A Heart to Serve

by Bill Frist

  On the eighteenth the calls to my office began to pick up. Norm Coleman and Jim Talent each called with the same message: you have a responsibility to the caucus to make yourself available to lead the Senate. I finally relented on December 19. I issued a public statement: “If a majority of Republicans believe a change in leadership would benefit…the United States Senate, I will likely step forward for that role.”

  When Senator John Warner took that statement public, he removed the “likely.” With my permission, he first presented the statement in the Russell Senate Office Building Rotunda, and then clarified it in an interview with Margaret Warner of PBS. “Yesterday afternoon I was in the office with Bill Frist,” he told her. “I had visited with him very quietly throughout the week. I was sort of his blackboard. He would scratch notes and chalk and erase it, and we’d think things through. But once we learned that Senator Nickles was going to withdraw…we felt that the caucus, the Republican Conference, as we call it, was entitled to choice, and so Bill made the decision to step up and indicate that he would run. We struck the word ‘likely’ from the release at the end, but somehow it got out in the beginning. There is no likely. He went in it with full force, and did it in a very respectful way.” 5

  Exacerbating matters further was the delicate balance of power in the U.S. Senate. Should Trent resign as leader, and then choose not to return to the Senate at all, Ronnie Musgrove, the Democratic governor of Mississippi, would appoint a replacement, presumably a Democrat. That would send us right back to a tied Senate. Still chafing from Vermont senator Jim Jeffords’s defection in 2001, many Republican senators were worried about the risk of another colleague’s deciding that he no longer wanted to remain part of the team because of the Lott situation.

  Furthermore, we’d already experienced a substantial obstruction from Senate Democrats, using their majority status to stop the Bush agenda in its tracks. Since Republicans now had gotten back the majority, we all hoped things would work better, but we needed to be able to count on every one of our members. We could not allow the Lott debacle to divide us. For the long-term benefit of the country, we relished the possibility of replacing one, two, or possibly three Supreme Court justices before President Bush left office. With all that at stake, Trent’s return to the Senate was vital, but nobody knew for sure just how Trent would react.

  LATE IN THE MORNING OF DECEMBER 20, 2002, TRENT LOTT announced that he would step aside, “in the interest of pursuing the best possible agenda for the future of our country.” For all the pain that it had cost him personally, I believed Trent wanted what was best for all of us, because he also announced that he would return to the Senate, making sure that our majority agenda had a full chance to succeed. “To all those who offered me their friendship, support, and prayers, I will be eternally grateful,” Trent said.

  Almost immediately, John Warner went public with his support of me, as did George Allen. Before midday, a large majority of other senators followed suit, including Don Nickles, Mitch McConnell, Rick Santorum, Chuck Hagel, Lamar Alexander, and Kit Bond.

  It fell to Rick, as conference chairman, to set up an election. How to do so was the question, given that most senators had vacated Washington until after the first of the year. Nobody wanted to keep Trent and the entire situation dangling in front of the media wolves for another three weeks. After thinking it over, Rick proposed a novel idea: conducting the election by conference call. This had never been done before, but there were no rules against the procedure. Rick set up the conference call for Monday afternoon, December 23, and the plan was in place. The storm was about to pass.

  The night before the vote, Karyn and I were not in Washington, but in Nashville, attending a service at Two Rivers Baptist Church. As we had done before my two previous elections, we wanted to pray together, asking for God’s direction and wisdom. Near the close of the service, the pastor noticed Karyn and me in the audience and explained to those in attendance the new role I would likely be assuming within a matter of hours. He invited us to come to the front of the church so he and other members of the congregation could pray for us. Many people gathered around Karyn and me as the pastor led us in prayer. The preacher prayed that God would grant us strength, courage, and wisdom. I would need them all in the days ahead.

  The following afternoon, I had lunch with Karl VanDevender, the doctor who had assumed my father’s medical practice years earlier. We talked about how I might be able to help ease the racial tension opened by Trent’s comments, and the resultant ill will. A theologian as well as a physician, Karl was more politically liberal than I was, but I respected his opinions and valued his friendship.

  Karl put in a call to Bernard LaFayette, a former associate of Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. When Bernard called back, he had arranged a conference call with Coretta Scott King; former Ambassador to the U.N. Andrew Young; and chair of the NAACP Julian Bond. After some initial conversation, I reiterated my question, this time to the group on the phone: “What specifically can I do to help?”

  Each person had suggestions, but Bernard summed up the attitude of the group: “Senator, you can listen when we call. We don’t necessarily expect you to do everything we ask, but you can listen when we call.”

  I had been a good listener all my life; that was not going to change now.

  On Monday, December 23, 2002, I picked up the phone in my Nashville Senate office on White Bridge Road and dialed the conference call number. Sitting in the room with me were Karyn, Emily Reynolds, Ginny Wolfe, and Bart VerHulst, who directed my field staff in Tennessee and who had loyally been with me since the day we opened our campaign office in 1994. Within moments, I was on the line with all the other Republican senators, one of whom was Trent Lott.

  The responsibility of moderating the call fell to Conference Chairman Rick Santorum, who opened the meeting and read the roll call. But John Warner quickly interrupted, suggesting that due to the gravity of the circumstances, we should pray before going any further. With Rick’s permission, John read aloud a prayer that his father, a highly acclaimed obstetrician, had often quoted entitled “A Physician’s Prayer.” The prayer concluded, the meeting continued.

  Trent then gave a brief, gracious statement, apologized to his colleagues for what everyone had had to go through, and then concluded with, “And I’ll be talking with all of you when I get back to Washington.” He then signed off. The rest of the meeting moved fairly quickly, since all of the other contenders for the position of majority leader had pulled themselves out of the race. Rick opened the floor for nominations, my name was put forth, and a yes or no vote was taken. The vote was unanimous.

  Suddenly I was occupying one of the most influential offices in the U.S. government. No longer was I serving a single patient as a doctor, or a state as a senator, but now all Americans as a leader of the Senate.

  12

  Getting It Done

  We all have a day in our lives that is burned in our memories and stands out among all others. For me it was a week.New facets I had never really considered accompanied assuming the role of majority leader. One of those was having a constant Capitol Police security detail assigned to me. On Monday afternoon, even before the election call, a couple of Capitol Police officers flew in to Nashville and drove a large, dark sports utility vehicle to our home on Bowling Avenue. After a few quick introductions at the door, they requested a few minutes in private with Karyn and me to explain their responsibilities. “We’ll be with you essentially twenty-four hours a day,” they told Karyn and me. “We’ll try to be as inconspicuous as possible, but we will never be far from you.”

  “Never?” Karyn asked.

  “Never,” said Noel Gleason, the highly professional and passionately committed special agent who would lead my security detail over the next four years. “As majority leader in the 9/11 world, you become a target for terrorists and will receive death threats, which we will monitor daily.”

  I could sense Karyn’s unease. As he recalled the anthrax let
ter sent to former leader Daschle.

  “You can’t pilot airplanes anymore,” one of them told me. “Too dangerous.”

  “And we know you like to run marathons, so when you run, we will always run with you.”

  “And these medical mission trips to Sudan and Congo you do every year will have to stop. And no more free medical clinics as a volunteer in Southeast Washington.”

  “Listen,” I said with a smile, “you’re in for a treat. Because I’m still going to fly, and I will also be going to Sudan in a few months. But if you want to run with me, I’d love the company!”

  The security agents stared back at me soberly. “Yes, sir,” one of them said. But they didn’t go away…and for the next four years, some assortment of dark-suited Capitol Police dignitary protection agents with wires in their ears were never far away from me, seven days a week. And they flew in small planes with me and ran marathons with me—but they didn’t go to Sudan (or elsewhere on my medical trips). Over time they would become like members of our family.

  Both members of my security detail that first day were from the East, and neither were familiar with our Tennessee hunting culture. They got their first eye-opener of what to expect the next day. As an avid hunter, I love getting out in the woods with my sons Bryan, Jonathan, and Harrison.

  While some people might celebrate being elected majority leader by having a big party, I went home and packed up my guns. One of my best friends and the person who opened the world of hunting to me and my boys, Steve Smith, and I had for weeks planned on going hunting the night before Christmas Eve with our sons, so as soon as I finished my inaugural press conference on the day I was elected majority leader, Steve and I headed off with our sons on a nighttime raccoon hunting trip, led by Marty Warren, Steve’s expert farm manager and master backwoods hunter. It was a sight to behold. Steve and Marty were leading the way through the woods, with their powerful flashlights piercing the darkness, up and down the rolling hills on Steve’s family property—with my two security agents on their first night of duty with me, slipping and sliding in their black leather dress shoes and dark blue suits! Accompanied by the yelping and baying of some of the best walker and bluetick hounds around, we scored a raccoon, which is still mounted in our home to this day—a fond reminder of my first full day in my new role.

  Two days after Christmas, Karyn, Jonathan, Bryan, and I were to fly commercially to Fort Lauderdale, Florida, joining some of our extended family members for our annual “minireunion,” a tradition begun by my parents years ago. Early that morning, Special Agent Noel Gleason was running on the treadmill at the Marriott Hotel near Vanderbilt. His sole responsibility was my safety. Across the TV ran a scrolling banner: breaking news: william harrison frist in plane crash. A picture flashed up on the screen of the crashed plane, upside-down. In shock, he fell off the back of the treadmill. The person he was charged to protect had apparently been in a plane crash!

  An hour earlier, our nineteen-year-old son, Harrison, had headed out to John C. Tune Airport, a single-runway facility west of Nashville, a few miles from home. Harrison was flying to Florida in a small, single-engine Cessna airplane, along with my brother-in-law Lee Barfield and his son Cole. All three of them were licensed pilots, and Cole and Lee were instrument-rated. We were all planning to meet later that night after the boys’ adventure of flying the small plane there.

  It was densely foggy that early morning as they taxied to the runway, and there were no air traffic control authorities at the small general aviation airport. As the plane reached the north end of the taxiway, it slipped off the pavement, hurtled across the narrow shoulder of the taxiway, and tumbled down a twenty-five-foot embankment, flipping over as it rolled before finally coming to a stop upside-down. The plane was demolished, but Lee, Cole, and Harrison were able to crawl out of the wreckage safely, suffering only minor injuries, a few cuts and scrapes, and a lot of embarrassment.

  Television reports ran the story that William Harrison Frist (my son Harrison’s complete name) was in a plane crash, so naturally many people thought I had been involved. All three were taken to Centennial Medical Center. Karyn and I rushed there, as did Noel. Lee and Cole were treated and released; Harrison did not even require treatment. Thankful all were safe and sound, we picked right up and all of us flew that night commercially to Florida. Material things come and go, but that Christmas season provided a poignant reminder that we must always be grateful for the gift of life.

  And the week wasn’t over.

  We received another graphic reminder on New Year’s Day when the boys and I—and our around-the-clock, two-person Capitol Police security detail—were traveling back toward Fort Lauderdale on “Alligator Alley,” the long stretch of Interstate 75 that runs from Naples across Florida to Fort Lauderdale through Big Cypress National Preserve, a protected swampland hedged in by high aquatic weeds on both sides of the road. We’d spent the morning hunting and sightseeing at Billie Swamp Safari in the Everglades. It was a beautiful sunny day, and traffic was racing by on the straight, flat highway. At about four in the afternoon, a short distance in front of our vehicle, the right rear tire of a red Isuzu Rodeo sports utility vehicle blew out, flipping the SUV and ejecting the passengers—a family of five and a friend—who were strewn over distances of nearly 150 feet up the highway.

  Traffic came screeching to a halt. As they were trained to do, the officers in the front seats of our vehicle were already devising a way to keep moving to get around the traffic jam. They started to pull our vehicle across the wide median strip, to do whatever was necessary to get us to safety, when I called out from the back passenger’s-side seat—my new official position for the next four years assigned by the security detail—“No, wait! There’s an accident. We have to stop to help. Call 911 and get as close as you can.”

  Jumping out of our vehicle and telling the boys to stay put, I ran toward the accident, my two security agents racing right behind me. It was devastating. At least three of the victims were children, their contorted bodies tossed up and down the highway like rag dolls. I ran from child to child, trying to assess who needed the most immediate help. I began the typical resuscitative maneuvers, but had to await the arrival of paramedics and their equipment for intubation and intravenous line placement from the Broward County Fire Rescue squad twenty miles away. Meanwhile, several other people with some degree of medical training had run to the scene from their stopped vehicles and were pitching in to help. Three were firefighters, and at least one, Lara Spalding, was a nurse. Lara, who attended college in Tennessee and had been on staff at Vanderbilt Medical Center, threw herself into helping the injured, working in dress clothes and high heels to save lives along the highway. There were a lot of volunteer heroes in action.

  When the first helicopter arrived on the scene, I ran over to the paramedics getting off the chopper and triaged them to the patients, letting them know which needs were most critical. “Start there,” I said, pointing to the bodies lying motionless on the grass, “you go to one and two, and I’ll go to three.” The challenge was magnified because the victims were so spread out.

  Captain Ken Kronheim of Broward County Fire Rescue started toward one of the patients, a little girl who looked to be about ten years old. I didn’t want to tell him that the little girl’s body had been severely crushed, that there was nothing he could do for her. “No, that one!” I waved him toward one of the other victims. I took some bags of fluids and intravenous catheters from the EMTs and ran to stabilize another, thirty yards away.

  At one point, I noticed Captain Jeffrey Andrews struggling to insert a breathing tube in one of the victims, a woman who had severe trauma to her face and neck. I offered to help and worked alongside Captain Andrews to open the airway and get the endotracheal tube in place.

  After the patients had been loaded onto the chopper and into the ambulances, a paramedic turned to me and asked, “Have you had some medical training somewhere?”

  “A little,” I responded. I
hopped back in our SUV to join my sons and we drove the thirty miles back to Fort Lauderdale.

  That night I slipped by the hospital to see the victims’ families. Sadly, two children, an eleven-year-old girl and a fourteen-year-old boy, died as a result of the crash. A twenty-year-old sister would die a few days later. The mother and father, and the family friend, though injured severely, survived the crash. Life is fragile.

  It came out the next day that the new majority leader of the Senate—who also happened to be a surgeon—had stopped and assisted the victims. Later the press asked me whether I was concerned about stopping to help at the scene of an accident, nowadays, with trial lawyers’ bringing lawsuits for malpractice against Good Samaritans. I well understood their concern. Sadly, even dedicated doctors nowadays will sometimes not identify themselves in an emergency situation for fear of a lawsuit, should the worst-case scenario happen in trying to help. I could only respond for me: “As a doctor, my first instincts are to help, and I was privileged to offer my assistance today at the scene of this horrible accident. My heart goes out to this family, which must face the start of a New Year with this terrible tragedy. My thoughts and prayers are with them.”

  We are sometimes called to serve when we least expect it. And sometimes there is a limit to what we can do.

  I WAS ELECTED TO SERVE AS MAJORITY LEADER ON THE MONDAY before Christmas. It was a mad dash to put together a complete, up-and-running leadership office and staff in addition to the team that directly served my constituents in Tennessee. Since I had not anticipated my rise to leader even a month earlier, I had no list of readily available people in mind. Fortunately, fifteen extremely talented individuals—including Mitch, Ginny, and Alex, who came with me from the NRSC—changed their career plans on the spur of the moment to join me in working at the majority leader’s office. Mitch went into high gear in assembling this team; by New Year’s Day, the potential team members had been identified. The only thing that had to happen was persuasion.