by Ann Romney
Getting his plan approved by the Massachusetts legislature and also by the federal government presented further challenges. Mitt enlisted his former opponent Senator Ted Kennedy to help with both. He knew that Democratic legislators in Massachusetts would not want to act on health care if Ted Kennedy were opposed. Further, while the people in the Bush administration in Washington were Republicans, they, too, would want to know if Kennedy was going to fight Mitt’s idea.
Mitt met several times with Ted. Remarkably, both men put politics aside to find common ground for the common good. The Bush administration also signed on. The Massachusetts legislature took almost a year to put its own stamp on the program, adding several provisions Mitt opposed and which he vetoed. But his vetoes were overridden. In the final analysis, he decided to sign what he thought was 80 percent good and 20 percent not good.
At the signing ceremony in April 2006, held at the historic Faneuil Hall in Boston, Mitt reminded the audience that this was the same place where he had debated Ted Kennedy in 1994. He quipped, “The last time I was on the stage with Senator Kennedy”—he was interrupted by laughter, but continued—“well, this for me feels a little bit like the Titanic returning to visit the iceberg.” Ted Kennedy had the best line: “Whenever Mitt Romney and Ted Kennedy are celebrating the same piece of legislation, it proves one thing: one of them didn’t read it!” The hall erupted in laughter, as did Mitt.
A year or so later, as Mitt began looking at a run for the presidency, he was asked by Washington Post columnist Dan Balz whether the Massachusetts health care program, now being referred to as Romneycare, was something he would enact for the entire nation. Mitt explained that, no, it was designed for Massachusetts and probably would not be feasible in other states that had much larger uninsured populations. And Massachusetts already had the most expensive health insurance in the country; imposing it elsewhere could mean skyrocketing premiums in those other states. He felt that the better approach was to require other states to find their own path to get health care for their uninsured.
Being honest, I’d have to admit that Romneycare was a political burden for Mitt’s presidential campaigns, particularly after President Obama copied parts of it for his Obamacare legislation. But Mitt never wavered in his conviction that he had done the right thing for the people of his state. By 2012, 97 percent of working-age adults had health insurance, and 99.8 percent of children in the state of Massachusetts were covered. One day, he and I were grocery shopping at the Star Market near our home when a man approached Mitt, shook his hand, and said, “Your health care plan saved my life. Thank you.” That wasn’t the first or the last time Mitt heard people say that or similar things. So, yes, Mitt is proud of what he, Tim Murphy, Beth Myers, and the entire team accomplished.
I take no credit for Romneycare, but I’m glad that I was part of Mitt’s motivation and determination to create and implement it. Perhaps my MS experience had a small but real influence.
* * *
I maintained a low profile throughout Mitt’s administration. My main task, as it always had been, was to be his partner in living a well-rounded life. Even though I was feeling well, there are certain things that I knew did not mix well with MS. I couldn’t stay up late; I needed to get sufficient sleep every night. By ten o’clock I needed to be home. I also had trouble in big, noisy crowds; my senses sometimes became overwhelmed, and I would get dizzy. So, as much as possible, I avoided the banquets and events that are usually part of the life of an elected official’s wife. I am also sensitive to certain forms of light; I can’t stay too long in fluorescent lighting. But I did use my bully pulpit to bring attention to those things about which I felt strongly, especially teenage pregnancy.
I had been active in several charities for years, including the United Way. I had a particular interest in working with at-risk young women. Over and over I had seen the dreams of teenage girls end when they got pregnant, so I worked to educate them about the consequences of having children before they’d finished their education or established a stable home. I was a volunteer teacher at Mother Caroline Academy, a tuition-free multicultural school for girls between the fourth and eighth grade. One day I asked a fifth-grade class how many of them wanted to go to college. I was thrilled when almost every hand went up. But then I asked how many of them were planning on having a baby before they graduated from high school, and I was devastated when once again almost every hand went up. I told them the truth: they would not be able to do both. They had to make a choice, and that choice would affect everything that happened to them for the rest of their lives.
One thing that I insisted on continuing during Mitt’s term as governor was riding horses. I had become physically and emotionally dependent on riding, and if I went more than a week or so without doing so, I felt it. While I would go out to Jan’s ranch in California from time to time, I also began working with a dressage trainer in Boston, Maria Harrington. She broke down everything I had already learned and put it back together, helping me understand what it meant to establish a true connection with my horse. My horse, Baron, had become a best friend, companion, and, most important in this sport, teammate.
I began riding in competition. Poor Mitt and our boys were baffled by my love for the sport. I know Mitt kept wondering, maybe hoping, that I would reach the top, that I would win a gold medal in Grand Prix, the sport’s top level, so I could be done with it. I explained to him that I was never going to be that good; I would never reach that point. Then he wondered why I would keep working at it. But because it was so important to me, it became important to him. He and the boys would diligently come to the shows and sit there cheering for me as if they had some idea what was going on. But I knew they were rolling their eyes and sneaking peeks at their watches trying to figure out how much longer they’d have to be there. While they couldn’t understand exactly what I was trying to accomplish, or why I loved it so much, they were supportive. “You just go around the ring,” Mitt said. “Isn’t it boring for you?”
I told him, “You have no idea how exciting it is to me.” He definitely agreed with me about that. Mitt eventually learned enough about the sport to understand the scoring. He likes to claim that, compared to most other people, he’s an expert in it—then he points out that most other people don’t know anything at all about it.
I continued to improve. I eventually began posting competitive scores in Grand Prix. In 2006, I was the New England Dressage Association Adult Amateur Champion and I earned gold and silver medals from the U.S. Dressage Federation.
Along with that success came some criticism. There were people in the media who treated this as a rich woman’s hobby, rather than appreciating that it was vital for my well-being. Some of the things they wrote were totally inaccurate. One article claimed that I was buying and selling horses for profit. Another speculated that my riding was a fancy tax shelter. Someone else reported that I had won a gold medal for the United States—well, that article I did like. At first, admittedly, all this bothered me. As with so much other reporting, it was frustrating to read stories that simply weren’t accurate. But I learned not to pay attention to them.
We have a tradition in Massachusetts known as the lone walk. In Boston, the front doors of the State House are opened only on special occasions. One of them, dating back to 1884, is the day a governor leaves office. He takes the lone walk through those doors and walks across the street and into Boston Common, symbolizing his return to the citizenry. Before Mitt and I took that walk together, he completed another tradition from that same era: he left an inscription in the Bible that remains in the governor’s office. He wrote, in part, “To help another person is rewarding. To help many thousands of people has been immensely rewarding.”
As we walked through those doors and down the steps, we had a pretty good idea what we would do next. Almost since his election, there had been considerable speculation that Mitt would run for president in 2008. We had discussed it. And when we did, I remembered what Lenore R
omney had told me when they asked her why she was running against such a popular incumbent: “If not me, who?”
If not Mitt, who? In early December we’d held a family meeting to discuss the possibility and make the decision. A presidential campaign would have a far greater impact on our lives than the gubernatorial campaign had. Truthfully, we all thought the experience would be similar to that campaign, just magnified. Boy, were we wrong. No one who hasn’t been involved in a national campaign could possibly imagine what it’s like. We thought, Hey, this would be a lot of fun. Once again, my family asked if I was confident a campaign would not have a negative effect on my health. And as before, I told the family that I could handle it, whatever “it” turned out to be. Having been through the campaign for governor and survived it, and believing, as we do, that Mitt would make a wonderful president, the family voted to go for it.
If you want to make God laugh, tell him your plans. Without warning, Josh got sick. As he began to get dressed for work one morning, he noticed a weakness in his hands. It was enough to keep him home for the day to see what was the matter. At first, we were terrified it was MS, but as the day progressed, the weakness intensified and spread to his arms and feet. This was something else entirely. By the next morning Josh was having difficulty walking and went with his wife, Jen, to see his doctor, who recommended that Josh be admitted to the hospital immediately.
Once in the hospital, Josh’s symptoms continued to get worse until he reached the point where he was unable to get out of bed. One whole side of his body was affected. I couldn’t believe this was happening. Josh’s condition was getting worse every day, and no one seemed to know what was wrong. Josh had been my strength through all my trials, and now he was struggling. The family vote aside, Mitt told us that if Josh was sick, he wouldn’t run.
The doctors took several MRIs and conducted a series of other tests, including running electrical currents through his arms and legs to test his nerve responses. The results were not good; the doctors concluded that Josh was experiencing the effects of Guillain-Barré syndrome. Little is known about it. It attacks without warning, causes paralysis, and can be life-threatening. But with prompt treatment, most cases gradually dissipate over time. The doctors decided that the best course of action would be to administer intravenous immunoglobulins to slow the effects of the paralysis.
When I pray, I never ask for anything; I simply express my gratitude. Even when Mitt was running for office, I never prayed for him to win—I wouldn’t assume to know the will of the Lord. Instead, I prayed for things such as the safety of my family, that they be protected. This time was different. The whole family fasted for twenty-four hours. I had nothing to drink or eat for a whole day. Then I got on my knees and offered a prayer that Josh would be healed. This time I felt I could ask for a favor: “I cannot face having Josh be sick,” I said. “He needs to be well. Mitt and I both really need him. If we’re going to do this election, we can’t do it without Josh.” And as I said my prayer, the most peaceful feeling came over me. I felt like I was relaxed.
At just about that same time, doctors and nurses were prepping Josh for his treatment. By this time, Josh was unable to sit up on his own or walk. Before administering the drug, the doctors tested his strength one final time by asking Josh to squeeze his finger as tightly as he could. Josh was unable to even make a fist. The nurse proceeded to insert a port in Josh’s arm to administer the drug and almost immediately after she did, Josh felt a surge running through his body. He sat up in bed, much to the astonishment of those in the room. “Excuse me,” he told the nurse. “I know you’re not going to believe this, but something just happened and I don’t think I will be needing the medication.” The doctor was called back in and he repeated the strength test he had done earlier; Josh squeezed his finger this time with relatively normal strength. The nurse who had been caring for Josh became very emotional. While she didn’t share the same religious beliefs as us, she insisted that she had just seen a miracle from God.
There is no real explanation for what happened with Josh. He wasn’t immediately cured, and it took some time for him to regain all of the feeling in his body. Over a period of several months, he slowly regained his strength and was able to fully support Mitt in the following year with his campaign.
We exhaled. Although Mitt had already filed the necessary forms to run for the Republican nomination, we waited a little more than a month after leaving the State House before he formally announced he was running. He chose to do it in the Henry Ford Museum in Dearborn, Michigan. Appropriately, in the background was a Rambler, the compact car that George Romney had created that revolutionized the auto industry—and just about our entire family. I wasn’t the slightest bit nervous when I introduced him. I don’t get nervous when I’m completely confident about what I’m saying.
It was an exciting event, and we were all getting ready for the primary campaign. Natalie Crate had been with us in Michigan for the announcement and then went back to Boston. There was a lot of work to be done transitioning to the new governor, Deval Patrick. Natalie was completely involved in that work as well as in helping put together our campaign staff. During the campaign, she was going to be my assistant. Then, one day, in the middle of the night, she had a seizure, and lost the use of one arm. She went into the hospital and they began conducting a series of tests. She called me the next morning wondering if it might be the onset of MS. “Oh, my gosh,” I said. “That would be tragic and too ironic.”
Obviously we were all very concerned, but we managed to convince ourselves that it couldn’t be anything serious. Her symptoms sounded somewhat similar to Josh’s. I had survived a serious disease, Josh was surviving, and so would Natalie. Whatever it was, we’d find a way to take care of her. She was a young woman, she had given birth to her daughter only a few months earlier, she was smart and vivacious, and she was going to accomplish great things both in her career and as a mother. We had access to the best doctors and we had my experience with the system from which to work.
Within a few days we had the test results: Natalie had a stage-three inoperable brain tumor. The doctors said she would live for a year, two at most. The news was beyond devastating. It was tragic. It was so terribly, terribly unfair. She was thirty-four years old and she had a ten-month-old daughter. These things weren’t supposed to happen. It made no sense to look for reasons or try to understand why; it just was. It was such a helpless feeling. There was so little we could do. She was in Mass General, one of the great hospitals in the world, but the doctors there were helpless. Mitt and I called pretty much every day. We prayed for her. We tried to find as much information from the research community as we could, hoping there was something new and exciting on the horizon that might make a difference. Maybe there was a new drug being tested, some new theory. We live in an age where medical miracles happen.
There was nothing. Nothing. Natalie was going through the same stages I had been through, but moving quickly from denial and into depression, while her doctors went to work. They were determined to give her every day they could. Her tumor had spread throughout her brain like a spiderweb, so surgery wouldn’t help. Instead, she stayed in the hospital and began a regimen of chemotherapy and radiation. For several weeks she refused to see anyone. Believe me, I understood that feeling, and there was nothing anyone could say that would make a difference. A couple of months later, Mitt and I came back to Boston for a fund-raiser. To our surprise and delight, we found out Natalie wanted to come to it. That was a big and wonderful surprise. Before the event, we asked her to come up to our hotel room. The drugs made her look a little bloated, and her hair was falling out, but to us she looked absolutely beautiful. She came with her husband and sketched out the details of her disease. She told us the size of the tumor and her prognosis, which was very poor. It was so sobering and sad, so incredibly sad.
Through Natalie, I completed a type of medical cycle. First as an outsider, then a patient, and finally a caregiver. I certainly w
asn’t her primary caregiver; Natalie had a strong support group; everyone who loved her did his or her part. While I had spoken with many people going through difficult challenges, this was the first time I tried actively to apply the lessons I’d learned to help someone I cared about deeply. The treatment had temporarily beaten back the cancer, but it also had weakened Natalie and made her sick. Having learned the value of adding alternative treatment to Western medicine, I encouraged Natalie to try it. Our positions had been reversed: She had been diligent about helping me deal with my MS. Now I was determined to help her deal with this. At that time I was seeing an acupuncturist. I wanted Natalie to see him. “Look, this isn’t going to cure you,” I told her. “This isn’t going to make the tumor go away, but it might help make you feel better. It might give you a little more energy.”
“Oh, Ann, I can’t,” she said. “I’m too sick to get out of bed.”
I took that as a qualified yes. I was determined. “Okay, here’s what’s going to happen. I’m picking you up, I’m wrapping you in a blanket, and you’re going with me. If we just have a nice drive, we’ll just have a nice drive. That’s fine. But when we get there, if you feel well enough to go inside, we can do that, too. If it works, it works. If it doesn’t, it doesn’t. It doesn’t hurt. Worst case, you and I have a nice visit.”
That’s what we did. We drove there, and she was able to get out of the car. The acupuncture did appear to help her regain some energy, and she began seeing the acupuncturist for a while. Gradually, Natalie began gaining strength. I would pick her up and take her to some of her appointments, telling her over and over, “Fight, fight, fight.” As time passed and the initial wave of depression subsided, she began setting goals for herself. The first one, the one that mattered most, was to live long enough to make sure her daughter had a memory of her mom. Then, as more time passed and she outlived the doctors’ predictions, her goal became one day watching her daughter get married.