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

personnel for planting in his mind the thought that I was dead.
    Beffel was doing everything he could to get Scott to Malta. He was pushing hard to get a plane, but no one could land in Malta until the hijacking was over. There was also some bad weather.
    There wasn’t much more Scott could do. He had to sit tight and wait. Scott was helped by a woman who was vice-consul at the American embassy. She was a real caretaker and sweetheart, encouraging and sympathizing, just like a mom would be. She also helped Scott find a place to stay on Sunday night while he anxiously waited for a flight to Malta. She introduced Scott to a gunnery sergeant employed at the embassy who generously opened his home to Scott.

    Early on Sunday morning U.S. time, the phone rang again at my parents’ house in suburban Houston. My parents felt a mixture of dread and relief. Would this call inform them that I was dead or alive? My father answered. It was the State Department.
    â€œAnother woman was just shot, but we don’t know who it is,” the U.S. government official reported.
    A few minutes later, the State Department called back to confirm that I was shot in the head and taken to St. Luke’s.
    On Sunday afternoon there was a knock at their door. A reporter from Channel 26 stood at the door, asking to come in and shoot some footage of my family sitting down for Sunday dinner.
    â€œNo,” Mom said. “We’d like to be together just as a family. We’d like to say our prayers for Jackie in private.”
    To her credit, the reporter understood and left.
    My sister Gloria’s husband said a simple prayer. “Lord, we just pray that Jackie will come through the hijacking okay and that we can hear from her soon. Bring her back to us safe. Amen.”
    Debbie and Barb came over to my parents’ house to help answer the telephone, field the reporters, and provide support.

    After I gasped for breath in the van, and the van reversed course for St. Luke’s, the medics immediately began cutting off my blood-stained blue jeans and T-shirt. I couldn’t see what they were doing, but I heard the sound of ripping fabric.
    Darn, there go my favorite blue jeans! was the last thought I had before everything went blank. I must have passed out, because I don’t remember riding to the hospital.
    When I came to again, in the emergency room at St. Luke’s, I was lying on a metal hospital bed. I was dressed in a hospital gown. Medical technicians were sticking needles in my arm.
    I closed my eyes briefly and, when I opened them again, I was staring into a pair of soft brown eyes.
    A young man, about my age, hovered over me, wielding an electric razor. “I’ve got to shave your hair,” he said, simply.
    He pressed the buzzing instrument to my head and started shearing my dark brown curls. The sound was almost soothing until, suddenly, I jumped.
    â€œOw! That hurts!” I winced. I was really out of it—just barely able to hold a conversation. He’d run the rotating blades over my bullet wound. “You have to be careful.”
    â€œI’m sorry, but I have to go over it. I have to get the hair around it,” he said, apologetically. “I’ll try to go easier. You’re going into surgery, and we need to shave your head to reduce the chance of infection.”
    Every few seconds, he’d stop shaving and let me take a breath. Then he’d announce, “Okay, I’m going back over it again.”
    My muscles tightened as I braced myself for more pain.
    After the young man finished, another medical aide came in to finish the job with a smaller razor. He also gave me some shots to calm me down and reduce my pain.
    A serious man with glasses who looked like a doctor walked over to my bedside. He put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I’m Dr. Lawrence Zrinzo. You’re going to be all right. We just need you to sign