Promise Me (42 page)

W
hile I was in Budapest, Laura Bush came to visit, and we spent our days together visiting hospitals and cancer wards. I can’t overstate what it meant to these women who so often felt forgotten and pushed aside to have the First Lady of the United States sit on the edge of their beds and hold their hands, chatting with them through the interpreter, asking about their treatments and their children, and telling them how much she appreciated their beautiful city.

If I’m ever lost in the woods, Laura is the one I want with me. She’s the kind who can read a compass, identify the edible berries, craft a Jeep Cherokee out of a piece of driftwood, and have us on our way before nightfall. She’d have my back. That I know for certain. With both our busy lives, Laura and I didn’t get to talk as often as we would like, but I’ve always known she’s there if I need her, and I hope she knows that about me.

I think we’re always attracted to people who have the qualities we wish we had ourselves. Laura is extremely intelligent and doesn’t forget anything. Unlike me, she is patient. She understands people and always says the appropriate thing. More than anyone else I know, she has a way of articulating what needs to be articulated, always in the nicest possible way. She’s not a grandstander, never pushy, but she has a presence that brooks no nonsense. She’s a lady. She
gets
it. She took a lot of pride in doing the small things—for her daughters, her home, her husband—and as a volunteer, she was always willing to do the jobs no one else wanted to do. Even when she was First Lady of Texas, she stayed active and devoted time to SGK, coming to events and staying until the last dog was hung. She knew it meant a lot to the other volunteers to spend time with her, and she was glad to spend time with them.

I suppose I’m biased, but I think she was a great First Lady.

“Thank you for coming,” I told her during a quiet moment in Budapest. “It’s so nice to hear someone speaking English.”

“Have you had a lot of visitors?” she asked.

“A few. Some American and European CEOs, congressmen. Bob Taylor called and filled me in on everything at home. Eric came. Mom and Daddy had a lot of reservations about my being here, but they came and had a wonderful time. Daddy’s not well. I’m worried about him.”

Ultimately, though I would have liked to remain in Hungary for another year, I came home in the fall of 2003 because I had a feeling there was something seriously wrong, and there was.

Daddy had stomach cancer.

He kept working through his treatment, and Mommy rose to the occasion as always. I bought a house in Florida so I could be close to them. Daddy and I talked every day. He was always my first stop for advice. He never tried to tell me what to do or to spoon-feed me an answer; he asked the right questions and listened while I talked it through for myself.

At the seventh annual SGK Mission Conference in 2004, every session felt electrified with purpose. The astonishing growth of our organization had made it possible for us to fund a wide range of research projects and community-based services. Along with new and innovative clinical studies, we were looking for new and innovative ways to address disparities in underserved populations. There was a lot going on in the world, and it was an election year. We were doing our best to stay focused and certainly not looking for trouble, but we got into a political dustup that would turn into a frustrating distraction when one of our valued corporate sponsors, Curves (a chain of workout centers for women), withdrew their support and denounced SGK because some of our local affiliates had made grants to their local Planned Parenthood chapters.

When you donate to a local SGK affiliate or support a walker in a Race for the Cure, 75 percent of that money stays right there in your neighborhood to serve local women. We don’t spend money building Susan G. Komen Breast-Cancer-R-Us facilities; we get the most bang for our buck by funding services that can be offered through existing local infrastructure. The grants in question supplied breast health counseling, screening, and treatment to rural women, poor women, Native American women,
many women of color who were underserved—if served at all—in areas where Planned Parenthood facilities were often the only infrastructure available. Though it meant losing corporate money from Curves, we were not about to turn our backs on these women. Somehow this position translated to the utterly false assertion that SGK funds abortions.

As controversy swirled, several pro-life advocates, including Catholic bishops and Sister Carol Keehan of the Catholic Health Association, sprang to our defense. Unfortunately, the false assertion has persisted for years, hopping around the blogosphere like a poisonous frog to this day, frequently coupled with the ridiculous old wives’ tale that abortion causes breast cancer.

“Well-conducted research consistently fails to support this claim,” our chief scientific adviser, Dr. Eric Winer, said in an open letter. “We agree with the bulk of scientific evidence—from the National Cancer Institute, Harvard, a rigorous study in Denmark and from Oxford University—that there is no conclusive link between breast cancer and induced abortion or miscarriage.”

I was sad to lose the corporate support of Curves, and I have the utmost respect for its founder’s religious convictions—as I do for all people of every faith—but we remain focused on our mission.

A happy footnote to that whole brouhaha: Even though Curves withdrew its corporate support, I continue to see many terrific women at Race for the Cure events walking or running with their Curves workout groups. I applaud the daily, proactive commitment of these women to their own health, and I appreciate their continued support. With all eyes on the prize, they’ve risen above the fray and taken to the streets. I stand ready to follow their example.

T
he White House chief of protocol is responsible for facilitating a smooth experience for the president, vice president, secretary of state, and their spouses when they interact with foreign dignitaries. When we mix with other cultures, there’s always potential for embarrassment, faux pas, or a general lack of communication. The chief of protocol and her (or his) team research key phrases, customs, cuisine, taboos—everything and anything we can do to make sure a visiting head
of state feels welcomed and respected from the moment he or she steps off the airplane to the official handshake photo with the president. If a queen has an allergy to roses or a prince has a deathly fear of heights, the chief of protocol makes sure the daisies and ground-floor accommodations are in place. The position is part ambassador, part Emily Post, the diplomacy of etiquette and the etiquette of diplomacy.

I knew several people who’d done the job, including Shirley Temple Black, who served under Gerald Ford, and Lucky Roosevelt, who served under Reagan. There was no learning curve in this position; mistakes have far-reaching consequences, so only perfectionists need apply. Also required are research skills, social graces, the stoic patience of a stone lion, and a genuine respect for people of all cultures from all over the world.

In spring 2007, the White House reached out to see if I was interested in the position. I thought long and hard before I accepted.

“If it was something in Health and Human Services, I wouldn’t even stop to think,” I told Mom and Daddy. “But this would be a complete disconnect from the direction I’ve been moving my whole life.”

“The connection might not be obvious,” said Mommy, “but you’ll find it. Women of my generation didn’t have all the open doors. Sometimes we had to climb in a window.”

It occurred to me I’d be learning about diverse cultures from every corner of the globe, interacting with their leaders, and getting to know their wives. It wouldn’t be appropriate for me to use the position as a lobbying platform for women’s health, but I’d be building a foundation and forging relationships that might later help me to advance breast cancer treatment and awareness on a global level.

But here was my father. I couldn’t leave Mommy to take care of him by herself. And selfishly, I was rather enjoying my life the way it was at the time. I was back on the SGK board, seeing an interesting man, traveling, and adding to my burgeoning collection of Hungarian art. My friend Barbara Rogoff and I spent hours poring over auction catalogues and excavating dusty basement archives far and wide.

“I don’t know,” I said. “The timing isn’t great.”

“There’s never a convenient time to serve,” said Daddy. “You do it because you were called. Your president asked you to serve, so you serve.”

I let Laura know I was willing and ready, President Bush called to pop
the question, and we made it official. I immediately immersed myself in study and preparations. My father remained sharp as a bullwhip and kept working to the very end. He was in a horrific amount of pain, but he didn’t complain. Two days before he died, he was sitting up in his hospital bed, reading the
Wall Street Journal
and reviewing profit-and-loss statements.

“That’s how I want to go,” I told Mommy.

My father taught me how to live, and he taught me how to die. He finally slipped into a coma and passed away on a June Sunday in 2007, the day before I was to give a speech in front of fifteen thousand physicians, administrators, and others gathered for the annual conference of the American Society of Clinical Oncology. Mommy held off the funeral for a day so I could go and deliver the talk.

I won’t say I did it because Daddy would have wanted me to (though he would have); I did it because I wanted to, and I wanted to because I am the woman he raised me to be.

O
n September 14, 2007, I was sworn in as chief of protocol. The following two years were an adventure, an education, and a tremendous challenge; it would take me another two years to recount every great leader I was honored to greet and every thrilling stamp I added to my passport.

Visiting presidents and prime ministers stay at Blair House, the presidential guesthouse just across Pennsylvania Avenue, and it was my responsibility to see that everything was in order there. I organized visits and activities and coordinated with the kitchen staff to make sure the right food was being served. Mrs. Bush was responsible for selecting gifts suitable for the recipient, and she had an impeccable sense for choosing the exactly right bike or Fabergé egg or painted porcelain dish. I made sure the staff was well versed in personal and political issues so the conversation would be amiable and appropriate, never “How was your flight?”

When visiting heads of state came to meet with the president, I usually met them and their entourages at the South Portico outside the White House and escorted them to the West Wing, but when the Dalai
Lama arrived, he flew into Washington on a commercial flight, and I met him at the gate. He waved and greeted me, jolly and laughing. As we walked down the concourse, it was as quiet as a stroll through a bamboo forest. People recognized him, but they didn’t rush toward him or call out. Peace and happiness radiated out from him, and even those who didn’t know who he was seemed noticeably affected by it.

According to Tibetan tradition, he’d brought me a
kata
, a long white scarf used for offerings and greetings, which he blessed. I bent my knees and scrunched down a little so he could reach up and place it over my shoulders, and as he did, he noticed the little pink ribbon on my lapel.

“What does it signify?” he asked.

I told him about Suzy and about SGK, and he blessed me with the nicest compliment possible.

“You did a good thing,” he said, smiling that wonderful crinkled smile.

The pope made a six-day visit to the United States while I was in office, and I was the first one to greet him when he arrived. For months my team and I prepared for his arrival. For the first time ever, the pontiff would be met by the president out on the tarmac on his arrival, along with a huge crowd. The daunting logistics of it occupied my every waking thought from the moment the plans were announced. It was a brisk and beautiful April day in Washington when Shepherd One landed at Andrews Air Force Base. The boarding stairway was wheeled into place and secured, but a gusty wind kept whipping the red carpet away from the foot of the steps. A few people made nervous jokes about the winds of the Holy Spirit, but I was more than a little anxious at the thought of this eighty-one-year-old man negotiating those steep steps only to have the rug literally pulled out from under his feet.

Just before President Bush and the First Lady came out onto the tarmac with their daughter Jenna, I climbed the staircase with a representative of the church to greet the pontiff and make sure everything was as it should be. As we boarded, he looked up and smiled at me.

“Your Holiness,” I said, bowing my head slightly, returning his smile. “On behalf of the president and Mrs. Bush, welcome to the United States.”

He took my hand between his palms. The gesture was warmer than a handshake, fatherly and generous. During his stay in the United States,
the pope took time to bless a box of silver ribbon-shaped pins and had them sent to my office. The day he left, I was at Andrews to see him off, and I thanked him for the ribbons that would mean so much to the men and women of faith who would receive them. He took my hands and blessed me for my work.

I couldn’t help myself. I burst into tears. All I could think of was Suzy, standing breathless on a street corner in Rome, clutching those two little statuettes to her heart.

Priceless, Nanny. Blessed by the pope
.

P
resident Bush allowed me to expand my job description a little to include a cultural exchange called Experience America. This grand adventure threw a group of foreign ambassadors all on the same bus, taking them out of the status quo and squiring them from sea to shining sea. We’d taken a beating in the foreign press over the last few years. My objective was to share my love and wonder for this great country and show our guests the America that Americans have made, the America Walt Whitman heard singing, blithe and strong. We visited Ground Zero, the NASA jet propulsion lab at Cal Tech, an ethanol plant in the Midwest, and miles of Americana in between, ending up at College Station, Texas, where we all had lunch with President “41” and Barbara Bush. People said they never had so much fun, but more important, they saw the verdant green America beyond the Beltway.