Sandy and Fadila
In late January 2009, I flew to Medjugorje for the purpose of bringing back a precious baby girl for open heart surgery. Ten-month-old Fadila lives in a shack in the city dump in Mostar, with her mother and three older siblings. While the baby was inutero, this homeless family was in a fatal automobile accident that claimed the life of the child’s father. Her mother sustained back and neck injuries, both of her sisters had their legs broken and her brother had two broken legs. The entire family was devastated and traumatized by the accident which only made their already difficult lives seem impossible.
Shortly after Fadila’s birth last April, it was discovered that she had a large hole in her heart. Surgery was not an option for her in her own country and, with no money or other resources, there was little her shattered mother could do but love her, care for her and wait for her to die.
In October, we were introduced to the child by Janet Leff, a retired American Social Worker who lives in Medjugorje and has been working with us for some time. I spoke about Fadila at our conference in November and made a second appeal for help for this child via our newsletter. Dr. Danielle Walsh, a former high school classmate of my own children, read the newsletter and put the wheels in motion. A miracle was beginning to take place.
Flying with me to Medjugorje was Ulfeta Childress, a Bosnian woman whose own daughter was one of the first children we brought to the United States for life-saving surgery. Nermina, age two at the time of her heart surgery, is now 14 years old and they live here in Florida. Ulfeta was only too happy to accompany me on this journey. Not only could she serve as our translator but she knew, first hand, how frightening this entire experience would be for Fika, the infant’s mother. Ulfeta was in a unique position to be of support to Fika and I was delighted to have her with me.
On February 2nd, we left Medjugorje at 2:00 a.m.—the beginning of our long journey to health and wholeness for baby Fadila. The travel could hardly have been more difficult.
A friend, Zvonko Ferenc, had rented a van to accommodate all of us, our luggage, the car seat and the stroller for the trip to the airport. I road in front with Zvonko. Fika, Fadila and Ulfeta were in the back.
There was no moon that night and no oncoming traffic along the desolate roads we were taking so it was easy to doze off. I awoke when we got to the Croatian border only to discover that we were at the wrong border! We had arrived from America in Dubrovnik and Zvonko assumed we were leaving from the same city. I had failed to correct that assumption and, with my eyes closed, hadn’t noticed that we were going the wrong way.
We crossed the border, turned North and headed for Split. We’d lost about an hour, a foreshadowing, perhaps, of things to come.
Fortunately, when traveling to an airport, I’ve always believed it’s better to be a day early than one second late so we had left Medjugorje early enough to compensate for this unplanned detour. We were still the first to arrive at Split Airport a little before 5:00 in the morning.
When we checked in for the flight, I was surprised and disappointed to learn that Croatia Airlines would not gate check the stroller. I had brought one from America, compliments of my daughter, to make navigating through the airports on the way back easier for all of us, especially Fika and Fadila. Croatia Airlines told me I had two choices: check the stroller to Paris and pick it up there at baggage claim, or check it all the way to Jacksonville. They also mentioned that flights to Paris were running very late due to bad weather. There might not be enough time for me to go to baggage claim and get the stroller which means it would end its journey in Paris, never to be seen again. I checked it to Jacksonville.
Then, after looking at all of our documents regarding Fadila, the agent raised questions as to how safe it was for the baby to fly. They did not want to have to make an emergency landing. No amount of assurance I could provide was good enough. They summoned the “airport nurse” who looked over the documents, questioned me at length and had to be convinced that there would be no serious health complications during flight. I raised my eyes toward Heaven and said to the Lord, “You’d better back me up on this one!”
The look of fear on Fika’s face, as we boarded the plane for our flight from Split to Zagreb, was unmistakable. Fadila, who almost never cries, became hysterical when she was strapped in to the car seat which I had also brought from home. Prior to this trip, she had never been so confined because they don’t use car seats in Bosnia—not even seat belts for the children.
What made the situation really difficult is that, because of her heart problem, Fadila stops breathing when she cries too hard! This happened several times and she would turn blue. Her mother would have to “slap” her to get her breathing again. It was not only frightening, but impossible for me to justify to this precious baby’s mother the need to put her child through this terrible ordeal. By the time we landed in Zagreb, 45 minutes later, Fika had had enough of flying and our journey had only just begun. She told Ulfeta that she didn’t want to fly anymore and that we should just take a bus to Florida. And yes, she was serious.
Fika never had the opportunity to go to school. She can neither read nor write and had absolutely no concept of where she was going or the distance involved. As hard as we tried, she was unprepared for all that she was going to experience that day which turned out to be much more than any of us bargained for!
Once Fika understood that there was no other way she could get her child to Florida, she braced herself and we continued on. Moving through Zagreb Airport, we came to an escalator and Fika stopped cold. She had never seen an escalator before and she was afraid to get on. After several aborted attempts, she finally made it. This was a scene that would be repeated many times throughout the next couple of days.
Once inside the International Terminal, we learned that our flight from Zagreb to Paris was delayed because of a huge snowstorm in France. We finally took off two hours behind schedule, landing in Paris at 12:30. I wasn’t concerned because our flight to Atlanta was not scheduled to leave until 4:00 o’clock in the afternoon. We had plenty of time—or so I thought.
Navigating through Charles De Gaulle Airport is difficult, at best. There are few signs to indicate which way to go and the French people are, generally speaking, less than helpful. Very few do, or will, speak English and they act as though being kind to you would cost them their first born child. We eventually figured out that, from Terminal One, we had to take a shuttle bus to Terminal 2E.
The airport is massive and looked like a giant sized replica of a page straight out of Where’s Waldo. We went across a bridge, under airplane wings, through a tunnel, and around and around, making numerous stops, before arriving at Terminal 2E. The bus trip had taken nearly 30 minutes and it was now l:00 o’clock in the afternoon.
After another escalator adventure, we found ourselves at the transfer desk. There was one line with about 75 people ahead of us. There were five agents behind the counter. An hour and a half later, we had moved ahead approximately ten feet. By this time, it was 2:30 in the afternoon. The majority of the people in that line had missed earlier flights to just about everywhere. The agents were searching for other flights and re-booking those passengers, a time consuming process. We were only seeking boarding cards.
I finally got out of line and spoke to one of the agents, who yelled at me for cutting ahead of the others. Over his objections, I explained that we were taking a “sick baby” for surgery and that all we needed were boarding cards. Would he be so kind as to assist us so that we would not miss our flight?
He pointed down the hall to a bank of kiosks and told us we could get our boarding cards there. I should have realized there was a reason why no one else was using those computers. Fika and Ulfeta got out of line and followed me to the kiosks. Not one of them would work and there was no attendant there to help us. I tried everything but the message kept coming up that the computer was unable to process the request.
Now, we were out of that line which had increased by at least 100 people. I returned to the man who had sent us to the kiosks and he told me to get back in that line that had still not moved since we left it. No amount of pleading had any affect on him whatsoever.
By now, it was plain to see that we would never get through that line in time to make our flight. We had already been in that terminal for an hour and 45 minutes. To make it worse, there were no bathrooms in that transit area nor was there any place to get anything to eat or drink – not even a water fountain.
I looked on the marquee and found the gate listed for our flight. I told the others that we would just have to go to the gate and get our boarding cards there. I snatched a stray baggage cart and piled our carry-on luggage on it, we went up an escalator and walked all the way to security. Once there, we were not allowed to go through because we didn’t have our boarding cards. One of the security guards took our luggage off the cart and took it away from us, saying we weren’t allowed to have one of those carts in that terminal!
We walked all the way back to the escalator and returned to the lower level. I finally found a guard who spoke some English and asked him what we should do. He said, “I wouldn’t go back to that transfer desk. It’s a mess and, you’re right, you’ll never make it. What you need to do is go out this other way, go through Passport Control as though you are leaving the airport and then come back in again on the other side. That way you can go directly to an airline counter and get your boarding pass.”
I thanked him profusely as he was the first “nice guy” we’d spoken to in Paris and we headed toward the exit. They checked my passport and I passed through. The others were stopped! They all had Bosnian passports which require French Visas to enter France. They were not allowed to leave the airport!
I came back through and tried to explain that the Bosnians were not going to leave. We were just going to go out and come in again on the other side. That didn’t matter. “No Visa, no entry.” After I explained our situation, the control officer suggested that I leave the Bosnians behind, take their passports with me, go out and come back in again, and get all of our boarding cards by myself.
“Are those agents going to give me boarding cards for these people without seeing them in person?” I asked.
“Of course not!” she replied.
“So why are you telling me to do this?” I asked.
She shrugged her shoulders and said, “You can go or you can stay. It’s all the same to me.”
At this point, I was beginning to resent my French heritage. (Sorry, Mom.)
I explained to the others that we had no choice except to go back to the transfer desk. But we had gone out of the secure area and had to go back through security clearance – with carry-on luggage, my laptop computer, a very tired baby, no baby stroller and a full bladder – mine. The only bright spot here was that we, and three others, were the only people going through security at that particular time.
The other three individuals were supposed to be on the same flight to Atlanta as the one on which we were scheduled. All seven of us went through security and, of course, this was the time they decided to check absolutely everything in my carry-on bag—and I mean everything!
Why not? We were the only people there and they had nothing else to do.
Suddenly, Ulfeta’s brand new black leather jacket (a Christmas gift from her husband) was “missing”! I blew a gasket and said I was going to get the police when one of the security guards, a young woman Ulfeta’s size, “miraculously found the jacket”.
The seven of us enlisted the aid of another security guard, an older gentleman, who was one of only a few people we’d met all day who spoke enough English to understand our dilemma. He went with us all the way back to the transfer desk, went behind the counter and begged one of the agents to take us next. As we were allowed to go ahead of all the others, I looked back to see the people who had been standing in that line ahead of us when we were there before. They had only moved forward another few feet and were still waiting.
I’m glad I don’t understand French as I have a hunch those people who were waiting in line were not wishing us well.
The agent took care of the other three people first; they got their boarding cards and they left. When I stepped up to the counter, the agent said, “The flight is closed.”
I said “What?”
“The flight is closed,” he repeated.
“It’s five minutes after 3:00,” I said. “We still have plenty of time. How can the flight be closed?”
“That’s what they told me,” he answered.
“Call them again,” I replied. “We have a sick baby here. She’s going to America for immediate surgery. We have to get on this flight!”
The agent picked up the phone and called Delta. He hung up the phone and told me that Delta said the flight was closed.
“They gave away our seats?” I cried.
“No,” he replied. “The seats are still empty. They just don’t have enough time now to get more meals onto the plane.”
“Forget about the food!” I pleaded. “We don’t have to eat! We just need to get this baby to America!”
“We’re not allowed to take people on such a long flight without food,” he stated. “There’s no more chicken on the plane!”
“Once we go through security, we’ll grab a sandwich and take it with us!” I told him.
“Lady,” he said, raising his voice. “There’s no more chicken on the plane.”
“I don’t care about chicken!” I shouted. “We don’t need chicken!” I cried. “I can eat chicken any time!” I told him. “Do I look like I couldn’t survive this flight without chicken?”
“Okay, so you want to feed us,” I continued. “Give us some crackers! Peanuts! Anything will do! We just need to get on this flight!”
“Call Delta again! Let me talk to them myself!”
He picked up the phone, called someone (I’m not sure who) and, while he was speaking in French, his supervisor came over and told him to hang up the phone and move on to the next people in line.
I said, “What are we supposed to do now?”
“Take the shuttle bus to Terminal One,” he said. “Go to the Delta counter and they will take care of you.”
We took the escalator back down to the lower level, waited for the shuttle bus and rode it back to Terminal One. The ride took 35 minutes. The bus dropped us off at a transfer entrance where we had to climb a long flight of stairs with all of our belongings. There was no elevator or escalator there at all.
Once upstairs, we looked all over for the Delta counter but could not find one. “It’s on the upper level”, a passing agent told us. “You just have to go through Passport Control, go outside and come back in again on the next level. That’s where you will find the Delta counter.”
“But they can’t go through Passport Control,” I explained. “They have Bosnian passports.”
She shrugged her shoulders and walked away.
We looked around some more and I finally found an information counter. I explained our problem AGAIN and the woman agreed to call the Delta counter for me. She hung up the phone and said, “The Delta counter closed at 3:00 o’clock. I suggest you go to Air France.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“You just have to go through Passport Control, go outside and come in again,” she said. There you will find all of the airline counters.”
“But they can’t go through!” I cried. “They have Bosnian passports!”
“Looks like you’re out of luck,” she said. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”
At this point, I thought of calling the US Embassy but it was after 5:00 and I knew they were closed. We all went to Passport Control anyway and I explained our situation once again. The woman said, “You’ll have to take the shuttle bus to Terminal 2C. When you get there, you will be able to get on a train that will bring you back here to Terminal One, but on a different level. There you will find Air France.”
“Why can’t we just go upstairs from here?” I questioned.
“That’s not possible,” she said. “This is the only way. Just take the shuttle bus to Terminal 2C, get on the train and take that train back here to Terminal One. It should only take you about 45 minutes.”
We returned to that long stairway, hauled our belongings down the steps, waited for the shuttle bus and arrived at Terminal 2C some 35 minutes later. At this transit gate, we were met by another long flight of stairs—no elevator or escalator there either. I wondered how a person in a wheelchair could possibly handle all of this. I also wondered, “What’s a nice, 63-year-old woman like me doing in a place like this?”
At the top of the stairs was another transfer desk. I stopped to ask someone how to get to the train and he asked me where I was going. “To the Air France counter, “I replied.
“Let me see your boarding card,” he said.
“I don’t have one yet,” I answered. “I’m going there to get one and I’m still hoping they can get us on a flight out of here tonight.”
“Where’s your itinerary?” he asked.
When I showed it to him he said, “Air France can’t help you with this at all. These tickets were issued by Croatia Airlines. You have to go back to them to get this straightened out.”
“Where do I find Croatia Airlines?” I questioned.
“I have no idea,” he answered. With that, he picked up the phone and made two calls.
“Croatia Airlines doesn’t have a counter in this airport,” he told me, “but you can go to Lufthansa Airlines because they handle the Croatia Airlines flights.”
“How do I get there?” I asked him.
“You just take the train back to Terminal One and you’ll find the Lufthansa desk. That’s where all of the airlines have their counters,” he assured me.
“This is great,” I thought. “I’ve finally been told the same story by two different people!” We left the transfer desk and headed for the train.
But what’s this?
Passport Control! We would have to go through Passport Control, go out and come back in again to get the train! And we couldn’t do it because, as we all know by now, the others had Bosnian Passports with no Visas for France!
$@!&%$@#$%!
The Passport Control Officer told me we had two choices. We could either spend the night there, in that particular transit area where there was no bathroom, no food, and nothing more than a few hard chairs, or I could leave the others there, take their passports with me, go out, take the train to Terminal One and try to get the whole mess straightened out. The decision was obvious.
The train ride to Terminal One only made five stops so it was far better than the shuttle bus. Once inside the terminal, it only took me about ten minutes to find the Lufthansa counter. The woman who helped me was German. She is now my new best friend, even if I never see her again.
The first thing she told me was that there were no more flights that day going anywhere in America. By that time, I’d pretty much figured that would be the case. Then she informed me that Croatia Airlines probably wouldn’t do anything for us since we’d had plenty of time to make our connection in the first place! $%^*(^$#!!#*(@!
Keeping my composure was now becoming a problem. I clicked off the events of the day which brought the tears I’d been trying to hold back to the surface—either that, or my bladder had finally backed up. I hadn’t seen the inside of a bathroom since Zagreb!
Karen (we were now on a first-name basis) called someone from Croatia Airlines and was referred to someone else who referred her to someone else, who referred her to someone else. By the time I returned from the Ladies Room, Karen had an answer for me.
Croatia Airlines would allow her to book us all on flights to America the following day. As far as how or where we would spend the night, we had three choices: I could go to a hotel and leave the others in the transit area (with no food, water or bathrooms), we could all wait in that transit area, or we could go to the Airport Police Station, adjacent to that transit area where the Bosnians were waiting for me, and get “Transfer Visas” for Ulfeta, Fika and Fadila. These Transfer Visas would allow them to leave the airport for the night, stay in a hotel and come back the following morning to fly to America. Sounded like a plan to me.
Croatia Airlines would not pay for the hotel because we had had enough time to make our connection. (Grrrrrrrrrrr!) When I argued that point, she told me it really didn’t matter since our original flight delay was caused by bad weather, for which they are not responsible. I would also have to pay 60 Euros each for the Transfer Visas ($250). And they would not take U. S. Dollars.
While Karen began to work on booking the flights, I went to an American Express office in the next building to convert my U.S. Dollars to Euros. By the time I returned to the Lufthansa desk, my feet felt like they were screaming. With my back against the face of the counter, I slid down to the floor and closed my eyes. I just needed a rest while Karen finished the re-booking process.
Apparently, someone thought I’d had a heart attack or passed out because, the next thing I knew, there were two paramedics crouched down in front of me, shouting something in French. When they realized that I was just resting, they gave me one of those “looks”, told me I couldn’t sit on the floor in that area (there were no chairs either!) and sauntered off. Let’s just say I was “miffed”.
Karen completed the re-booking, handed me the itinerary for the following day, and told me how to get to the airport hotel—a Sheraton. The room would be only 650 Euros – about $900.00! Even if I had been willing to pay it, I wasn’t sure I even had a credit card that would hold that much! She found us another hotel, not far from the airport, for half the price, which was bad enough, booked us a reservation and explained to me that the Airport Police would want to see that we had a hotel reservation and an itinerary to fly the following day in order to give us the overnight Transfer Visas for Ulfeta, Fika and Fadila. She also gave me directions to the hotel shuttle bus stop and wished me luck.
I apologized to her for the fact that we were ever at war with Germany, gave her a big hug and headed for Passport Control. From this point on, it should be a piece of cake.
I walked all the way back to the train and took it back to Terminal 2C. I could only imagine how upset the others had to be by that time. I had been away from them for almost two hours. They had no idea what had happened to me and, I repeat, no food, water or bathroom! I hurried as much as my body would allow to get back to them.
Once I finally reached Passport Control, the officer refused to allow me to go through because I did not have a boarding card. I showed her the itinerary and she wouldn’t even look at it. She said I had to have a boarding card. “No boarding card, no entry!” By this time, I had learned that pleading was useless and seemed to give these French men and women some kind of sadistic pleasure. Demanding might get me thrown in the clink.
I went back to the train and took it back to Terminal One and Karen at the Lufthansa desk. She was unable to give me boarding passes. The “Delta” flight we were scheduled to take the following day was actually an Air France flight and only Air France could give us boarding cards. She went with me to the Air France desk and was informed that they could not issue boarding cards for Ulfeta, Fika and Fadila because they would have to see them in person! I said, “Just come with me and I will show them to you!” The agent refused. He was French. I finally talked him into giving me a boarding card so I could go through Passport Control. He took his sweet time about it but I finally had that all important piece of paper in my hot little hand.
I took the five stop train back to Terminal 2C and marched myself back up to the woman at Passport Control. Her look was not welcoming. I gave her my best smile and said, “I’ve got my boarding card!”
She took one look at it and said, “This flight is tomorrow. Come back tomorrow.”
I said, “I can’t! I have three people, including a sick baby, in the transit area waiting for me. I have their passports. I have to go through!”
“Is not possible,” she replied. “You can only go through with a boarding card for same day travel,”
“Please!” I begged. “I’ve got to get to them.”
“Call them on your cell phone,” she said.
“I don’t have one that works here,” I told her. “And they don’t either.”
“You’ll see them tomorrow,” she said.
“Could you at least call the transfer desk where they are so I can get a message to them?” I pleaded.
“I don’t understand English,” she said. “You go!”
At this point, I burst into tears and couldn’t stop. I left there and went to an information desk where I tried to calm down enough to explain my problem. When nothing worked, I asked the woman to call the police. A few minutes later, an Airport Policewoman came who also didn’t understand enough English to help me, but she was willing to try. Together, we went from perfume shop to perfume shop until we found a clerk who spoke and understood enough English to explain the problem to the officer.
Once she understood the situation, the officer told me to give her the Bosnian Passports and she would get them to Ulfeta and the others. I said, “Not on your life.” She tried to convince me that this was the only possible solution but there was no way I was going to hand over those passports to anyone. Finally, she spoke to a supervisor and they decided to make an exception; they would allow me to go with this officer through Passport Control and back to Ulfeta and the others.
Once we passed through, the officer began to look in all the wrong places. I was so turned around by this point that I wasn’t sure which way to go. I was also convinced that, if I had handed over the passports, it was more than likely that Ulfeta, Fika and Fadila might never have seen them again!
After some time, the officer took me through “employee only” hallways and I finally saw the forlorn faces of my Bosnian friends. “We thought you forgot about us,” Ulfeta teased.
“That’s not even funny,” I replied.
The officer led us to the Airport Police Department where we requested the Transfer Visas so we could all leave the airport together. I showed them our flight itinerary for the following day and our hotel reservation for that night. They asked us a lot of questions including why we hadn’t made our connection when we’d had so much time to do it. !$#%@$!%&##%#$@
What I had mistakenly thought was going to be a mere formality, turned into another ordeal. First, they had to do background searches on all of us, which took over an hour. It wasn’t until that was completed that they “decided” to give Ulfeta, Fika and Fadila the transfer visas. By this time, I was looking at my watch and wondering if we were going to have any time left to sleep by the time we got to the hotel. It took another hour for the Visas to be completed and stamped into their passports. I paid the 180 Euros, the four of us left the station and passed through Passport Control. “I’m free!” Ulfeta cried.
We took the escalator downstairs, went outside and waited for the hotel shuttle bus. It was freezing outside but the bus came quickly, which only slightly restored my faith in mankind.
The hotel was about a 20 minute ride from the airport. The lobby was packed with people who had also missed flights so we had to wait. No surprise there. When we finally got to our rooms, Fika totally freaked out because there were white sheets on the bed. “White sheets are for dead people,” Ulfeta translated to me. While I understood that this fragile young woman had had an exhausting day filled with fear and frustration, not to mention a huge dose of culture shock, I had no patience left for dealing with white bed sheets.
She began to cry and said if she had had any idea what was going to happen, she would not have come. I tried to explain to her that what we had experienced that day was not the norm and that everything should be okay the following morning. She responded that she wouldn’t go any further unless I could give her a 100 percent guarantee that Fadila would be okay. I told Fika that no one could give her that kind of guarantee, but I could give her a 100 percent guarantee that Fadila would die if she did not have the surgery. She just cried and said she wanted to go home. She refused to go downstairs and get something to eat with us. I told her she couldn’t go home because I didn’t have an airline ticket for her to go back home. Then she wanted to call the police!
At this point, I called Mike to let him know that we were not arriving that night. It was the first opportunity I’d had to make a phone call all day as there had been no telephones in the transit areas. Fortunately, the six hour time difference enabled me to reach him before he left for Jacksonville.
“Aren’t you lucky!” he said. “You get to spend the night in Paris!”
“Shut up!” I answered. “Just shut up!”
I gave him a few bits and pieces of the day’s events and told him I’d call back once I knew what Fika was going to do.
I called Janet, in Bosnia, and let her know what was happening. She was able to offer some advice, along with the promise of prayers.
Ulfeta and I left Fika and the baby in the room and went downstairs to the hotel guests’ dining room where they served the free meal that came with the room. My last experience with French cuisine left something to be desired but this one left me with an upset stomach. The fish tasted like it was left over from last year’s Lent, but it was cold.
When we got back to the room, Fika was asleep on the floor, next to the baby. I called Mike back and told him more about my day in Paris. I even surprised myself when I discovered particular words coming out of my mouth that had never before been a part of my vocabulary. Being the sweet, caring man that he is, he laughed himself silly.
It was 1:30 in the morning by the time I got to bed, white sheets and all. I only felt half dead.
The next morning, Fika was still afraid to continue on the journey. Nothing seemed to work until I told her that I would arrange to get her back home from Paris but that I would take the baby to Jacksonville myself. At that point, she insisted that she had to go with her child.
It wasn’t until the following day that I learned more of the details concerning Fika’s sister’s child who died sometime after having heart surgery. Fika said “some kind of priest” (not necessarily a Catholic priest) took her infant nephew to Italy for basically the same operation for which Fadila is scheduled. Some time later, Fika’s sister received a letter saying that the baby died some time after the operation while in the care of the “priest” who had taken him to Italy. The family never saw the child, nor that man again. Fika said the same thing happened to a number of children who were taken to Italy for some kind of medical treatment. And here I was, saying I would take the baby to America without her!
Since hearing about this, I haven’t been able to get it out of my mind. When this is all over, I want to try and launch an investigation into this situation. Several explanations come to my mind, some of which are too horrible to entertain. Others make me wonder if these children are still alive. God help me, please.
The events of Tuesday went relatively smoothly. Fadila still had a very difficult time being strapped into the car seat for take-offs and landings and it was heartbreaking to see her stop breathing from crying so hard.
When the flight attendant asked Ulfeta and me if we wanted “chicken or beef”, we both shouted “BEEF!” simultaneously. I told him I didn’t want their chicken, I didn’t need their chicken and I could get all the chicken I wanted at home. He passed the beef and looked at me like I was some kind of a lunatic.
Fika seemed to be afraid that we were never going to come down from the sky. The ten hour flight from Paris to Atlanta was long and tiresome. When we landed in Atlanta and she learned we had one more flight, I thought she was going to pass out.
The flight to Jacksonville was short but, once we got our luggage, Fika balked, remembering that I had told her that her host family, Dick and Maureen Saunders, have a dog. Where she lives, dogs are wild and dangerous. She sat down on the floor of the airport and cried. She wanted to stay at the airport and sleep on the floor until it was time for surgery. We convinced her that the dog would be kept locked up and we made the half hour drive to the Saunders’ home.
By the time we got there, it had been 51 hours since we’d left Medjugorje, we were still in the same clothes and I had serious questions about my sanity. Would my sense of humor ever return?
But, there were colored sheets on Fika’s bed, a port-a-crib set up for Fadila and the dog was behind bars. I kissed that sweet baby on the forehead and Mike and I left to go have dinner which turned out to be a stale hamburger sitting in the car in a Wendy’s parking lot because everything had closed at 10:00 p.m. Oh well. At least the French fries were cold, too.
But of course. They’re French.
A joyful Fadila after her surgery
Fadila’s open heart surgery took place on Tuesday, February 10, 2010 in Jacksonville, Florida.
Her heart is working just as it should. It is still adjusting to the changes brought about by the surgery, but her chest no longer retracts when she breathes and she is doing great!
She will be on medication for the next six months but all is expected to go well.