Miles To Go Before I Sleep (15 page)

None of my doctors had prepared me for something this bad. No one ever said that this emotional roller coaster is common among persons with a head injury.

I didn't know whether my reactions were the result of the head injury or the emotional trauma I'd just gone through—or maybe both.

One of the bright spots in those initial weeks and months in Minnesota was getting to know Scott's mom and dad. They were sweet and loving people who took me into their arms and treated me as if I were their own daughter. Even though I was far from my family in Houston, I felt adopted by the Pflug family.

June Pflug, Scott's mom, was the first person I came to know and trust in Minnesota. She was very caring and down-to-earth. June knew how to manage a household too. Her husband was a salesman and was on the road five days a week. She had to raise the couple's seven children, five boys and two girls, practically on her own.

She knew the pain of grief and loss too. Her son David was killed in a car accident at age twenty-two. Scott never said much about David, but June told me the two of them had been very close. June could deeply empathize with my pain and often held me when I cried.

June and I spent a lot of time together. She helped me get around when I couldn't drive or do many things for myself. She said things that made me feel better about myself too. “You're so pretty bald, Jackie,” she said. “No one could pull that off but you.”

I looked in the mirror to see for myself.
I
do have a pretty head
, I thought to myself.
It is nicely shaped. There aren't any bumps.

It took about six months for my hair to grow back; during that time, June offered more compliments. Spiked hairstyles were popular among women that year, and she said I fit right in with my short hair.

It was easy to see the resemblance between Scott and his dad, Greg Pflug, whom we all called “Pops.” Pops was a tall, thin man who liked to express his strong opinions. Like Scott, he had a great sense of humor. Pops could always make me laugh, even on some pretty dark days.

It was such a relief to be welcomed into the Pflugs' home, and to have a place to stay while we regrouped. I thought finished basements were pretty neat—we didn't have them in Texas. June helped me navigate around the house whenever I took a wrong turn, as I often did. It was easy for me to get lost in the basement. It seemed as though there were a number of long hallways and, if I missed the right one, I'd end up in the laundry room instead of our bedroom.

When I went up the stairs, I'd constantly smash against the wall. I didn't see it. June couldn't figure out why this kept happening. I saw the wall but didn't know where it was in relationship to my body. If I slowly approached the wall and held on to it, I could avoid running into it. But I always forgot to do that.

I often felt as if I had a brain transplant. My adult brain was gone and, in its place, was the brain of a little child.

June was patient when I floundered. For example, in the morning I'd go into the kitchen to pour myself a bowl of cereal. I'd keep pouring and pouring…. Cereal would be spilling out all over the countertop. My vision loss prevented me from seeing how much cereal was in the bowl. Then I'd add the milk, spilling it all over everything. Again, I couldn't see where the milk was going. The same thing happened with orange juice. When I was finished pouring myself a glass, I'd be surprised to see that I'd made a huge mess and start crying.
Why was this happening?

June was so understanding. She didn't hover over me or get mad when I spilled milk.

And she was wonderful in the kitchen. It freed me from having to cook, which was a big help, too. I was so out of it that I didn't know that if I wanted to cook something, I had to turn on the stove.

One time, Scott, his parents, and I were all sitting at the dinner table. June passed a bowl of spaghetti around and everyone took some. Then she dished some out for me and we all started eating. I finished my spaghetti and was ready for seconds. “Could I have some more?” I asked.

“But Jackie, you still have some spaghetti on your plate,” June said.

I looked back down at my plate. I'd eaten the middle and the right side of the spaghetti—the only part I could see. June took my hand and guided it to the upper left side of the plate and down to the bottom. The gaps in my visual field were mirrored in the leftover spaghetti. We all had a good laugh over that one. Yet I was also embarrassed.

For the first three months after the hijacking, while my brain was still swollen, I didn't know if I was full or hungry. My brain wasn't sending me the right messages. I knew that I had to eat breakfast every morning, because it was part of my routine—not because I was hungry. I knew I was done eating when I'd finished the food in front of me—not because I felt full.

Before dinner one evening, Scott said he needed to go get some gas and asked if I wanted to go with. At the station, Scott started filling the tank.

“I want to pay for the gas,” I said. I wanted to do something to help. I also wanted to start spreading my wings a little bit and getting back into the world.

He took out his wallet and handed me some money. “I don't really know how much it's going to be,” he said. He hadn't finished filling the tank.

I took the money and, just as I opened the glass door to go inside, I heard Scott yell, “Jackie, will you get me a Milky Way bar?”

“Okay,” I hollered back.

As I entered the store, my mind suddenly went blank. I looked down and saw all this money in my hand, but didn't know what I was supposed to do with it.
What am I supposed to do with this?
I wondered.

Then I looked outside and saw Scott still filling the car, and I remembered the gas. But there was something else that he just yelled at me.
What was it?

I opened the door again and yelled out, “What was it you wanted me to get?”

“A Milky Way bar,” he shouted back.

Like a mantra, I kept repeating it over and over—gas-Milky Way bar, gas-Milky Way bar, gas-Milky Way bar—as I walked through the store.

I went over to the rack of candy bars. I didn't remember what the Milky Way wrapper looked like, so I had to go through and read each label one by one. Meanwhile, I kept repeating, gas-Milky Way bar, gas-Milky Way bar, gas-Milky Way bar.

It was taking me a long time. Scott had no idea what had happened to me. He had just hopped in the truck and waited.

When I finally found the Milky Way bar, I had to think,
What do I do next? The
answer wasn't automatic. Then it came to me: Stand in line.

I went over to stand in line to pay for the gas and Milky Way bar. After a few minutes, it was my turn to pay.

“I want to pay for this Milky Way bar and gas,” I announced.

“That will be $10.73,” she said.

“What is it?” I asked.

“$10.73.”

I looked down at the money in my hand, but didn't know what to do with it. I had a fistful of papers with the numbers “5,” “10,” and “1” on them. This was the first time I'd really looked at money since the hijacking. Whenever we went somewhere, Scott had always paid.

I kept looking at my money, thinking that something was going to click any second and I'd know what to do. But it never did.

In the meantime, people were coming into the store, and it was getting very crowded. A long line had formed behind me and there was only one clerk on duty.

“Oh, just put your money down!” she said with irritation.

I laid my money down on the counter and she counted it for me. She gave me the Milky Way bar and my change and I walked out.

I started sobbing. I felt so humiliated and embarrassed, like a helpless little child. I didn't even know how to count money anymore.

“What's the matter, honey? What happened in there?” Scott asked as I got back in the Bronco.

Between sobs, I said, “Scott, I don't know how to count money. I didn't know what the money was.”

“It's going to be okay,” Scott tried soothing me. “It's going to be okay.”

In my pain, I didn't believe him. I couldn't believe him. I wanted the earth to open up and swallow me whole.

When we got back to the Pflugs' house, where we were still staying, I sat down with June and practiced counting money. We got out a bunch of quarters, nickels, and dimes, and she helped me add them together. “This is a quarter,” she'd say. “When you take two quarters and put them together, you have fifty cents.”

After a while, I slowly started to catch on. The knowledge that a quarter was equal to twenty-five cents never left me. The part I no longer understood was
What does twenty-five cents
mean?
What do people do with money?

It was just about impossible for me to add numbers in columns, however. It was just too overwhelming to distinguish the different numerals. They all blurred together. I had to use a calculator to add, subtract, multiply, or divide numbers.

Other abstract concepts, like telling time, were hard for me to grasp. I knew what six o'clock was—that it was an hour in the day—but what did that
mean?
What did people
do
with time?

“At 6
P.M
.,” June patiently explained, “people are getting off work, starting to come home. In an hour or two, many people eat dinner….”

The fact that there were two six o'clocks—6
A.M
. and 6
P.M
.—was also confusing.

“At six in the morning” June said, “many people are getting up to go to work. At six in the evening, twelve hours later, people are coming home from work and sitting down to dinner.”

June helped me learn more concrete lessons too. I'd point to the arm of a chair and say, “What is this?”

“That's the arm of a chair,” she'd say. I'd point to other objects and she'd say, “Those are blinds, that's a couch, that's the seat of a chair.”

Life in Minnesota was lonely. The only people I knew were Scott's family and friends. Since I couldn't drive, I had no way to get around and make new friends. For a person who loves meeting and talking to people, and exploration and adventure, this social and physical isolation was particularly limiting. I felt totally dependent on Scott for all my needs. After being so independent all my life, I felt like a helpless child again. It was only when we arrived in Minnesota that I realized how much I needed a solid support system.

Day after day droned on and I felt bored, restless, and useless. I was supposed to heal, but what did that mean? None of the doctors in Malta, Germany, or Minnesota helped me understand all the changes I would be going through or suggested I get rehabilitation or reading help. They essentially stitched me up and cut me loose. I was supposed to figure everything out alone, and I had no clue as to what I was dealing with.

Much of the time, I felt helpless, out of control, and lonely. No one took me by the hand and told me what I needed to do to get on with my life. I was terribly sad, lonely, depressed, and bitter. My emotions fluctuated between happy, giggly highs and tearful, depressed, irritable lows. It was scary because I didn't understand why this was happening—and no one explained it to me.
Was I going crazy?