I'm writing this in order to shed some light on a topic about which is rarely spoken. I have to say, I hesitated in publishing this on my blog because I feared that there would be those who would judge me harshly for opening up my heart and exposing it to whomever wished to read it. However, I have a reason that emboldens me to publish it anyway: I would like to give opportunity to those of you who do not suffer in this way to be able to have more insight and understanding about this, and my hope is that with that insight will come compassion for those of us who have gone through this kind of trauma. I know I'm not the only one, but I do not presume to speak on behalf of anyone other than myself. I speak based on only my own experiences; I'm a mom with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder.
I wasn't always weak in this way. I used to be able to handle many hard things. I used to be able to handle stressful situations with ease. Things are different now... I am different.
There's a certain level of anxiety that I believe is normal for any parent to experience before, during and after their child undergoes a surgery. I was that parent once, so I remember what that level of anxiety feels like. I believe, however, that it is extremely more difficult for a parent with P.T.S.D. to manage the stress and anxiety they experience during this time.
In the weeks leading up to the surgery that my fourth-born, Troy, would need to undergo, I tried my best to turn my anxiety over to Jesus through prayer. I was concerned... concerned that all of the things in the hospital would trigger flash-backs to when my first child, Theo, was in the hospital. I knew that it would be difficult to be "present" for Troy if that were to happen. I was anxious about that, and I was anxious about he, himself, being cut open and sewn back up again. I was nervous about the recovery, and dared to hope that everything would go well this time. But then I would find my mind wandering off, wandering back in time, to when we'd faced having to watch Theo go through surgery nearly 10 years prior. I would think about how little he was at only 4 weeks old, and I would then remind myself that Troy was big and healthy and was 4 years old. As fear attempted again and again to grip my heart and mind, I would fight it reminding myself (out loud at times), "Troy is big and healthy... and he is not going in for open-heart surgery." This became my mantra. It helped.
When you've been through this battle before... and lost... everything is familiar to your emotions. The all-too-familiar pre-op conversations with the surgical team: The surgeon warns you what is about to happen, what may go wrong and the unlikelihood of that happening. The introduction of the anesthesiologist is made, and he explains what to expect, and some warnings about unlikely but possible side effects are communicated to you. Then the pre-op meeting with the O.R. nurse is next, and he explains from his perspective what to expect. The "unlikely" things that they are obligated to tell us about become all you hear, because last time it was the unlikely things that the surgeon had warned us about that had actually ended up happening. It's difficult --more like a major fight-- to stay "present" for your child that is still living and is about to go into surgery, when everything around you reminds you of the last time you were in this situation so many years ago. To not lose all control of emotions, and to not become paralyzed with fear that history will repeat itself (no matter how illogical or irrational) is a HUGE battle.
That moment though, the moment we said "goodbye" as Troy was being wheeled away to the operating room, I knew how to appear strong in front of him, because I'd experienced appearing strong for a child of mine before. I knew how to say goodbye, and I hugged and kissed him. Not knowing if I was lying to him, I spoke the words, telling him he was going to go take a nap, but that we'd see him when he woke up. We (my husband and I) knew how to say that. While fear attempted to grab at us again and remind us that we might be saying goodbye for longer, we stayed strong at least until he was far enough away that he could no longer see us or hear us. Then the tears overpowered what little resistance remained in me, and knowing that I no longer needed to appear strong, I gave in to them.
I have no memory of what physically happened between that moment and the moment we were eight floors down in line at the Starbucks located in the hospital lobby. Weakened, my mind had finally succumbed to the flash-backs, and I began to relive the horribly tragic and gut-wrenching loss we'd been through when we lost our first son, Theo. He hadn't survived recovery from his surgery. The beeping of the machines, the smells of the hospital, the nurses in scrubs, everything triggered flash-backs. And they came like a flood. I relived his birth, where I should have died but didn't. I relived the washing of my hands every time I'd entered the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit. All the many, many hours, day after day, I spent holding him listening to the tiny sounds he'd occasionally make, changing and weighing his diapers, and watching the monitor that told of his heart-rate, oxygen levels, etc.. I relived holding him in my arms, and the way he sucked on my pinky finger so strongly for an entire forty-five minutes that morning before being wheeled away by his surgical team. The snicker-doodle cookies made for me by my mother-in-law were delicious, but I couldn't eat them because my stomach was tied in knots. I relived the surgeon telling us that the open-heart surgery had gone well, and that the repair on the two very large holes in his heart was now completed... the relief that we felt upon hearing the good news... wondering how long his recovery would be; we wondered when he would be well enough to finally bring home. I relived looking at him after his open heart surgery. The gigantic slit down the front of Theo's chest, the puffiness where the skin had been stitched closed. I relived the moment when a week later his doctors began to hint at the fact that we may need to prepare ourselves to let him go and take him off of life-support. And, yes, I relived the moment our parents surrounded Theo with us as I held him... and our dads had prayed over him... and we all shed more tears together... and... the moment the machines were turned off, the moment we gave him direction and permission to go be with Jesus, and the moment his heart ceased beating. In my mind, I relived it all. I relived all six weeks of Theo's life in the time it took to get from the waiting room on the eighth floor to standing in line at the Starbucks on the first floor.
It may take awhile, but when you realize you'd made it to the point when your son was being wheeled away before the flash-backs had begun, you feel so thankful... because you know you were really able to be "there" for your child. Just to be "there" for your child in these circumstances, these surroundings, and in this situation, is a major victory.
These are the things that I imagine seeming invisible from the outsider's perspective, but are huge tumultuous mental battles (and triumphs) for parents like me. These are the things for which I give thanks. I give thanks that I experienced for the first time in my life (on Tuesday, September 16th, 2014) getting to see a child of mine actually wake up from a surgery. What a glorious moment (and quite frankly, a surprise) that was! I don't know what I was expecting, but inside I was preparing for a much longer wait, and the possibility that he wouldn't wake up at all was definitely in the recesses of my mind. To see a child of mine wake up after surgery was new and wonderful, and at that moment my heart felt relieved from the constricted painful weight it had been enduring up until that point. I also experienced that day getting to take a child of mine home from the hospital after a surgery. To say that these things were "big deals" doesn't even begin to describe it.
The collapse after getting home comes because of mental and emotional exhaustion. It comes because of the relief of having gotten through it. You'd prepared for the worst, braced yourself all day long for the worst, and fought the fear, fought the memories, fought through prayer for the well-being of your child, and fought to say "not my will but Yours be done" once again. And relief comes that you did not have to relive, repeat, and endure the past all over again. This is why the "collapse" happens, and although you're able to go about the motions, it takes days to recover mentally from it.
This is why prayers are necessary and so important for parents like me. This is why parents like me ask for prayer and are so grateful to be bathed in them during these kinds of situations. I believe we are strengthened and able to endure because of them.
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