During taxing and takeoff, Kechi's heart rate went up
alarmingly. George, the paramedic said she was anxious, probably at some sub-conscious
level remembering the crash. Every time she looked as if she was waking up, she
was sedated.
I slept for the first two or three hours, waking
up as we were about to land in Angola to refuel. When we took off for
Johannesburg, reaction set in for me. I had been strong because of Mike. I had
to let him take strength from me because it was killing him to see his precious
princess suffer.
Suddenly, it all washed over me and for the first
time since the horrific experience, I started to sob. I cried for a long time,
for my daughter, for all those parents I had left behind to bury their kids,
for the children that died, I cried in gratitude that I was the recipient of
this grace, I cried until the tears stopped coming. I vaguely remembered George
handing me some tissues and trying to comfort me. After my crying jag, he gave
me some food but I could hardly swallow anything. I was emotionally and
physically spent.
I was awake for the rest of the flight, reading my
bible, praying, and keeping an eye on Kechi, wondering what was in store for
her, for me, for all of us.
I wondered about the other survivors. How many
other kids had made it? Had the ones that had gone to Jesus been in any pain
before they died? How could any of this be possible? Was I in some kind of
cruel dream that would not let me wake up? Could that plane have really
crashed? Was any of this real? Was I really in a plane racing across Africa in
order to save my daughter's life?
To be continued...
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