Miles To Go Before I Sleep by Jackie Nink Pflug Page A

called.
    She showed me another picture, this time of a pyramid.
    The same thing happened. I could see myself at the Pyramids. In Cairo, I saw them almost every day. Again, I couldn’t think of the name for pyramid.

    I didn’t know it at the time, but I was still in shock. I hadn’t come to grips with the magnitude of what I’d just been through.
    A few days later, things started to change. I started waking up in the middle of the night from nightmares about the hijacking. I kept seeing the little children, the ones that died. I’d hear them cry in my dreams. I’d see them boarding the plane. They were such beautiful children. When children die at an early age, it really hurts me. I couldn’t understand why they had died and I had lived.
    As my memories of the hijacking slowly became clearer, I began feeling rage toward the hijackers. For the first time, the full weight of the tragedy was starting to sink in. I realized that my vision was damaged, that my memory was really weak, and that I couldn’t express myself. Scott was getting frustrated with me because I couldn’t do some of the simple things I did before.
    It was very uncomfortable for me to let my feelings out. I didn’t want to get angry or cry in front of Scott. Growing up, I’d learned that feelings were private matters best kept to oneself.
    Naturally, I didn’t want Scott to think anything was wrong. I wanted to protect him from my pain. He’d ask me how I was feeling and I’d say, “It’s okay, honey. Everything’s going to be okay. We’re going to get through this.”
    Boy, who was I kidding! I was holding it all in.
    One day, when the pain got bad enough, I decided to call the army psychiatrist. I was afraid Scott would be mad at me for sharing my feelings with a stranger, so I waited for him to leave. This was hard because he rarely left my bedside. I finally saw my chance when Scott left to eat and pick up a few things at the army store. I asked a nurse to get the psychiatrist.
    It was over an hour and the psychiatrist still had not showed up. I was getting a little anxious, because I didn’t know when Scott would be coming back. Eventually, the psychiatrist walked into my room. I wanted some privacy, so I told him I wanted to talk in his office.
    About a week after my surgery in Malta, I was forced to get up and walk around the halls of the hospital. The doctors thought it would be good therapy for me to get back on my feet. But I tired easily, and when I did, I’d stop and hold on to the walls until I caught my breath.
    The psychiatrist and I walked to his office, and when we arrived, he shut the door and directed me to a chair across from him. It didn’t take long for the tears to come.
    â€œI’m feeling really sad and angry about the hijackers and the things they did,” I said. “I’m having a lot of nightmares and waking up in the middle of the night. I see the faces of the children who died.”
    â€œWhat would you like to do with the hijackers?” he asked.
    â€œI’d like to hit ’em,” I said.
    He raised an eyebrow. “Hit ’em?”
    I said, “Yes, I’d like to hit them.”
    â€œWouldn’t you like to kill them?” he pressed me.
    â€œWell, I’m not supposed to do that,” I said.
    I grew up with the idea that I shouldn’t have thoughts like that—and if I did, I certainly shouldn’t talk about them.
    In the midst of our conversation, there was a tapping at the door. The door opened and Scott came walking into the room.
    I was startled and afraid he was going to be mad at me for talking to the psychiatrist.
    â€œAre you okay?” he asked.
    â€œWe’re going to need some more time by ourselves,” the psychiatrist said.
    â€œOh, sure,” Scott said and backed out the door. “I’ll go wait in your room.”
    I continued talking to the psychiatrist for a