Miles To Go Before I Sleep (28 page)

“Jackie won't function normally for the rest of her life,” the counselor told Scott and me during the ninety-minute counseling session. “You can forget about ever going back to teaching or working at a professional job. You may want to consider learning a trade.”

Scott was angry.

“You can't tell Jackie that she can't go back to work,” he said. “She is going to do whatever she wants to do. She can accomplish any goal she sets her mind to.”

“Well,” the counselor said, “I wouldn't get your hopes up.”

I was hurt and angry. The counselor didn't know me; she hadn't seen the progress I was capable of the way Scott had. She didn't know the motivation and drive I had to overcome my disabilities.

On the drive home, Scott said, “Don't listen to anything she said, Jackie. It's a bunch of baloney. You know how people have come back from things. You're up and around and going downtown and things. Look how short a time it's been. Do you think you're going to be where you are right now five years from now? There's no way. You'll be five years better.”

I wanted to stop seeing this counselor after hearing what she had to say. I wasn't ready to give up on my teaching career—or myself—that quick.

Yet I doubted myself too.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I should just learn to accept that I couldn't do the things I wanted anymore. I was brain injured after all, and the extent of the damage wasn't fully known. Was I just setting myself up for disappointment and pain?

I'd always been a positive person, yet the meeting with this counselor took me down a notch. The counselor seemed to have such a limited view of my future. I was tempted not to go back again, but I wanted to learn more about epilepsy and how to let go of my fear of having more seizures. I made another appointment for a week later.

Scott came with me to my second meeting. The focus of this ninety-minute session was on the status of my head injury one year after the hijacking. We also talked about my emotions and the post-traumatic stress syndrome reactions I experienced on the anniversary of the hijacking—and the possibility of a future recurrence.

The counselor told me to expect my recovery process to be much slower and to accept the fact that I had reached a “plateau.” Basically, I should lower my expectations for the future. My goals would have to be “realistic,” given my current limitations—seizures, need for medication, memory problems affecting my reading and math skills.

We also discussed issues of having a family. While my doctors said there were no medical reasons why we couldn't have children, the counselor pointed out some potential problems. These included the potential for increased seizure frequency during pregnancy, more frequent neurology visits, frequent monitoring of blood levels, potential need for increased medication doses, need for coordination of obstetric and neurological care, and planning for the specifics during labor and delivery.

I was frustrated and angry about having to make additional plans that other normal, healthy women didn't need to make in planning for a pregnancy. I didn't feel that the counselor was helping very much, so I decided to stop going after my second appointment.

My emotional ups and downs were hard on Scott. We'd be laughing and talking one minute; then the next minute I'd be crying without knowing why. I was dependent and needed his help a lot, yet at the same time I also resented this dependency—and him. I had to rely on him so much, and that bothered me. I felt trapped. Scott got the brunt of a lot of my anger.

One minute, I'd love and appreciate Scott's care and concern, and the next minute I was angry and resentful.

It was confusing to both of us.

“What in the hell's going on?” Scott often asked.

How could I tell him when I didn't know myself?

I often reacted by snapping at him or crying. One time I got so mad I chucked a plate at the wall. I was frustrated because I really couldn't explain what was going on. I didn't know. This only added to our mutual frustration.

The FBI was not able to pursue its own case against the surviving hijacker, Omar Mohammed Ali Rezaq. At the time, much of the evidence against him came from EgyptAir Capt. Hani Galal. His testimony was critical to the case, yet he and the other Egyptians were not cooperating with the United States. They were probably embarrassed because an Egyptian commando team was responsible for the botched raid. Without the Egyptians' testimony, the U.S. Justice Department prosecutors decided there was not enough evidence to prosecute. Since Malta was moving ahead with its prosecution of Rezaq, the U.S. government decided not to proceed further and to let the Maltese courts take over.

Malta did not charge the Palestinian specifically with hijacking, apparently because the plane was seized over Greece, not Malta. Rezaq was charged with sixteen counts of kidnapping, murder, and assault, to which he pleaded not guilty.

Prime Minister Carmelo Mifsud Bonnici refused Egypt's request for the extradition of Rezaq. Egypt was accusing Libya of ordering the Tripoli-based Abu Nidal Palestinian extremist group to seize our plane. Libyan leader Col. Moammar Khaddafy continued to deny the charges.

I often called the FBI to find out what was happening in the case. I wanted to make sure Rezaq got put away for good.

Sometimes, Scott just couldn't give me the support I needed to deal with the anger and hate I felt toward the hijackers. I needed to talk to someone who knew what it felt like to go through something so terrible as a hijacking. I called Patrick Baker, who was living in Alaska, to talk about what I was feeling.

I'd been excited to talk to Patrick. He had left Malta shortly after the hijacking, as he had no physical injuries that required sustained medical attention.

Yet Patrick didn't have much to say on the phone. He was very kind, but the hijacking didn't seem to have affected his life the way it did mine. It didn't cause him to change careers or make any other dramatic life changes. It was something that happened, and he wanted to move on.

Occasionally, I called Scarlett Rogencamp's mother to talk. The first time we talked, Mrs. Rogencamp wanted to know absolutely everything about the time I'd spent with her daughter—the last few hours on the plane before she was shot. This was very hard for me. Part of me wanted to hold some of the details back. I thought it might only add to Mrs. Rogencamp's grief to know that Scarlett had been so scared or that we'd prayed together.

But something inside me, my Inner Voice, told me that it was important not to hold anything back from Mrs. Rogencamp; she needed to know every detail of her daughter's last hours. I told her how Scarlett and I prayed together, how sad Scarlett was, and how she died.

Mrs. Rogencamp cried on the phone as I recounted her daughter's last few hours. So did I.

A month later, I called Mrs. Rogencamp again. I knew she was going through a difficult time, and I wanted to offer my support in her grief. This time, it was really hard for me to hear her pain. It brought it all back.

Eventually, I wanted to know the names of all the people who died on the plane. It haunted me. I needed to know who died so that I could have some peace. No one knew how to find the answer. I wrote to Egyptian President Hosni Mubarak, but never got a reply.

These were dark days. I felt myself withdrawing into a shell of my former self. I was shriveling and dying inside, and feeling powerless to stop my downward slide into despair.

One rainy Sunday afternoon, about a year after the hijacking—I'll never forget it—I felt completely worn out. I felt dumb. I was tired of the anger, tired of the bitterness, tired of the person I was becoming. I hated this new Jackie.

Why did this happen to me?
I was crying all the time, feeling sorry for myself. My relationship with Scott was suffering immensely. Since I couldn't accept myself, I had a hard time accepting him and others in my life.

I felt utterly defeated, overwhelmed by despair—helpless, powerless, and hopeless. I went into a deep, deep depression. I felt as if I was sliding into a cold, dark abyss. It was as though I was losing my ability to cope and, perhaps, losing my sanity. This was a different kind of depression than the one I experienced right after the hijacking. It felt deeper and more threatening. I hit rock bottom.

At the same time, I also felt a sharp pain in my heart on realizing that I had wanted to live so badly during the hijacking. Now, I no longer cared.

To me, not wanting to live anymore didn't mean committing suicide. I saw suicide as a permanent solution to a temporary problem. Not wanting to live anymore meant not being excited about life, not valuing my life as the precious gift I'd always seen it as.

In my darkest hour, I did the only thing I could think of. It worked once before, so I decided to try it again. With my body shivering from fear and tears streaming down my face, I prayed.

I shut out the noise and clamor of the world and closed my eyes. I remembered how, in my loneliest hour on earth, I had found deep peace, serenity, and the courage to face death. If I could do that, couldn't I also face life? The answer was clear. I could. I knew God would listen.

I asked for help from my Higher Power, just as I did on the plane. I prayed as I've never prayed before. I wanted guidance. I wanted my inner peace back. I wanted direction.

Then and there, I made a commitment to Jackie. I made a commitment to health. I vowed to find healing, whatever it took. I was not going to remain a victim all my life.

DURING MY “TIME OUT” I DECIDED to focus on healing. One of the first things I did was to join a health club. It felt good to regain some of the strength I'd lost after the hijacking. I could feel the muscles in my arms and legs growing stronger. I always feel better when I exercise.

I went to yoga classes at the club and signed up for relaxation classes at a local hospital. Both helped me learn to slow down and relax more.