, had served as our spokesperson a number of times, holding press conferences for our family. They remained at our side the whole time during and before this current crisis. They did our grocery shopping, cleaned our house, did the wash, and taxied us wherever we wished to go.
David Gibbs contacted them now and arranged to have them drive up to the hospice’s rear entrance in a minivan. All Bob and I wanted to do was go home. Family and friends would be there to console us, and we could finally have the privacy denied us at the hospice.
So we left the room and walked to the side door. The van was waiting. There were news helicopters overhead. I saw police on motorcycles in front of and behind the van, an escort to lead it through the media that blocked the road to the hospice.
Bob’s memory is clearest:
“All I was thinking of at the time was Princess Diana and the paparazzi. We had to go slowly because the Brothers didn’t want to kill anybody. Mary had her head down on my lap, but I kept looking out. There were people running alongside the van with cameras. One guy had a camera with one of those long lenses, and crack, it hit the window, and Mary was startled and started to cry. The cameraman was thrown to the ground but got up and started running toward us again. I thought, What a bunch of lowlifes. At a time like this, they’ll get themselves killed trying to get a picture of a family in agony.
Eventually the media stopped chasing us—there was nothing, really, for them to hear or see—and we made the few miles home without more trouble. There, our extended family of brothers and sisters, uncles and aunts, cousins, nieces and nephews welcomed us with love, and I was able to dry my tears and greet them.
Getting away was harder for Suzanne and Bobby.
“We left by the front door,” Bobby says, “behind four or five policemen who were pushing people out of the way so we could get to the odds-and-ends shop. Let’s put it this way: the media were blocking the sun. There was one big circle of cameras around us, at least a hundred of them, and reporters with microphones and reporters with notebooks, all yelling at us, trying to get our attention.
“We didn’t say anything to anybody. Suzy was holding my shoulders, kind of crouched down, and I was holding on to the cop ahead of me and he was grabbing on to the cop ahead of him, so we were a chain. I had the feeling that if the chain broke, we’d be done for. But at least we reached the shop and were able to duck inside. The police stayed outside to make sure nobody broke down the door.”
“At this point, we all just wanted to go home,” Suzanne continues. “To Mom and Dad’s house. My husband, Michael, drove up to the side of the shop. He had a black truck with tinted windows, and I ducked in next to him on the front seat and put my head down.
“Then, all of a sudden, a dozen cameras were plastered against the windows, including the windshield, and we couldn’t move. I panicked. ‘Drive!’ I yelled to Michael, who was just a few inches away. ‘I can’t!’ he said. ‘They’ve blockaded the truck.’ Oh, it was horrible! I was yelling at Michael, and he was screaming at the people in front of us. I felt like I was going to suffocate. At that point, the police came running over to help. They cleared some people away from the front of the truck, and Michael squealed the tires. The rest of the cameramen jumped back, and Michael drove away as fast as he could, still cursing.
“We drove to my parents’ place. A lot of the family were there. Mom and Dad were walking around in a daze, but at least they were surrounded by people who loved them. It wasn’t exactly peaceful—there were too many people around. Still, there was room for them to breathe. The sight of the hospital room and Terri’s corpse was still in my brain. I hoped they could lose the image, if only for a few hours. Bobby wasn’t there. I wondered what had happened to him.”
“I waited in the odds-and-ends shop for a while,” Bobby explains, “though I’m not sure why. Just wanted to be away from the family, I guess, to be alone with my own sadness. The media crowd around the shop thinned, and after about an hour, I went to get my car to drive to Mom and Dad’s house. One or two people approached me. I thought they wanted an interview, so I said, ‘No. I’m going home.’
“I went back to Mom and Dad’s house around noon. By then, all the relatives had gathered, coming from Orlando, from Corning, from Pennsylvania. They had filled the house with food so Mom didn’t have to shop. My Uncle Ed and Aunt Linda, Uncle Jack and Aunt Betty—Dad’s cousins—were there. They had arrived a few days earlier to see Terri one last time. David Gibbs had called Felos to ask that they be put back on the visitors’ list—Michael had removed their names. ‘They hadn’t come in the past,’ we were told was Michael’s reaction. ‘Why should they be included now?’
“On the drive home, I had heard President Bush’s press conference when he offered condolences for Terri’s death; at the house, I listened to Rush Limbaugh. He must have talked about Terri for two hours, and I remember his closing words: ‘Today, America, we have hit rock bottom.’ I thought so, too, and once more was filled with humility and awe. The president, who is the most powerful man in the world, and Rush Limbaugh, arguably the most powerful voice in radio: united with us, with Terri. It was beyond comprehension.
“I turned off the radio, stretched out on the floor, and fell asleep.”
We knew we had to make a public statement but were not sure how to go about it. Bob called David Gibbs, who suggested we hold a press conference at the hospice at four o’clock. Together with David, who acted as editor, we wrote a statement to be sent to the media across the world:
As you are aware, Terri is now with God and she has been released from all earthly burdens. After these recent years of neglect at the hands of those who were supposed to protect and care for her, she is finally at peace with God for eternity. We are speaking on behalf of our entire family this evening as we share some thoughts and messages to the world regarding our sister and the courageous battle that was waged to save her life from starvation and dehydration.
We have a message for the volunteers that helped our family:
Thank you for all that you’ve done for our family. Thank you to the hundreds of doctors who volunteered to help Terri. Thank you to the fifty doctors who provided statements under oath to help Terri. Thank you to the lawyers who stood for Terri’s life in the courtrooms of our nation. From running our family’s website, to driving us around, to making meals, to serving in so many ways—thank you to all of the volunteers who have been so kind to our family through all of this.
We have a message for the supporters and people praying worldwide:
Please continue to pray that God gives grace to our family as we go through this very difficult time. We know that many of you never had the privilege to personally know our wonderful sister, Terri, but we assure you that you can be proud of this remarkable woman who has captured the attention of the world. Following the example of the Lord Jesus, our family abhors any violence or any threats of violence. Threatening words dishonor our faith, our family, and our sister, Terri. We would ask that those who support our family be completely kind in their words and deeds toward others.
We have a message to the media:
We appreciate your taking Terri’s case to the nation. Please afford our family privacy to grieve at this time. The patience and graciousness of the on-site media here at hospice has been deeply appreciated by our family.
We have a message to the many government officials who tried to help Terri:
Thank you for all that you’ve done. Our family will be forever grateful to all of the outstanding public servants who have tried to save Terri.
We have a message to all of the religious leaders who tried to help Terri:
Thank you to all people of faith who demonstrated love for Terri and strength of conviction to defend the sacrednes
s of all human life as a precious gift from God. Our family is highly honored that the Holy Father, Pope John Paul II, would speak out so boldly on behalf of our sister, Terri.
We have a message of forgiveness:
Throughout this ordeal, we are reminded of the words of Jesus on the cross: “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Our family seeks forgiveness for anything that we have done in standing for Terri’s life that has not demonstrated the love and compassion required of us by our faith.
We have a message to parents worldwide:
Our family would encourage parents to spend time with their children and to cherish each and every moment of each and every day with them as a precious gift from God.
We have a message to Terri from her family:
As a member of our family unable to speak for yourself, you spoke loudly. As a member of our family unable to stand under your own power, you stood with a grace and a dignity that made your family proud. Terri, we love you dearly, but we know that God loves you more than we do. We must accept your untimely death as God’s will.
Terri, your life and legacy will continue to live on, as the nation is now awakened to the plight of thousands of voiceless people with disabilities that were previously unnoticed. Your family intends to stand up for the other “Terri’s” around the nation and we will do all that we can to change the law so that others won’t face the same fate that has befallen you.
I didn’t go to the press conference. The idea of facing the public with my private grief was too much to bear. I understood the need to speak to the media, but I wanted to be Terri’s mom for a little while longer. I wanted to commune with her one-on-one and let those memories come that related only to us.
So I stayed behind, with my longtime friends Judy Bader and Fran Casler, while the others piled into cars and drove back to our headquarters at the odds-and-ends shop.
Suzanne describes what happened there:
“The media had set up a press conference area in front of the hospice. At four o’clock, Dad, Bobby, our extended family, David Gibbs, Monsignor Malanowski, the Franciscan Brothers, Father Pavone, my husband, and I left the shop and walked across the street, as usual with a police escort, but this time there was no pushing and shoving, no shouts, no frenzy.
“We faced an amazing sight: rows and rows and rows of microphones, ten times the usual number, and hundreds of cameras, their flashbulbs going off like huge fireflies. I remember standing in front of a microphone and thinking, How am I going to get through this? I can’t lose it. I can’t break down. It was eerie. My sister had died that morning, and here Dad and Bobby and I were in front of the world.
“Bobby and I had rehearsed how we would split up our family statement, and we read it without faltering. The press was very respectful. Afterwards, many people told me how moved they were, but I felt like an actor playing a part. Only when the conference was over, when we were all back in the shop, did the pain of Terri’s death return.”
“Right after the conference,” Bobby says, “one or two of the reporters came up to me. ‘Have you heard about the pope?’ they asked.
“‘No. What’s happened?’
“‘Pope John Paul was hooked to a feeding tube today.’
“Unbelievable. I imagined that Terri’s feeding tube had been transferred to the pope, and the image brought me close to tears. Mel Gibson’s movie The Passion of the Christ and Gibson’s recent call offering support had moved me in the same way. After years of estrangement, I felt close to my faith, and to me the feeding tube was no coincidence, but a sign of God’s acknowledgment of Terri’s worth and Terri’s suffering.”
We believe it is no coincidence that on the very day Terri died from having food and water denied her, Pope John Paul II, her chief shepherd on earth and the man who promulgated the Gospel of Life, received a feeding tube for nutrition, hydration, and comfort. He was aware of Terri’s plight and of what the judicial execution by dehydration and starvation meant to the vulnerable of our world. Nor is it a coincidence that both Terri and Pope John Paul II (who passed just two days after Terri) died during the Easter season, the most holy time of the year for Catholics, representing the passion, death and resurrection of our Lord Jesus Christ.
“Somebody told us there was going to be a memorial,” Bob remembers. “A nondenominational service somewhere in Pinellas Park. Everyone was exhausted, drained. I said, ‘Well, someone has to go,’ and a whole bunch of fingers pointed at me.
“The memorial was in a church—for the life of me, I can’t remember which one—and I went there right from the shop. It seemed like there were ten thousand people there. Even the balcony was packed. There were rabbis—one of them kissed me on the lips—black and white clergymen, two or three priests, a Muslim cleric. There was music. Catholics stood side by side with the Baptists, Methodists stood with Jews, everyone family, brought together by Terri.
“I heard people addressing the attendees. I was asked to stand, and I did, apologizing because I was wearing shorts and everybody else was dressed up. But nobody cared, and the sympathy that poured out from everyone, no matter what faith they were, or what color, or what profession, blew me away.
“I said to myself, Now here’s a miracle.”
Many people came back to our house, but they didn’t stay long. Mikey and my sister-in-law, C. B., were living with us. I assured them there was nothing more they could do for me. Bobby returned to his home, Suzanne and Michael back to their daughter.
Bob and I were alone. We didn’t say much to each other—at least I don’t remember any of our words—but I was enormously grateful for his presence and his love. The world seemed hollow without Terri. Hollow and silent and sad.
I thought of the Christ welcoming her to heaven and was comforted.
On Tuesday, April 5, 2005, at seven in the evening, a funeral Mass was celebrated for Terri at the Most Holy Name of Jesus Catholic Church in Gulfport, a suburb of St. Petersburg. Monsignor Malanowski was the principal celebrant. More than eight hundred people filled the church to capacity and flowed out the doors to the adjoining courtyard. I thought it was the most beautiful of all the services for Terri. There was a calmness to it, a sense of awe. Terri was with everyone who attended.
In the days and weeks that followed, we attended masses in Philadelphia and Jacksonville. Condolences poured in from all over the world. It became clear to us that Terri’s life, her suffering and death, had touched the lives of thousands, if not millions, of people. She belongs to them now, I thought with a touch of regret. We must share her.
CHAPTER 23
Autopsy
The services and memorials were never-ending and, in fact, continue to this day. I went to several of them, always with Bob, and they brought a measure of comfort. To our amazement, people came up to ask for our autographs, as if we were celebrities. Maybe we were, but if so, it was nothing we sought and nothing we savored. We hated it.1
If Terri was to be remembered, we all felt, it would not be because we were on television or in someone’s autograph book, and it wouldn’t be through commemorations and sermons. We needed something solid to honor her memory.
So we decided to restructure the foundation we established in 2001 and use it for a vehicle for helping people with disabled daughters, sons, husbands, wives, or grandparents cope with their problem more knowledgeably, and therefore more effectively, than we did. We had had no tools. We would supply others with one.
To put a mother—to put anyone—through what Terri and my family went through, and to see hospitals, hospices, and courts do something so cruel to another human being that should never ever have been done, is beyond my understanding. You don’t dehydrate or starve somebody to death. Not here. Not in America. Not anywhere. But to do it, and knowingly do it, is something I will never forget, and something no other mother should have to see. As David Gibbs said, “You can’t starve a dog that way; you can’t starve a mass murderer that way; the Geneva Convention keeps us from
starving prisoners that way—but they did it that way to Terri.”
So my own motive was clear: I determined to devote my life to making sure that what happened to me and my child would never have to happen again.
Actually Terri didn’t die from starvation—she died from dehydration. The autopsy on Terri’s body was conducted by Dr. Jon R. Thogmartin, chief medical examiner for Pasco and Pinellas Counties (the Sixth Circuit).2 His report was issued on June 15, 2005. It included analyses by a variety of medical experts—a neuropathologist, an anatomic/clinical/forensic pathologist, a toxicologist, and a radiologist. Eighty-six X-rays were taken and 188 photos of her body. There’s no question that the report was thorough.
The media leaped on the autopsy report like lions. Terri was “brain-dead,” they said. She was in a persistent vegetative state and had been for years. She was blind at the moment of her death. She couldn’t swallow.
The media verdict, almost universally proclaimed: it was a blessing that Terri had died; it made no sense to keep her alive any longer. But a close reading of the report shows that this conclusion was not nearly as absolute as the media made it out to be— that, indeed, the report is full of ambiguities and unanswered questions.
For example, while it is incontestably true that Terri was severely brain-injured, that does not mean she was brain-dead or even PVS. The distinction is vital. To Barbara Weller, a Florida-certified attorney and a colleague of David Gibbs, there was no question that Terri was responsive, even at the end.
Barbara visited Terri three times between December 2004 and March 2005, the last on the day the feeding tube was removed. (As our lead attorneys, she, Pat Anderson, and David Gibbs were allowed on the visitors’ list, while Tom Broderson was taken off.) She wrote extensive descriptions of all three visits. Here’s an excerpt from the last. Suzanne was in the room with her when the events she describes happened, and verifies them:
A Life That Matters Page 19