Fighting for Dear Life (24 page)

Why, then, was the hospice administering morphine?

Why should a ‘‘vegetable'' require pain-killers?

Furthermore, there was nothing ‘‘peaceful'' about Terri's appear ance—an adjective frequently used by George Felos in radical contrast to the suffering I witnessed in person. Speaking at a press conference during her final days, here's how Mr. Felos characterized Terri's condition: ‘‘She is calm, she is peaceful, and she is resting comfortably. When I saw her . . . she looked beautiful. In all the years I've seen Mrs.

Schiavo, I've never seen such a look of peace and beauty upon her.''
3
Frankly, I could not disagree more.

Join me for a moment, if you will, at Terri's bedside. The most disturbing aspect of seeing Terri was her face. Dehydration has a way of taking all the flesh and fat out of the body. A healthy body craves nourishment— contrary to her husband's assurances. The best way to describe Terri's countenance is to picture a photo from a concentration camp. Incredible dark circles from extreme fatigue radiated from the skin around her eyes down to her nose. Her teeth protruded outward against cracked, shriveled lips.

Terri's formerly soft, silky peaches-and-cream skin was stretched thin and to the breaking point across her skeletal features from a lack of water. Her cheekbones and jawbones bulged; her eye sockets became two dark pits. She looked like she'd been beaten up in a back alley brawl.

Her flesh was red, peeling, and splotchy as if sunburned. And, probably due to her dry sinuses, Terri breathed with her mouth open. She had a completely dry mouth—the roof and gums lacked any natural glistening that would indicate moisture. Her tongue looked like a swollen leather lump with no signs of saliva whatsoever.

I still have difficulty processing the horrifically sad image of a lady who, just a few days earlier, was completely healthy, sitting unaided in a reclining chair, fully awake, alert, and happy.

As I stood there in that surreal moment—with the police hovering over us, the protestors chanting outside, sharpshooters taking up positions on the roof, and a mother grieving over her suffering daughter— I really didn't expect any communication from Terri. Not that she couldn't have interacted as she had done many times before. But with the abuse her system had undergone from the lack of food and water, and with the morphine coursing through her body, I assumed Terri would be incoherent.

I was in for a bittersweet surprise.

Now, as you may recall, Terri's favorite person in the world was her mother. She was always excited to see her mom. In a slow, deliberate motion, I watched as Terri rolled her head toward her mother, who was standing by her side. Terri's eyes got real big and—I'm not sure how she could have summoned it, but I saw a tear roll down Terri's pitted face. She started to sob and kiss her mom with her open, parched mouth. For several long minutes I watched this mother and her disabled daughter sob cheek to cheek as they said their final good-byes. This is the same mother who had told the court, ‘‘All I want to do is take care of my daughter.''

I stood there completely heartbroken for Mary and, indeed, for our country.
How, in God's name, could we let this happen?
It's an image I'll never get out of my mind. It's a tragedy that never should have happened. Mary and Terri remained in a tearful embrace for eight or ten minutes. Finally, Mary turned and, still choking back her tears, walked out of the room while I stayed behind for just a moment.

According to the regulations set up by Michael—who, incidentally, was provided a comfortable, private room at the hospice for his convenience during Terri's final two weeks
4
—we couldn't linger in the room or hallway for very long. We didn't want to be removed from the visitors list. In light of this, for just a brief minute I looked at Terri and offered a prayer committing her into the care of Jesus. For her part, she looked back at me with those dark, sunken eyes. A desperate plea seemed to settle on her face, as if she were saying, ‘‘Isn't there
anything
you can do to help me?'' I assured her I was sorry and that we were still doing everything we could to fight for her life.

With a sadness in my heart that defies definition, I joined Mary out in the hallway. She hugged me and put her head on my shoulder for just a moment. ‘‘David,'' she said, ‘‘I can't go back. It's just too hard. I can't bear to see her like this. I'm no lawyer, and I'm no doctor, but I just don't understand why they have to kill my little girl.'' I said, ‘‘Mary, I
am
a lawyer, although I'm not a doctor. I don't understand either. It doesn't make any sense.''

I think that's the troubling moral dilemma. Why, with a family wanting to give love and provide help, did Terri have to die this horrific death?

To her credit, Terri was a remarkably strong and healthy woman. She fought to live, to hold on, and to beat the odds. Her inner strength and stamina enabled this brave woman to exceed the expectations of those who predicted a quick death. Indeed, Terri fought until the end—a death that would finally come only a few days later.

THE WORLD WAS WATCHING

The media in the United States treated Terri's last few days much like a deathwatch. They wanted to know all the details about Terri's condition, the family's emotions, the feud between Mr. Schiavo and the Schindlers, and, of course, the money. Rarely was I engaged to debate on a more substantive, big-picture policy level.

By contrast, the international media didn't care about all those details. Keep in mind that I had the opportunity to conduct interviews with members of the media representing Europe, Africa, Central and South America, Australia, Canada, and Asia. Many of these interviews were translated into numerous foreign languages around the world.

Most of these foreign journalists admitted that they didn't understand our court system or our laws regarding the matter. Nor did they really want all of the details. About all they knew was that an otherwise healthy disabled girl was being intentionally dehydrated and starved to death by order of one of the lowest level courts in America. And when the president and the Congress tried to stop this miscarriage of justice, they couldn't do it. That was the essence of what they understood.

Their interest lay outside the family tragedy.

Almost universally, the foreign press was puzzled about the inconsistency between how America, as one of the most compassionate nations in the world, acted on behalf of others around the globe and yet treated one of our own so barbarically. Here's a somewhat typical set of questions they'd ask, along with my responses:

‘‘Mr. Gibbs, is America in Iraq because it's the right thing to do?''

‘‘Yes, our president and leadership thought it was the right thing to do; for human rights, justice, to fight terror, to end the torture and suffering of the Iraqi people under Saddam, and to further the cause of freedom. That's why we're there.''

‘‘Did America go to Afghanistan for similar reasons?''

‘‘Yes, indeed.''

‘‘Did America, in World War II, come to Europe and stop the Nazis and the advancement of these regimes because it was the right thing to do?''

‘‘Yes,'' I said, ‘‘that's the heart and soul of America. In a sense, we're the voice of morality for the world.''

Then they'd ask the question that their international audiences couldn't grasp.

‘‘Mr. Gibbs, by what moral authority, then, does America let this woman die?''

You know what? That is a very telling question. For two hundred years our shores were a safe haven for the oppressed, the maligned, and the disenfranchised. We were a country that stood for life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. But almost without warning, America appears to be wandering away from the foundations that made us strong. No, I don't believe there is any moral authority for what happened to Terri Schiavo.

As this case moves into the history books and the years begin to tick by, I hope and pray that Terri's legacy will be that her death birthed a revival, that her struggle gave breath and resolve for a renewed commitment to protect
all
life. I hope that senior citizens and the disabled community will one day look back and say, ‘‘Terri, thank you. We have rights too. We may be a people without a voice, but because of your sacrifice, our lives are now protected once again under American law.'' If that happens, Terri's death will not have been in vain. And I know there's nothing that would bring more joy to her mother's heart.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

UNTIL WE MEET AGAIN

Today, millions of Americans are saddened by the death of
Terri Schiavo. . . . I urge all those who honor Terri Schiavo to
continue to work to build a culture of life.

—P
RESIDENT
G
EORGE
W. B
USH
1

O
n March 30, 2005, as Terri's life was hanging by a mere thread, Bob and Mary Schindler, Bobby, Suzanne, and I were gathered at the hospice. Just before midnight, a phone call delivered heartbreaking news: Our final appeal to the U.S. Supreme Court had been denied. Though we had always known that most of the cases appealed to the Supreme Court are not heard, we had been praying for a breakthrough, a miracle.

We had argued in the federal courts that the removal of Terri's nutrition and hydration was unconstitutional because it deprived her of her constitutionally protected right to life. We had asked the high court to issue a temporary restraining order requiring her feeding tube to be reinserted so that we could have time to file a further appeal and have the federal court take another look at the facts of the case.

But with this unwelcome turn of events coming from our court of last appeal, we knew the Schindlers' fight to save Terri was over—at least as far as the courts were concerned. We were always open to a miracle. That evening we lingered at the hospice until almost one AM, when yet another curveball was hurled at us. At that time, Bobby and Suzanne were abruptly asked to leave Terri's room so that Michael could visit.

Keep in mind, this was a son-in-law who had once lived with Terri in the Schindlers' home—rent free for several years when the young couple's money had been tight. Now, as their daughter entered the final stages of death, Michael refused to endure the family's company under the same roof for a few hours, not even as Terri's death was fast approaching.

Rather than making a scene, I had earlier encouraged Bob and Mary to head home and get some rest. Bobby decided to stay across the street at the thrift store all night because we knew the end was near; he was hoping to get back into Terri's room at the first opportunity. Suzanne, emotionally drained, left to be with her family and planned to return at daybreak.

Just after seven on the morning of March 31, I received a frantic call from Bobby and Suzanne. Hospice officials had just barred them from seeing Terri—at Michael's request. My call to the hospice paved the way for them to return to their sister's side at seven-thirty. At eight-forty-five, my phone rang again. Bobby and Suzanne had been thrown out of Terri's room by Michael once again. When I asked why, Bobby, who was almost frantic, said, ‘‘Michael just wants to see her and doesn't want us in the room at the same time. Please, Mr. Gibbs, please. . . . I'll be in the room with him and I'll do whatever. . . . I just don't want to be away from her when Terri dies.''

My heart ached for them.

I said, ‘‘Bobby, they should let you in there. There's no earthly reason why you shouldn't be by your sister when she dies. The legal battle is over. Let me call the hospice attorney and see if we can't get you in.''

I quickly called the hospice attorney and described their predicament. She sounded sympathetic and promised to check on the situation and call me right back. She felt confident something could be worked out so that Bobby and Suzanne could be in the room together with Michael. Meanwhile, I jumped into my car and headed to Woodside. About ten minutes past nine, the attorney called me back and said, ‘‘Mr. Gibbs, I need to tell you that Ms. Schiavo passed away at 9:05.''

Terri had been dead for five minutes.

I arrived at the hospice five minutes later. I joined Bobby and Suzanne at the makeshift office across the street. They rallied around me as hope filled their eyes. Bobby said, ‘‘Can you get us in to be with Terri? We don't want her to be alone when she dies. I don't care if I have to stand next to Michael. . . . I've just got to get to Terri.'' I said, ‘‘Bobby, I can get you back in, but I need to let you know that I got a phone call on the way over here. . . . Terri's already passed. I am so sorry.''

Although not a complete surprise, Suzanne began to cry. For his part, I could see the hope drain from Bobby's eyes. His eyebrows knotted in desperation. ‘‘How can we get in, Mr. Gibbs? The police won't let us through.'' I said, ‘‘She's dead now, they
have
to let us in. I'll personally see that you get in there to be with her.''

We hurried across the street to the hospice, and thankfully, Bobby and Suzanne were admitted to go see Terri's now lifeless body. After we walked inside, they asked me to wait at the front of the hospice for the arrival of Bob and Mary. Suzanne had called her mom at home and told them to come to the hospice as fast as they could.

Several minutes later, Bob dropped Mary off out front while he parked the car. The fact that I was standing there and that Bobby and Suzanne had asked them to come spoke volumes; Mary already understood that Terri had died. I gave her a brief hug and said, ‘‘I'm so sorry, Mary.'' She covered her mouth with her hand and burst into tears.

Being with Mary at that moment was one of the most difficult things I have ever had to do.

Composing herself, she clutched my arm and said, ‘‘David, I'll be okay. I just want . . . to be with her. Can I see her?''