liked.
M arch 30, 1981, began like a perfectly normal day. Around noon, I went to a luncheon in an art gallery in Washington. When it came time for dessert, I suddenly had a strong feeling that I wanted to get back to the White House. I’d never felt anything like that before—and I haven’t since—so I made my excuses and left. When I got back to the White House, I went up to the third floor, where we were in the midst of renovations. I was talking in the solarium with Rex Scouten, the chief usher, and Ted Graber, our decorator, when I saw George Opfer, the head of my Secret Service detail, standing at the bottom of a ramp that had been installed for President Roosevelt. He gestured to me to come down.
That’s funny. I thought. Why doesn’t he come up?
I went down.
“There’s been a shooting,” he said. “But the president’s all right.”
I was already headed for the elevator.
“He wasn’t hit,” he kept saying. “He’s all right.”
“George,” I said, as we went downstairs. “I’m going to the hospital.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “He’s all right.”
“George,” I said. “I’m going to the hospital, and you either get me a car or I’ll walk.”
It seemed to take forever to get to the hospital. Word of the shooting was out by that time, and the traffic had gotten very bad. When we finally made it there, Mike Deaver was waiting for me. “He’s been hit,” he told me. He suggested that we go into a little room and wait, which we did.
“Let me see him,” I said.
“You can’t see him now. They’re working on him,” he answered. “But he’s all right.”
The obvious question then was: “Well, if he’s all right, why can’t I see him?”
“You just can’t,” was the answer. “Not yet. They’ll let you know when it’s the right time.”
“Mike,” I said. “You’ve got to get me in. He’s got to know I’m here. They don’t know how it is with us.”
Mike said he’d see what he could do.
I was terrified. I was also feeling like this couldn’t be happening. John Simpson, a good friend, who was head of the Secret Service at the time, and Mike Deaver stayed with me. Outside the room, there seemed to be policemen everywhere, and they were yelling, “Get these people out of here!” There was so much noise. I kept wondering if this was what it had been like when President Kennedy was shot.
Finally, they came and told me that I could see Ronnie. I went into the emergency room and he was lying there with an oxygen mask over his face. When he saw me, he lifted it up and said, “Honey, I forgot to duck.” He was the color of paper—just as white as a sheet, with dried blood around his mouth. I held back my tears and said, “Please don’t try to talk. I love you.” I wasn’t allowed to stay for long, and I couldn’t hold Ronnie’s hand or get very close.
At Camp David with Rex.
When it came time to take Ronnie to the operating room, I walked with him and held his hand while he lay on the gurney. Jim Brady was on a gurney just behind him. It was the first time I’d ever seen anybody who’d been shot in the head, and it was a terrible sight; his head was so swollen. I was taken upstairs to a larger room, where there were a lot of people and the television sets were on, and they asked me if I wanted to go to the chapel. I said yes. In the chapel, I saw Sarah Brady. It was the first time that I’d ever met her, you have to remember. We’d only been in the White House for three months, and I hadn’t yet had a chance to meet everybody. She said to me, “They’re strong men. They’ll get through this.” It was obvious that she hadn’t seen Jim. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell her.
I said, “Yes.” We prayed together, and then I went upstairs.
As we waited, I looked out the window and saw how, in the buildings all around the hospital, people had thrown sheets out the window saying things like GET WELL , MR. PRESIDENT and WE LOVE
M arch 30, 1981, began like a perfectly normal day. Around noon, I went to a luncheon in an art gallery in Washington. When it came time for dessert, I suddenly had a strong feeling that I wanted to get back to the White House. I’d never felt anything like that before—and I haven’t since—so I made my excuses and left. When I got back to the White House, I went up to the third floor, where we were in the midst of renovations. I was talking in the solarium with Rex Scouten, the chief usher, and Ted Graber, our decorator, when I saw George Opfer, the head of my Secret Service detail, standing at the bottom of a ramp that had been installed for President Roosevelt. He gestured to me to come down.
That’s funny. I thought. Why doesn’t he come up?
I went down.
“There’s been a shooting,” he said. “But the president’s all right.”
I was already headed for the elevator.
“He wasn’t hit,” he kept saying. “He’s all right.”
“George,” I said, as we went downstairs. “I’m going to the hospital.”
“You don’t have to,” he said. “He’s all right.”
“George,” I said. “I’m going to the hospital, and you either get me a car or I’ll walk.”
It seemed to take forever to get to the hospital. Word of the shooting was out by that time, and the traffic had gotten very bad. When we finally made it there, Mike Deaver was waiting for me. “He’s been hit,” he told me. He suggested that we go into a little room and wait, which we did.
“Let me see him,” I said.
“You can’t see him now. They’re working on him,” he answered. “But he’s all right.”
The obvious question then was: “Well, if he’s all right, why can’t I see him?”
“You just can’t,” was the answer. “Not yet. They’ll let you know when it’s the right time.”
“Mike,” I said. “You’ve got to get me in. He’s got to know I’m here. They don’t know how it is with us.”
Mike said he’d see what he could do.
I was terrified. I was also feeling like this couldn’t be happening. John Simpson, a good friend, who was head of the Secret Service at the time, and Mike Deaver stayed with me. Outside the room, there seemed to be policemen everywhere, and they were yelling, “Get these people out of here!” There was so much noise. I kept wondering if this was what it had been like when President Kennedy was shot.
Finally, they came and told me that I could see Ronnie. I went into the emergency room and he was lying there with an oxygen mask over his face. When he saw me, he lifted it up and said, “Honey, I forgot to duck.” He was the color of paper—just as white as a sheet, with dried blood around his mouth. I held back my tears and said, “Please don’t try to talk. I love you.” I wasn’t allowed to stay for long, and I couldn’t hold Ronnie’s hand or get very close.
At Camp David with Rex.
When it came time to take Ronnie to the operating room, I walked with him and held his hand while he lay on the gurney. Jim Brady was on a gurney just behind him. It was the first time I’d ever seen anybody who’d been shot in the head, and it was a terrible sight; his head was so swollen. I was taken upstairs to a larger room, where there were a lot of people and the television sets were on, and they asked me if I wanted to go to the chapel. I said yes. In the chapel, I saw Sarah Brady. It was the first time that I’d ever met her, you have to remember. We’d only been in the White House for three months, and I hadn’t yet had a chance to meet everybody. She said to me, “They’re strong men. They’ll get through this.” It was obvious that she hadn’t seen Jim. And I certainly wasn’t going to tell her.
I said, “Yes.” We prayed together, and then I went upstairs.
As we waited, I looked out the window and saw how, in the buildings all around the hospital, people had thrown sheets out the window saying things like GET WELL , MR. PRESIDENT and WE LOVE
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