Miles To Go Before I Sleep (2 page)

We can make a difference by slowing down, noticing the moment we live in, extending ourselves to others, living with integrity, and telling ours mates, children, friends, and family that we love them. Ask, why am I here on earth? Am I doing my part? Am I committed to forgiving others and healing the hurts in our relationships? Do I expect and give thanks for the everyday miracles I see all around me? Am I letting my spirit sing while I'm here?

I am immensely saddened by the terrorist attacks that took so many lives and spawned so much understandable fear and rage. The sadness is with me every day. The sadness has been with me every day for the last sixteen years, an unavoidable recognition of pain and hurt. But I am still hopeful that we are moving forward toward peace here on earth. As in every tragedy, whether it is an act of terrorism, a life threatened by cancer or AIDS, an accident that leaves one disabled, a separation from a loved one, we can know that Divine Good is always present and that our spirits will heal.

THIS BOOK WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN POSSIBLE without the generous and loving help and support Peter and I received from so many people.

We'd like to thank Irene Getz, Ph.D., for reading early drafts of the work; Cheryl Haraseth, for her incredible diligence in transcribing hours and hours of taped interviews; and Bill and Marcia Behring, my business partners, for all their help and hard work during many wonderful years of working together.

Others who helped Peter and me and deserve recognition include my mother and father, Rylma and Eugene Nink; Scott Pflug; June and Greg Pflug; Barbara and Wayne Wilson; Debbie Reno Wells; my sister Mary Nink and my nephew Michael Nink; my sister Gloria Beaver; Mr. E. C. Woods; Cindy Carter; Anne Moen; Ellie Hyatt; Roger Brunner; Mark and Betsy Gathercole; Kathy MacPherson; Ursula Lommen; Barbara Zimbeck Garland; Brenda Schaeffer; Mark Lyso; Don George; Stephen Boehlke; Paul and Rina Kizilos; Tolly and Betty Kizilos; Michael and Meg Adamovich; Jack Orth; George Cleveland; Rudy Ruettiger; and Ken Schelper.

We also wish to thank Rebecca Post, our editor at Hazelden, for her insightful and incredibly skillful advice and help in shaping this book. We'd like to thank everyone at Hazelden who helped make this book possible—including sales and marketing staff, graphic designers, manuscript editors, and proofreaders.

Many thanks to other friends and supporters who offered their critical comments, encouragement, moral support, and love throughout the project—especially Jim Olsen and Nancy Clift.

Finally, I'd like to thank my Inner Voice for urging me to share my story—even when I didn't seem to listen.

THE HIJACKING OF EGYPTAIR FLIGHT 648 was a terrifying drama that sent shock waves around the world.

For an entire week in late November 1985, it was the lead story in the
New York Times
, the
Washington Post
, the
Los Angeles Times
, and on television network news broadcasts worldwide. Millions of concerned readers and viewers followed the fate of passengers from fourteen nations who were left to the mercy of three cold-blooded killers.

I was a thirty-year-old special education teacher, and one of three U.S. citizens on the plane when it was forced to land on a darkened, desert airstrip on the tiny Mediterranean island of Malta. Along with the ninety-four other men, women, and children, I waited nervously as the international community considered its response.

President Ronald Reagan and U.S. Secretary of State George Shultz joined the Maltese, Egyptian, and other world leaders in seeking to negotiate a peaceful end to the siege. When the terrorists' demand for fuel was refused, they threatened to start executing one passenger every fifteen minutes—starting with Israelis and Americans—until they got what they wanted. The world watched in horror as the terrorists carried out their plan.

I was the fifth person shot in the head at pointblank range, shoved out of the plane and onto the tarmac, and left for dead.

When negotiations finally broke down, Maltese and Egyptian government officials decided to storm the plane in a desperate effort to rescue the remaining hostages. There was plenty of second-guessing and finger-pointing after that strategy failed. At the same time, tensions in the Middle East flared as Egypt braced itself for a possible attack by Libya. The United States issued a strong condemnation of terrorism and vowed to hunt down terrorists everywhere and bring them to justice.

As time passed and the immediate crisis faded, the story of the hijacking of EgyptAir Flight 648 slowly drifted to the back pages—and, eventually, disappeared.

Yet the bullet's impact on my life continued to grow and grow. In addition to vision and memory loss, I struggled to cope with a severe learning disability, a strange numbness in my left side, epileptic seizures, posttraumatic stress disorder (PTSD), and clinical depression. The long, uphill struggle to heal from these wounds and their emotional consequences wreaked havoc on my marriage and other relationships. There were times when despair closed in around me and life didn't seem worth living.

For me, the real drama of the hijacking begins after the cameras stopped rolling and the front-page stories were filed and forgotten. The “story behind the story” starts in the quiet and lonely place where I come face-to-face with the fear, anger, sadness, and grief stirred by the hijacking. It starts on the long road to recovery. It starts when I begin to own my bitterness, pain, and many losses. It starts when I asked myself the question: What am I going to do about it now?

There were two obvious choices: I could slip into self-pity and blame, and see myself as a victim for the rest of my life. Or I could choose to accept total responsibility for my responses to a terrible tragedy. Either way, I came to realize that the decision was up to me.

Choosing the second option, to reclaim my life and my dreams, would require years of slow and painful work. It would take every ounce of strength, every bit of courage, persistence, and determination I could muster. I'd have to be willing to probe deep inside, to explore a murky world of hidden emotions. I'd have to apply everything I knew about teaching learning disabled children to myself. I'd have to become more patient with myself, become thankful for the small things, and learn to trust my gut for answers.

I had to rely more on my Inner Voice—my words for what others call the Christ Within, God, intuition, insight, a Higher Power, or Higher Consciousness. Listening closely to my Inner Voice helped me solve many problems I could never have handled alone.

I had three major goals after the hijacking: to raise my reading level, drive again, and go back to work. I was determined to do everything in my power to come back strong.

It's taken me ten years to feel ready to share the lessons I've learned in my recovery and rehabilitation—ten years of slow, and often tedious, progress. It's been a long road, but, unbelievable as it may sound, I can honestly say I wouldn't trade any of my experiences. Through them all, I've continued to grow and learn and find new things to be thankful for—even in the midst of sorrow.

After speaking to a group of foster parents in Minneapolis, a woman raised her hand to ask me a question. “Are you healed?” she asked. I had to pause a moment to think about it. “No, not yet,” I said. “Healing is a process that is never fully completed. We wouldn't still be on earth if we were completely healed.”

Be good to yourself. Take care of yourself. Be true to yourself and, above all—love yourself. That's where it all begins.

MY LIFE COULDN'T HAVE BEEN GOING BETTER. After years of feeling stuck, I'd finally freed up my spirit to pursue dreams that once seemed far too distant for a young girl growing up in Pasadena, Texas.

The notion of becoming a teacher had at first sounded like a lofty, unattainable goal. Yet now, with discipline, and years of study and hard work, I was teaching learning disabled children and enjoying the thrill of seeing them grow.

I'd dreamed of visiting strange and exotic lands, meeting interesting people, and living in a place where it snowed. These visions, too, seemed worlds away from the “meat and potatoes” part of south Texas where I was raised. Yet I'd found a way to make those fantasies also come true.

I had quit my secure job as a special education teacher and school psychologist in suburban Houston and spent the last two years teaching overseas in Stavanger, Norway and Cairo, Egypt. I'd grown up a lot by traveling overseas and immersing myself in other cultures. I had found my niche in life, my reason for being—and it felt great! My heart's desires were being fulfilled. Nothing was holding me back.

Then came a thunderbolt from out of the blue—and it was all over.

It all happened so quickly, in the time it takes to draw in a deep breath and slowly let it out.

One minute I was in a safe, predictable world governed by civilized rules that I knew and understood. I was happy-go-lucky Jackie Pflug, a fireball who had the world by the tail.

The next minute, I was immersed in a fearsome world of human evil, cruelty, and insanity. All of my hard-won efforts to take charge of my life and future suddenly turned to dust in the terrifying series of events to follow.

On that fateful Thanksgiving weekend in November 1985, I was returning home to Cairo, Egypt, after spending three days with my husband, Scott Pflug, in Athens, Greece. For Scott, the trip was a mixture of business and pleasure. In addition to teaching physical education at the Cairo American College (CAC), a K-12 school in the suburb of Maadi, he coached the girls' volleyball team. The girls did well enough that season to be invited to Athens to compete in an international tournament. Scott would be coach and chaperone to the twelve high school girls who made the trip.

I was excited for the girls. I'd attended every one of their home games that fall and many of their practices. Scott and I had the team over for pizza several times. We both loved traveling and being involved in sports. I arranged to meet Scott and the team a day after they arrived in Athens. I was looking forward to exploring another new city.

In Cairo, I'd certainly indulged my passion for adventure. I took full advantage of living in Egypt to explore museums, the great Pyramids, the Sphinx, and other exotic and historic sites.

Scott and I lived only a mile and a half from CAC, so we could easily walk or bike to the marketplace and softball fields. We took cabs into Cairo, which was about fifteen minutes away, and rode buses for longer trips outside the city. As a frequent passenger, I got to know some of the cab drivers well. They got a kick out of shuttling a curious, talkative, young American woman around.

Every Wednesday after school, I walked or biked to the market to do my grocery shopping. The Egyptian people in the marketplace, especially at the vegetable and fruit stands, were always very friendly and helpful. I soon made friends with several shopkeepers. They often gave me extra bananas, loading them into my bag until I said, “Stop!” They were so sweet. I'd load up the basket on my bicycle with local delicacies: vegetables, yogurt, grape leaves stuffed with lentils.

Walking back home through the crowded, colorful streets of Cairo was a cultural experience in itself. The Old World and the New existed side by side. The peasant men and women I met in the streets and marketplace wore
gallabeyyas
, traditional Egyptian clothing resembling a long nightshirt. The men usually wore white or gray, while the women's version was more decorative. Some Egyptians wore Western-style suits or dresses. Walking down a busy street in the middle of the day, I'd see dusty new Mercedes Benz automobiles parked alongside mule-driven street carts laden with garbage, fresh fruit, or pots and pans.

The Egyptians I met on my excursions around Maadi and Cairo were warm and welcoming. Their Texas-style openness made me feel right at home.

Scott and I chartered old, rickety, vintage 1930s sailboats—the same “boat taxis” that shuttled Egyptian commuters back and forth across the Nile every day—and went sailing on the Nile. Two barefoot Egyptian guides, wearing long robes and turbans, sailed the boats. Their skin was dark and leathery from constant exposure to the desert sun.

One weekend, I flew to Luxor, Egypt, with a group of women from CAC. We rode donkeys through the countryside and took a leisurely tour of ancient tombs buried deep in the mountainside of a small village in the back country of upper Egypt. In Luxor, we were invited into a family's home for tea—a great honor in Egypt. We were a bit naive about the intentions of our young male guides, however; after showing us around, they became a bit
too
friendly.

Another time, I joined friends and co-workers for an excursion into the Sahara Desert. I felt like Lawrence of Arabia riding on my camel with the Pyramids in the foreground. After pitching camp on the edge of the desert, we sat on a blanket in the sand and watched the setting sun. Our Egyptian guides looked so majestic with their white turbans and gallabeyyas glowing in the dying light. At night, we sat near our camels, in small circles around the campfire. I had the sense of being on a movie set or of being pushed back in time.