A Life That Matters Read online

  Copyright © 2006 by Mary Schindler, Robert Schindler, Bobby Schindler and Suzanne Schindler Vitadamo

  All rights reserved.

  Scripture taken from the NEW AMERICAN STANDARD BIBLE®, Copyright © 1960, 1962, 1963, 1968, 1971, 1972, 1973, 1975, 1977, 1995 by The Lockman Foundation. Used by permission.

  Warner Books

  Hachette Book Group,

  237 Park Avenue,

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  First eBook Edition: March 2006

  ISBN: 978-0-446-55519-7

  The Warner Books name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Preface

  March 30–31, 2005

  Chapter 1: The Collapse

  Chapter 2: The Hospital

  Chapter 3: Terri

  Chapter 4: Terri and Michael

  Chapter 5: Early Days

  Chapter 6: Medical Malpractice

  Chapter 7: Sabal Palms

  Chapter 8: Permission Granted

  Chapter 9: The Fight for Terri’s Life

  Chapter 10: Appeals

  Chapter 11: Reprieve

  Chapter 12: Reality Returns

  Chapter 13: The Doctors’ Trial

  Chapter 14: Frustrations

  Chapter 15: Hospice and Hospital

  Chapter 16: Groundswell

  Chapter 17: Another Reprieve

  Chapter 18: Aftermath

  Chapter 19: Dark Doings

  Chapter 20: The Pope on Our Side

  Chapter 21: Desperate Maneuvers

  Chapter 22: Grieving

  Chapter 23: Autopsy

  Chapter 24: Terri’s Legacy

  Epilogue: A Lesson for Us All

  Appendix A: The Terri Schindler Schiavo Foundation

  Appendix B: The Affidavits

  To our beloved Terri,

  And to all with disabilities, wounded in body or spirit,

  May God always be your never-ceasing fountain

  Of strength, consolation, and joy.

  May you be seen as our society’s greatest treasures.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With special thanks to Richard Marek, who, with patience and enthusiasm, helped us mold our painful memories into a cohesive narrative; to our agents Joni Evans and Mel Berger; to Michael and Alexandra for their endless support and special love; to Mike and C.B. for all their help during such a difficult time; to David Gibbs, Pat Anderson and Joe Magri and all of the attorneys who represented us passionately and selflessly in the legal battle; to Monsignor Thaddeus Malanowski and all the clergy, who provided spiritual support when we needed it most; to the many politicians for showing great courage; to the Disability Groups and all the organizations that stood with us; and to the millions of people who supported and loved Terri as she fought for her life.

  PREFACE

  We are not the people you think we are.

  You know us from television, surrounded by microphones, fighting for Terri’s life, and you might easily have the misconception that we’re political people, unreasonable people, even fanatics. Instead, we’re an intensely private family who loathe the spotlight and would have given anything not to have it shine on us. The tragedy of our adored Terri made us public figures, symbols in a case that bitterly divided the country.

  Our story is not the one we believe you were told, the one you saw on television and read in the newspapers. Our story—the real story—has never been told; no one, not even our closest friends, knew the struggles we went through mentally and emotionally as fifteen terrible years went by.

  Yes, we sought what public tools we could—sometimes it was the politicians, sometimes the media, always the courts—so we could stand as advocates for a woman who couldn’t defend herself. What family wouldn’t? But to do so was agony, and each of us wants now to retreat into our own grief, our private prayers, our silent sorrow.

  A year ago, our girl was lost to us. The outpouring of support couldn’t save her; the condolence letters, cards, and notes cannot bring her back. We lost. Terri lost. America lost. In upholding Michael Schiavo’s petition to have his wife’s life terminated, the courts ruled for death over life, and we are individually and collectively diminished by their decision.

  Many people have asked us to write a book, and we’ve always said no, refusing to open ourselves up to the pain of public display all over again. But we keep thinking of Terri and how she died, and we realize we owe her this book as a way of making sure that what happened will never happen again. Millions of people wrestle with the question of what they’d do if they faced our situation. This book, born of the pain of the past, may guide them to the answer. We believe that Terri was nothing less than the victim of judicial murder. And if by revealing ourselves as we really are, and Terri as she really was, means that no one else shares Terri’s fate, then our story will be the one memorial Terri would have wanted.

  Where there is love, there is no burden.

  Brother Anthony Sweere, f.b.p.

  March 30–31, 2005

  I was not with Terri the night before she died. Neither was my husband, Bob. But Bobby, our son, and Suzanne, our daughter, were in her hospice room. They felt, rightly, that the sight of her would cause me and Bob too much pain. As always, they wanted to protect us.

  Terri had been without food and water for thirteen days. Every motion, petition, and appeal to reinsert her feeding tube had been denied by courts throughout Florida and by the U.S. Supreme Court itself. We were not sure when death would come. We only knew that starvation is inexorable, and since there was no hope, we prayed for her comfortable release.

  Her story is unique because it involved a pope and a president, movie stars, radio personalities, and prominent politicians. There’s nothing unusual, however, about the loss of a child. Such tragedies are daily events. And the moral, religious, and ethical issues surrounding Terri surround all similar tragedies. Bob and I believe that God put Terri on earth to serve as a beacon, that she was taken from us so that others who suffer Terri’s plight will not be taken from those who love them. That is why we’ve written this book.

  And we start with her death, knowing it is an inspiration.

  My daughter Suzanne begins:

  “The hospice facility was about a quarter mile away from a major thoroughfare and only accessible from one intersecting narrow street. That street was lined with a temporary orange mesh fence the police erected to prevent any parking near the hospice. Huge crowds gathered behind the fence, as though they were there to watch a parade. Many were in wheelchairs, disabled, brought by loved ones so they could show their support. Some held banners urging Florida Governor Jeb Bush to intercede on Terri’s behalf. Others proclaimed Terri’s right to live. As you drove into the street, you came to a barricade. To go beyond, you had to show the police your identification. In time they recognized me and the members of my family, but we had to show our ID, anyway.

  “Once past the barricade, we were free to go to our ‘home away from home,’ a little odds-and-ends shop across the street from the hospice. Its owner, Stephanie Willets, who couldn’t have been more generous or more giving of herself, had cleared a space for us and brought in an area rug, a couch, end tables and lamps, a refrigerator, a few chairs. It was like a little private room, just large enough for the four of us Schindlers, though there were friends and family who came to visit. Outside, there was an absolute zoo. If the door opened even a hair, there were about fifty cameras and media people waiting for us—Maybe there’s a family member coming out! Let’s grab ’im.

  “When Bobby and I went to see Terri on the night of
March 30, we called two of the several policemen who were guarding the hospice entrance, a call any of us had to make when we wanted to go to the hospice. They acted as an escort, because there was no way we could make it across the street by ourselves without getting mauled. This night—it must have been about nine o’clock—the police came over, and we made a human chain. A few bystanders actually helped clear the way to the driveway of the hospice. Father Frank Pavone was with us, part of the chain. Five foot six, in his mid-forties, with dark hair and glasses, he was mild-mannered, unassuming, calm, reasoned—and one of the most inspirational people we’ve ever known. He had become a dear friend to us, and we felt he was able to comfort Terri.

  “The driveway was blockaded against the media, and there was a row of cops. We could have walked freely from the beginning of the driveway to the hospice, but we nevertheless had to stop. The police had set up one of those white canopy tents, and we had to go inside it so they could check our ID and radio the hospice to make sure it was clear for us to enter. K-9 police dogs beyond the tent and snipers on the rooftops overlooking the hospice acted as additional guards.

  “We had to be approved to enter because Michael Schiavo, Terri’s husband, could, at will, turn us back. That went for our parents as well. It was particularly hard on them. We could be kept from seeing Terri for hours and hours. There was no explanation, just ‘Michael Schiavo says no.’ If that was the case, we’d have to be escorted back to the shop and wait for the police to come get us when it was okay to come over.

  “This night we were allowed to proceed. There was another blockade at the front door, and the police made everybody—not just us, but anyone visiting a patient at the hospice—sign in and show identification. I’m not sure if they searched other people with metal detectors, but we were carefully wanded. We had to empty out all our pockets. We had to leave our purses and wallets behind.

  “Once we were cleared, we could walk down the hallway to Terri’s room, where there were another two policemen outside. Again we had to sign in and show our ID. And even then, we were chaperoned by the police into Terri’s room.”

  My son, Bobby, continues:

  “I remember walking into the room, looking at Terri and, in a rage, thinking, Look what they’ve done to my beautiful sister. It’s hard watching someone dear to you being killed.

  “The sight of Terri was awful. Her skin was discolored, and there was blood pooling in her eyes, which were darting wildly back and forth. Her cheeks were hollowed out, and her teeth were protruding. She looked like a skeleton from a horror movie.

  “She was gasping for air. Earlier when I’d seen her, she was moving spastically, like she was in extreme pain and suffering. This night she lay almost still, but you could see she was scared and in pain.

  “By that point, I was resigned that it was all over. I was praying that her suffering would end. It was a very intimate setting—me, Suzy, Father Frank, and Terri. I was on one side of the bed, Suzy on the other, and Father was directly across from me. He led us in prayer. We said the rosary together, and we prayed with Father, and he sang to Terri, beautiful Latin songs. We were all holding Terri. I had my face buried on Terri’s shoulder because I couldn’t bear to look at her.

  “I thought of how happy we all were growing up, of the vacations we took together, of the birthdays and holidays, the parties. I thought of the times Terri and I danced together and of our grandparents, whom we loved so much. And I worried about losing my parents because of all the stress they were experiencing, and I was frightened.

  “One memory in particular leaped at me. I had just bought a motorcycle and went to show it to Terri, who immediately wanted me to take her for a ride. She jumped on the back and held me, her head buried in my shoulder, her arms around my waist holding on for dear life, not wanting to let go. I would have given anything to be back at that moment, Terri holding me, and me telling her not to worry, that I would never let her go.

  “It was quiet in Terri’s room. We were just holding her, just waiting. A sense of peace overcame me. I believe Christ’s presence was with us that very instant, assuring us that in all of Terri’s suffering, He was with her, with us in that room, and through Father’s prayers, letting us know that we shouldn’t worry about Terri, that she would be with Him soon.

  “We stayed there a long time. I think until well after midnight. Then either the cops or some hospice officials told us we had to leave because it was time for Michael to visit.

  “We had no choice but to leave. Suzy went home, exhausted, and Father Pavone and I went back to the room at the odds-and-ends store, where Father’s friend Jerry Horn, of Priests for Life, was waiting for us. The three of us sat and talked and prayed, but I was getting more and more nervous. We kept calling the guards asking if we could get back in, and they kept saying no.

  “What made me so edgy was that two days earlier, an obituary of Terri was released on CBSNews.com.1 It said that, made up and dressed, she died surrounded by stuffed animals, Michael—‘her only love’—by her side. It’s true that she had stuffed animals, but I don’t think after what we’d seen that she could be described as dressed and made up, and it certainly wasn’t true that she was dead! The obituary was all hearts and flowers, scripted for public consumption, so everybody would think Terri had died peacefully.

  “We believed the only explanation was that Michael or his lawyer, George Felos, had imagined her death as they wished it and had given CBS the story, and that CBS had run it before Terri died. It was appalling! Now, in the middle of the night, I remembered it, and it scared me.

  “I rushed over to the police, paying no attention to the people outside the hospice. ‘When are we going back in?’ I asked. And they said, ‘We haven’t heard anything yet. We’ll let you know.’

  “The hospice had told my parents that they would call if Terri was near dying, and Mom and Dad, emotionally spent, had gone home to wash and change clothes. But suddenly I was sure that the hospice wouldn’t call and that Terri was near dying—or was already dead—and I wanted my parents to see her, if they wanted to, after she died.

  “By dawn, I’d heard nothing. I got mad. I went back and got Father, and the two of us held an impromptu press conference. ‘Michael’s preventing our family from going inside,’ I said. ‘He’s scripting this. Felos wants Michael to be alone with her. They don’t want her family members to be there.’

  “On Michael’s orders, the hospice still barred us. I thought I’d go mad with frustration. It was about 6:00 a.m., and Suzy had come back, and we kept going over, and the police kept saying, ‘You can’t go in.’ Suzanne finally called our lead attorney, David Gibbs, and he called Felos and raised a stink. But it wasn’t until 7:30 that they let us in.”

  “She looked even worse,” Suzanne says. “She was jaundiced, but her hands were black and blue, and you could see her veins. Her skin was so thin, like a sheath. And of course she looked much more drawn. Her eyes were still full of blood, and darting, and her breathing was heavy, heavy. Father Pavone and I were on her left side. Bobby was on her right side again, and there was a policeman in the room and another one at the doorway. Father Pavone had a watch in his hand, a stopwatch. I don’t know why. The policeman made him hand it over. My sister’s dying, and he’s worried about a watch!”

  “The policeman was hovering over us,” Bobby goes on. “Just standing there with his arms folded and watching us while we prayed. It was very uncomfortable. This was terribly private, and there were these policemen standing and looking.

  “Father continued his prayers, singing in Latin, and we knew the end was very close. Then all of a sudden some hospice people came in—administrators and nurses—and they looked at Terri and left, and then they came back and said, ‘You have to leave now. We need to assess Terri.’

  “I knew what was going on, that they didn’t want us to be with Terri when she died, so I said, ‘We don’t want to leave. We know Terri is close to dying. We’ll stay in the room.’ They said, �
��No. It’ll just be five minutes. Wait in the hallway, and you can come back.’

  “So Father, Suzy and I walked into the hallway, and immediately a policeman got in front of us. ‘You have to leave the facility.’ I remember the word he used. ‘Facility.’

  “That’s when I was ready to lose it. I said, ‘What’s going on here? The nurses told us that in five minutes we’d be back inside. My sister’s close to dying. We want to be in the room with her. I don’t care if Michael’s in the room with us. We’re not leaving!’

  “I was belligerent. ‘You know as well as I do what they’re doing. Please ask Michael to let us be in the room with Terri,’ I pleaded.

  “The policeman got belligerent right back. ‘We’ll talk about this outside,’ he said. ‘If you don’t leave, I’m going to arrest you.’ I said, ‘This is bull. They’re scripting her death. Michael wants to be here when she dies so he can go to the media and play the loving husband.’ I asked him to find an administrator, and when he came back with one, the administrator said, ‘Michael Schiavo has ordered you off the premises.’ ‘Okay,’ I said, ‘I’m going to leave. But I’m coming back in fifteen, twenty minutes.’ The cop said, ‘If you don’t have permission, I’ll arrest you.’ ‘Fine,’ I said. ‘You can arrest me, then. I’m coming back. I want to be with my sister.’”

  “We stormed across the street,” Suzanne remembers. “But one thing struck me as peculiar. The argument—and Bobby and the policeman were loud—went on right outside Terri’s door. Maybe the nurse was with Terri, but Michael was nowhere in sight. I wondered why he didn’t come out. I wondered whether he was even in the hospice, let alone by Terri’s side. It’s something we’ll never know.

  “I called David Gibbs, who was en route to the hospice, whose battles on our behalf were inspiring. ‘Terri is near death,’ I told him, ‘and they kicked us out.’ David said he’d call Felos to see what he could do.

  “Then minutes later, David walked in. ‘Terri passed,’ he said. I began to cry.”