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

few more minutes. He said it was okay for me to cry.
    When we were done, I walked back to my room. Scott was waiting there. “Hi, honey,” I greeted him.
    I got back into bed and looked over to see how Scott was feeling. I thought he would be mad that I didn’t ask to see the psychiatrist when he was there. I wasn’t honest with Scott about why I waited for him to leave. I didn’t tell him that I didn’t want him to see me cry.
    â€œYou weren’t here and I needed someone to talk to,” I said.
    â€œSometimes, that just happens,” he said. “You have to do what you have to do.”
    I felt better. Scott seemed to understand.
    Going to the psychiatrist’s office that afternoon was a small step toward naming, accepting, and releasing the pain I’d stuffed down for many years. At that point, however, I had no idea of how much I stuffed and held back—toward the hijackers, Scott, my parents, and others in my life.

    Shortly after Scott and I arrived in Germany, a drove of journalists descended on us. They had been working on the story for U.S. and foreign newspapers, magazines, and television stations and were following up on the human interest angle of my story. They were panting for juicy details of my life and the hijacking.
    We turned down all the interview requests. I was still in shock and had no desire to meet the press. I needed to focus on recovering in quiet. I spent most of my time sleeping.
    Yet one reporter managed to get past the head of army public relations. He claimed to be with a respected daily newspaper in New York City. The reporter offered to pay Scott two thousand dollars for his version of the hijacking story. Scott and I discussed the offer and agreed that Scott would talk to the reporter. We were both concerned about my mounting medical bills; we thought doing the interview would help us meet some of our expenses.
    Scott gave the interview, including his chronology of the hijacking and how we had both spent the previous two years in Stavanger, Norway, and Cairo, Egypt.
    But the story did not go according to plan. The article appeared in a big, sensationalist tabloid newspaper. And we never saw a dime of the money that was promised.

    I was in Germany for about a week. I spent most of that time sleeping, hobbling around the hallways, and slowly starting to realize what I’d been through.
    The first days and weeks after the hijacking were hard on my family and friends back home. They felt helpless to do anything but pray for me in those dark hours of the hijacking. I couldn’t be reached by telephone for about a week after I was shot.
    On Friday afternoon, November 29, my parents got two pieces of news: a letter I’d written from Cairo, telling them about my upcoming trip to Greece and Thanksgiving plans (including a picture of me riding on a camel near the Pyramids) and a phone call informing them of my transfer to Germany.
    Then, one day, a phone rang at the nurse’s station of the VA hospital. A nurse at the switchboard interrogated the caller asking to speak to me. “Are you a relative?” the nurse said.
    â€œYeah, this is her sister Barbara,” Barb said.
    The nurse came to get me out of bed. I got up, dizzy, and she motioned for me to come over to the phone. “Its your sister Barbara,” the nurse said.
    I don’t have a sister named Barbara , I thought to myself. Who could this be?
    I put the receiver to my ear and heard a familiar voice.
    â€œHello, Jackie?”
    â€œBarb?”
    It was my friend Barbara Wilson. She told the nurse that she was my sister because the hospital was only allowing me to receive calls from immediate family members. I was glad that Barb had exercised a little ingenuity to get around the bureaucracy.
    I met Barb shortly after I started teaching special education in the Baytown School district, a few minutes west of Pasadena, Texas, the Houston suburb where I grew up. Barbara