Miles To Go Before I Sleep (23 page)

I'm pictured here with my long-time friend, Barb Wilson. Barb helped me get through a lot of hard times after the hijacking. She was an integral part of my support system.

Standing beside me is another good friend, Suki Fitzgerald, 1987, in Dallas, after my second brain operation. Suki is someone who is always there for a friend. She flew from Texas to Minnesota to visit me several times, and helped me through some hard times. Also pictured is Mike and Kathy.

Visiting my mom and dad in Pasadena, 1987. Though we lived far apart after the hijacking, my parents called me a lot and provided great support.

June and Greg (“Pops”) Pflug. Scott and I lived with his parents for two months after we returned to the United States following the hijacking. June was of much help and made life easier for me. I could not see correctly, so she helped me get around the house. I had lost my short-term memory, so she helped me learn how to tell time and count money again. Just as important, she said things that made me feel better about myself. Pops could always make me laugh, even on some pretty dark days.

President Ronald Reagan, myself, and Scott Pflug in the Oval Office of the White House, April 15, 1987. It was the day after President Reagan ordered U.S. fighter pilots to bomb Libya in retaliation for state-sponsored terrorism against U.S. citizens and military installations abroad. Mr. Reagan was very influential in getting Project Hope to help me out. The charity paid off all the medical and therapy bills I'd accumulated up to that point.

A speaking engagement at the Northwest Mutual Life Annual Conference in Milwaukee, 1990. I was the closing keynote speaker. At first, speaking was a form of therapy for me. I got excited when people were listening and getting what I had to say, when the room was so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

At home in Minnesota, summer 2001, with husband, Jim and son, Tanner.

I FELT A SHORT PERIOD OF RELIEF after telling my story in court. But it didn't last long. Life started to get very difficult for me during this period. Everything was becoming an obstacle.

Even the littlest things, like taking out the garbage, became big struggles. It was hard because I still hadn't gotten used to coping with my vision problems. If I forgot to concentrate on looking up, down, and to the right, I'd still bump into things or have other minor accidents around the house.

One day, I pulled the garbage bag out from under the sink to wrap a twist tie around the top. I picked it up and started walking toward the door, then noticed something was wrong. There was blood all over the floor. Shards of broken glass poking through the bag had sliced a tendon in my right ankle. I must have dragged the sack across my bare foot and cut myself without realizing it. I looked in the plastic bag and saw a broken peanut butter jar. I forgot that I had put it in there. For six weeks, I wore a cast up to my knee, making it even harder to get around.

One day, while sitting in a hot bath with my cast hanging over the tub, I felt overwhelmed by all my grief and loss. The dam holding back my feelings had burst. Wave after wave of sadness, despair, and pain rolled through my body. I shook with grief as the feelings poured out. I sat in the bathtub and just sobbed and sobbed.

I'd stop for a while, then another wave would come crashing over me. I didn't seriously think about committing suicide, but I didn't feel much like living anymore, either. If there was a hell, I was in it.

In the midst of all my pain, I plunged into a deep depression. For several weeks, I could hardly get out of bed. I didn't feel excited about life or see a future that gave me hope.

What was going to become of me? Why were all these bad things happening to me?
I couldn't make sense of it all, and was afraid I'd never adjust to my new life.

As a young girl, I'd suffered from low self-esteem. But I'd never really acknowledged or looked at that before. The whole time I was growing up, I was nagged by an inner fear that I just wasn't good enough. These feelings were especially intense during my junior and senior high school years.

Now, they were right back in my face. I couldn't rely on the old crutches I used to prop myself up with: filling up all my time with activities, losing myself in a relationship, or striving to be the best teacher I could be. Now, I was learning disabled and all my old fears came back to haunt me.

I could hardly read or drive or even take care of myself. I was stuck with myself, with nothing to distract me or gloss over my pain. I had to look at and feel what was inside me.

I thought back to the LD students I had taught over the years. I remembered what happened when I got mad or frustrated because they didn't seem to be listening or learning. I'd see their faces go blank. I'd see them withdrawing and feeling as though they just didn't measure up and maybe never would. I could tell they felt bad about disappointing me. I knew they wanted to do good, wanted to please their teachers and parents, but just couldn't. I remembered how, somewhere along the line, many stopped trying and gave up; they decided they were just too dumb.

I read the sadness and hurt in their faces, but couldn't know what they felt like inside.

Now, I did.

Now, I felt as if
I
was letting people down, disappointing them. I tried so hard, but I just couldn't measure up. I had a gnawing feeling that I wasn't good enough—maybe I never would be. Still, I was determined not to give up.