I Went to the Mat

There are dark days. I doubt myself, second-guess decisions, believe everyone would be better at managing the things that were dealt specifically to me. There are so many different feelings now that time has passed and nobody understands; the suffering is incredibly lonely.

But sometimes, when the light is perfectly right as the day is drawing to a close, I know that I did my best. Even though I stumble, I continue to do my best – for our children, for me, and I remember that I did for you, too.

I went to the mat for you.

I raised my voice and demanded attention.

I sought the best help that I could find when I realized it was all on me, no longer in your hands but completely in mine.

In the moments it mattered most, I was decisive when all eyes were on me to make the call.

I never gave up.

Even when I was tired and needed to step out, to attend to the other people who need me.

Even when I sought mental escape.

Because I did nearly break and need a minute, from time to time.

Of course I did. Because I am just one person, one human being, I needed to breathe for a minute.

I still went to the mat for you, for the best ending you could experience, for the least trauma for all of us.

I knew then that my best was not going to result in you being able to stay one minute longer than biology would allow. I know now that the pain of separation seeks blame, any deflection from a direct hit, so hating myself for everything is normal. I can’t blame myself for what happened, and I really don’t. In the same way, I’m working hard to not blame myself for the now. It simply is.

I am doing my best.

I am going to the mat for our children, for me. So we might be able to fully live with moments of joy.

Please. Help me believe these words.

 

 

Trauma

 What is trauma? What differentiates a traumatic experience from a difficult one?

One might experience something difficult as being caught in a very bad storm, frightened by nearby lightning and soaked to the skin. After darting into a shelter to wait it out, one might feel relief while toweling off the water. That was hard and unfortunate, but now it’s over. One might even learn important lessons from a difficult experience that positively influence future choices. But still, the damage can be repaired.

Unlike a difficult experience, trauma cannot be wiped away cleanly. Instead, trauma permeates the skin, steeps into bones, dissolves in blood and circulates through all the vessels, big and small, dissipating relentlessly into every last nook and mysterious cranny of the body. Trauma settles into all of the dark and mysterious hiding places: it swells to fill the pockets of joints, adheres to the ropey surface of ligaments, intricately weaves into the delicate spiderweb of nerve filaments. Trauma lies in wait, always at the ready to rush back to the bloodstream and flood the brain.

At the slightest trigger, the legacy of trauma is activated. Going far beyond memory, trauma unleashes an assault on the senses:

An unstable wobble in the stomach, the acrid taste of bile rising in the back of the throat, the heart racing at breakneck speed with the thudding of impending doom.

Your partner seizing in car, seizing again and again in the familiar red chair. The intensity as he silently held you in his gaze for the last time.

The sounds. The many, many sounds. Sirens, code announcements over a loudspeaker, urgent phone calls with dire news and split-second decisions required, grunts of human suffering and cries of anguish.

Trauma is a full-body, repetitive experience.

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I didn’t realize that I was traumatized for a long time. However, my dread of phone calls, fear of mail from health insurance companies and the government, and the indescribable dread that the other shoe is juuuust about to drop is not characteristic of the typical 40-something person.

It’s watching TV and hearing the sound of an IV alarm in the background of the show, then being right back in the ER, devoid of the happy ending that the program will inevitably feature.

Yes, the endless alarms of the hospital characterize trauma for me. The rhythmic, annoying beep-beep that might simply mean an IV drip has completed or a sensor was disconnected, or more sinisterly indicate depressed or elevated vital signs. The sound is dissonant, unpleasant, distressing; like someone is leaning on three adjacent keys of a synthesizer over and over and over. Two short off-key signals, then a longer pause.

Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.     Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.     

 

The patient is powerless to silence the alarm. The family cannot stop it, either. It might be nothing, but it just as well could mean the end has come.

Enh-enh.     Dan-ger.     Enh-enh.      End-time.     Enh-enh.     

It is impossible to relax or sleep in a hospital when that alarm is constantly going off.

Enh-enh.     Dan-ger.     Enh-enh.      End-time.     Enh-enh.     

Still, these years later, it wakes me up from a dead sleep sometimes.

Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.     Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.      Enh-enh.      

The alarm insists that bad things happened, are happening, will continue to happen.

 

Enh-enh.     Enh-enh…

 

Everyone I love has died or will die.

 

End-times.         End-times.         End-times.         End-times.         End-times.

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This is trauma.