Miles To Go Before I Sleep (20 page)

As a special education teacher, I knew that learning disabled kids learned best when their lessons were in the form of a game. When they lost themselves in the fun of the game, their anxiety was lowered and they were better able to learn. Also, they came to see learning as something fun—and not to be feared.

I made up lots of little memory games to train my mind to remember things. Turning simple household activities into games was a way to compensate for my learning disability and short-term memory deficit. These games were the mental equivalent of tying a string around my finger. By “loading” information into my long-term memory files, I slowly taught my brain to compensate for its memory and perception problems.

My short-term memory was so bad that I couldn't remember simple things like how many scoops of coffee I put in the coffeemaker. I'd forget what number I was on right after I dumped some inside. So I got creative. I'd ask someone else to count the scoops for me, or I'd record a hash mark on a notepad after each scoop.

I played the “orange juice game” every morning. Scott and I both drank orange juice every day and stored it in a green pitcher in our refrigerator. Before pouring a glass, I'd look at the pitcher and ask myself, “Okay, how full is this pitcher?”

I'd try to remember the liquid line from the previous day. “Okay it's three-quarters full.”

Then I'd pour myself a glass and study the container again, noting where the liquid line was. I'd hide the pitcher in the back of the refrigerator so I wouldn't cheat and look during the day.

The next morning, I'd walk into the kitchen and see a little sign on the refrigerator door: “Check the orange juice.” Without the sign, I would have forgotten the game entirely. My memory was that weak.

Sometimes, I guessed right. Sometimes not.

When the orange juice game became too easy, I made up harder ones. One thing I did was to get more serious about people-watching. I didn't just look at people, I
studied
them.

When one of Scott's friends came over, I'd focus on his clothes—the type of pants, socks, and shoes he was wearing. The next time we got together, I'd tell him what he wore on his last visit. I did the same thing with my women friends, concentrating on their dresses, jewelry, shoes, and perfume. I'd say, “You wore those earrings when I saw you on Monday.”

I played Ping-Pong and did other sports to try and improve my motor coordination and visual ability. Ping-Pong was good because I could do it anytime. I knew how to play it before the hijacking and was pretty good at it. That helped.

I trained my eye to see half of the ball and connect it with the part of my paddle I could see. Early on, when I played I saw a white line coming toward me—a trail of white—when someone hit the ball to my side of the table. I played with Scott and Scott's friend, Brian, who had a Ping-Pong table in the basement of his house.

Since I seemed to be making such progress in getting my life together, Scott figured it was time to get his life going too. He saw an ad for a job opening at the Northwest Racquet, Swim & Health Club in the paper.

“That one sounds neat,” I said.

Scott applied for the job, got an interview, and was hired on the spot. He came home, all pumped up and excited, carrying some new warm-up clothes and suits with the logo on them.

“I got the job, Jackie!”

I looked at Scott and started to cry. The job would require him to work late evenings and weekends. “Why didn't you tell me before you said yes?” I asked. “What am I going to do all night?”

I was angry that Scott and I didn't discuss the job beforehand, that we hadn't sat down and tried to work something out that would take both of our needs into account. I was also afraid that Scott was going to move on with his life and leave me behind. I was afraid he'd meet new people, stay out late, and leave me all alone.

Scott felt really hurt. He was trying to help out by getting a job, but my negative reaction convinced him that he needed to stay home and take care of me.

“We talked about me getting a job, Jackie. Don't you remember? I was only doing what you wanted. That's all I ever do.”

Scott called the health club and told the man who hired him that he couldn't take the job and would return the clothes the next day.

It was the first time I knew Scott felt really angry about the hijacking's effect on him.

For quite a while, Scott didn't work much at all. I think he was scared of what my reaction would be.

I felt angry and bitter about my many losses. I hated the hijackers for what they had done to me, to Scarlett, and to the children who died during the hijacking.

I spent a lot of time feeling sad about leaving my job in Egypt. I'd finally found my niche in teaching overseas. I was doing exactly what I wanted to do and was having a blast. I felt a strong connection with the people in Egypt and my students there. Yet I'd never gotten a chance to say good-bye to the people and place I loved so much.

People would say, “Oh, you just have to get over that.”

They didn't get it.

Most people see the Middle East as a backwards, dangerous place. How could I prefer living there to living here? Wasn't I glad to be away from all the danger of that region? The answer was no. I felt no danger. I chose to live in the Middle East, and I liked living there. I didn't get a lot of sympathy for my loss.

Nobody from the U.S. government—or any state or federal agency—stepped forward and offered to help out Scott and me after the hijacking. Once Scott and I landed in Minneapolis, we were completely on our own as far as official Washington was concerned. Even though I'd been shot for being a U.S. citizen, the American government seemed eager to wash its hands of the whole affair.

The eyes of the world were focused on me while I lay dying on the airport tarmac. But now that I was alive and the photographers and television reporters had all gone home, nobody cared how I was doing. I was just another nobody with a problem. Apparently, my pain wasn't real anymore. I felt angry and betrayed that nobody stepped forward to help us put our lives back together.

I was also angry at how the U.S. government treated Scarlett Rogencamp, the only American to die in the hijacking, and her family. Initially, the U.S. Army awarded Scarlett, a civilian employee of the Air Force, the Purple Heart. But then Air Force officials changed their minds, stating that the honor was reserved for persons killed in action defending their country. I thought this was incredibly insensitive. As far as I was concerned, once they gave someone a medal, that took care of it. Taking it back seemed incredibly insensitive to Scarlett's memory and the feelings of her family.

I remember sitting in our apartment in February 1986, reading an article about Barbara Mandrell, the country-western singer. The article described her comeback from a head injury she sustained in a near-fatal car accident. She, and the son she was pregnant with at the time, almost died. In her long recovery, she talked about cussing at her husband and then, minutes later, forgetting that she had. I knew exactly what she was talking about.

There were times when I had fits of anger. I'd leave the house, slamming the door on my way out, completely oblivious as to where I was going. Then I'd stop and look around and wonder,
Where am I? What happened? What led me to be here?

During Mandrell's recovery, the article noted, President Ronald Reagan wrote to see how she was doing. He told her to let him know if there was anything she needed.

Anything she needed!
I thought. I was so angry! Though I was targeted solely for being a U.S. citizen, the U.S. government hadn't asked about my needs. My health insurance covered 80 percent of my medical bills, but the 20 percent I was responsible for amounted to a lot of money. Ronald Reagan hadn't called or written me.

Reagan had gone to Andrews Air Force base to personally welcome home survivors of the TWA Flight 847 hijacking. But I never heard so much as a word from him—and I'd been shot in the head!

I wasn't a celebrity, but I sure needed his help.

I decided to ask for it. I got the White House phone number from information and dialed. A White House operator answered.

“I'd like to speak to Ronald Reagan,” I said. I didn't call him “President” because I was mad at him.

“Um, he's not here right now,” she said, with bemusement. “He's in California.”

“Well, when will he be back?” I persisted.

“I can leave him a message,” she said. “Who may I say is calling?”

I gave her my name and phone number, then waited a couple of weeks for a reply. Nothing. I kept checking the mail, hoping for some sign of getting through to the president. There was nothing.

I called the White House again. This time, the operator suggested writing a letter to Mr. Reagan.

I vented a lot of anger and frustration in my letter to the president. Scott helped me write it. In hindsight, I'm embarrassed by the angry, bitter tone of it. Still, it certainly did capture my state of mind at the time. I wasn't thinking rationally. I simply wanted someone to acknowledge what I was going through and offer some help.

The letter read as follows:

I mailed the letter and waited another week or two. There was no word.

I called the White House again. This time, the operator took down my social security number. I made twenty copies of my original letter—with my social security number on it—and mailed them all to the White House that same day.