Hi Everyone!
I am reaching out today in hopes of finding some answers to the symptoms I am experiencing. Thank you, in advance, for taking the time to read this and to any who respond. It's a long story, and I apologize for that. I will try to stay on point...but I'm not very good at that :-)
The period from January, 2003 through 2004 was NOT a good time for me. We lost our home in a fire, my husband lost his job, and my mother had a stroke. But over time, we rebuilt our home, Hubby found a new job and Mom was recovering nicely. I still suffered occasional flashbacks of the house fire, reacted strongly to the smell of wood smoke, the kind of things you would expect, but the worst seemed behind us. Smooth sailing, right?
Then the unthinkable happened; my previously healthy 42-year-old husband was struck with a mysterious and terrifying illness. He was driving to the airport for a business trip and began experiencing symptoms that mimicked a stroke. Frightened by the numbness, tingling and visual disturbances, he did the smart thing, pulled over and called an ambulance. The 911 operator kept him on the line until the EMTs arrived, so he was not able to call me. By the time he arrived at the hospital, he was suffering severe confusion and aphasia, unable to even tell the doctors his name.
The ringing of the phone interrupted my quiet, sunny afternoon at home. The conversation went something like this:
"Hello, this is (insert name of guy I can't remember) at (insert name of hospital.) We have your husband here in the emergency room ."
"Oh my God! Was he in an accident? Is he ok?"
"We don't know. His blood pressure and heart rate are elevated, his potassium levels are low and he isn't really making any sense. Is there anything in his medical history we should know?"
"No, not at all. He doesn't have any medical conditions, he's not on any medications and he hasn't mentioned any problems at all. Can I speak to him?"
"The doctors are with him right now. I think it's just best if you come."
My daughter drove me to the hospital seventy five miles away; it might as well have been in Siberia. For almost two seemingly endless hours I cried and prayed. I, too, feared he had suffered a stroke; hoped for the best but feared the worst. And in the back of my mind was the unbearable thought: 'What if I don't get there in time? What if he dies alone in a hospital emergency room and I'm not there?' The sense of helplessness was overwhelming; I had never felt such fear in my entire life.
To make a long story at least a little shorter, he was experiencing his first-ever complex migraine. The ultimate diagnosis and effective treatments, however, came only after weeks of emergency room visits, tests, procedures, specialists and medications, punctuated by periods of excruciating pain, nausea and fear. I immersed myself in research, learning the signs and symptoms of virtually every illness known to man. I dealt with his employer, his doctors, the hospitals, the insurance company. I kept logs charting the time of onset of symptoms, temperature, humidity, anything he ate or drank, pain levels, duration...well, you get the point. All the while playing nurse-to the best of my ability-to a frightened, miserable, and yes, whiny and difficult man who had previously been strong, confident and robust. While also caring for the house, the kids, the dogs... In short, I was Super Woman :-)
The treatments worked. My husband recovered and returned to work, seemingly never looking back. Again, smooth sailing, right? Yeah, I thought so, too.
Yet I continued to experience some signs of stress. I was mildly depressed, although I couldn't really pinpoint a "why". I was anxious, overcome by feelings of dread, again, without being able to say why. I became obsessed with my husband's health, paying attention to his diet, exercise, bowel and bladder habits. (Yes, I know that's creepy!) If he so much as sneezed, I turned into Dr. House, demanding a complete history of how many times he sneezed, how often, when did it start, what was he doing when it started... I suffered insomnia, would occasionally become disoriented, and avoided being away from home. Not full-blown agoraphobia or anything, just a "preference" (my euphemism) to not go out.
Over time these symptoms lessened, although they never really disappeared. When my husband was sick, which, thank goodness, was rare, I would again find myself spiraling. Having raised five children, I know that a cold is a cold and the flu is the flu and sometimes your tummy hurts for no good reason. Intellectually, I understand that very few of our minor complaints are serious, and those that are can most often be successfully treated or at least managed. And this obsessing never extends to my own health. I have had several conditions and procedures in the past few years, and none have produced any anxiety beyond the normal trepidation one feels when being descended upon by people in white coats brandishing large needles:-)
Which brings me to today. Hubby recently experienced a bout of tummy trouble. His symptoms were mild and responded to treatment, so we both believe it was/is nothing serious. He is scheduled for a colonoscopy, however, just to be cautious, and because we are now at the age when such tests are prudent. (Code for We Are Getting Old!) And I am a wreck. I am again experiencing the anxiety, depression and dread. When I think about him in a hospital gown on a gurney with an IV, I am once again in the car on the way to the hospital, gripped by the same paralyzing fear. My heart races, my head pounds and I feel dizzy. I can't sleep, can't eat, can't catch my breath. I try to block it out of my mind, think about other things, but it seems the harder I try, the worse it is. It's like telling yourself, "Whatever you do, do not scratch your nose!"
The truth is, I don't even want to go with him to the procedure, or even be at home for the prep. And just putting that in writing-even admitting it to myself-makes me feel guilty as hell. As does the way I treat him when he is sick, as though he is intentionally inflicting pain on me. I am so desperate to avoid feeling this way that I actually get angry at him because he has the audacity to have an upset stomach!
Guilty, selfish, embarrassed...you would think those feelings would outweigh the other stuff. That I would suck it up, let go of the panic and the fear and just get over it, right? My husband obviously wants and needs me to care for him when he is sick; he deserves that. And I know he would care for me. (Not as well, but he would try :-) We really are getting older, and there will be more tests, procedures and illnesses. No one wants or deserves to be treated like a criminal because they are sick, and no one wants to feel the way I do right now.
So the reason I posted this thread, and my original question oh-so-long-ago, was, do you think this is PTSD? Is it really possible that that trip to the emergency room all those years ago is at the root of what I am feeling now? I know it was not really a near-death experience, a mass casualty, a natural disaster or anything horrible that happened to me. In fact, it seems trivial given what has happened to other people and the fact that the outcome was just fine. And if it really is PTSD, what is the next step? Do I see my family doctor, or try to find a mental health professional? What is the first step on what I hope can be my journey to stop being what I (lovingly) refer to as a "nut bag"?
For those who made it all the way through this epic, thanks again. I promise to (try to) be more succinct in the future.
Warmest Wishes,
Elaine
I am reaching out today in hopes of finding some answers to the symptoms I am experiencing. Thank you, in advance, for taking the time to read this and to any who respond. It's a long story, and I apologize for that. I will try to stay on point...but I'm not very good at that :-)
The period from January, 2003 through 2004 was NOT a good time for me. We lost our home in a fire, my husband lost his job, and my mother had a stroke. But over time, we rebuilt our home, Hubby found a new job and Mom was recovering nicely. I still suffered occasional flashbacks of the house fire, reacted strongly to the smell of wood smoke, the kind of things you would expect, but the worst seemed behind us. Smooth sailing, right?
Then the unthinkable happened; my previously healthy 42-year-old husband was struck with a mysterious and terrifying illness. He was driving to the airport for a business trip and began experiencing symptoms that mimicked a stroke. Frightened by the numbness, tingling and visual disturbances, he did the smart thing, pulled over and called an ambulance. The 911 operator kept him on the line until the EMTs arrived, so he was not able to call me. By the time he arrived at the hospital, he was suffering severe confusion and aphasia, unable to even tell the doctors his name.
The ringing of the phone interrupted my quiet, sunny afternoon at home. The conversation went something like this:
"Hello, this is (insert name of guy I can't remember) at (insert name of hospital.) We have your husband here in the emergency room ."
"Oh my God! Was he in an accident? Is he ok?"
"We don't know. His blood pressure and heart rate are elevated, his potassium levels are low and he isn't really making any sense. Is there anything in his medical history we should know?"
"No, not at all. He doesn't have any medical conditions, he's not on any medications and he hasn't mentioned any problems at all. Can I speak to him?"
"The doctors are with him right now. I think it's just best if you come."
My daughter drove me to the hospital seventy five miles away; it might as well have been in Siberia. For almost two seemingly endless hours I cried and prayed. I, too, feared he had suffered a stroke; hoped for the best but feared the worst. And in the back of my mind was the unbearable thought: 'What if I don't get there in time? What if he dies alone in a hospital emergency room and I'm not there?' The sense of helplessness was overwhelming; I had never felt such fear in my entire life.
To make a long story at least a little shorter, he was experiencing his first-ever complex migraine. The ultimate diagnosis and effective treatments, however, came only after weeks of emergency room visits, tests, procedures, specialists and medications, punctuated by periods of excruciating pain, nausea and fear. I immersed myself in research, learning the signs and symptoms of virtually every illness known to man. I dealt with his employer, his doctors, the hospitals, the insurance company. I kept logs charting the time of onset of symptoms, temperature, humidity, anything he ate or drank, pain levels, duration...well, you get the point. All the while playing nurse-to the best of my ability-to a frightened, miserable, and yes, whiny and difficult man who had previously been strong, confident and robust. While also caring for the house, the kids, the dogs... In short, I was Super Woman :-)
The treatments worked. My husband recovered and returned to work, seemingly never looking back. Again, smooth sailing, right? Yeah, I thought so, too.
Yet I continued to experience some signs of stress. I was mildly depressed, although I couldn't really pinpoint a "why". I was anxious, overcome by feelings of dread, again, without being able to say why. I became obsessed with my husband's health, paying attention to his diet, exercise, bowel and bladder habits. (Yes, I know that's creepy!) If he so much as sneezed, I turned into Dr. House, demanding a complete history of how many times he sneezed, how often, when did it start, what was he doing when it started... I suffered insomnia, would occasionally become disoriented, and avoided being away from home. Not full-blown agoraphobia or anything, just a "preference" (my euphemism) to not go out.
Over time these symptoms lessened, although they never really disappeared. When my husband was sick, which, thank goodness, was rare, I would again find myself spiraling. Having raised five children, I know that a cold is a cold and the flu is the flu and sometimes your tummy hurts for no good reason. Intellectually, I understand that very few of our minor complaints are serious, and those that are can most often be successfully treated or at least managed. And this obsessing never extends to my own health. I have had several conditions and procedures in the past few years, and none have produced any anxiety beyond the normal trepidation one feels when being descended upon by people in white coats brandishing large needles:-)
Which brings me to today. Hubby recently experienced a bout of tummy trouble. His symptoms were mild and responded to treatment, so we both believe it was/is nothing serious. He is scheduled for a colonoscopy, however, just to be cautious, and because we are now at the age when such tests are prudent. (Code for We Are Getting Old!) And I am a wreck. I am again experiencing the anxiety, depression and dread. When I think about him in a hospital gown on a gurney with an IV, I am once again in the car on the way to the hospital, gripped by the same paralyzing fear. My heart races, my head pounds and I feel dizzy. I can't sleep, can't eat, can't catch my breath. I try to block it out of my mind, think about other things, but it seems the harder I try, the worse it is. It's like telling yourself, "Whatever you do, do not scratch your nose!"
The truth is, I don't even want to go with him to the procedure, or even be at home for the prep. And just putting that in writing-even admitting it to myself-makes me feel guilty as hell. As does the way I treat him when he is sick, as though he is intentionally inflicting pain on me. I am so desperate to avoid feeling this way that I actually get angry at him because he has the audacity to have an upset stomach!
Guilty, selfish, embarrassed...you would think those feelings would outweigh the other stuff. That I would suck it up, let go of the panic and the fear and just get over it, right? My husband obviously wants and needs me to care for him when he is sick; he deserves that. And I know he would care for me. (Not as well, but he would try :-) We really are getting older, and there will be more tests, procedures and illnesses. No one wants or deserves to be treated like a criminal because they are sick, and no one wants to feel the way I do right now.
So the reason I posted this thread, and my original question oh-so-long-ago, was, do you think this is PTSD? Is it really possible that that trip to the emergency room all those years ago is at the root of what I am feeling now? I know it was not really a near-death experience, a mass casualty, a natural disaster or anything horrible that happened to me. In fact, it seems trivial given what has happened to other people and the fact that the outcome was just fine. And if it really is PTSD, what is the next step? Do I see my family doctor, or try to find a mental health professional? What is the first step on what I hope can be my journey to stop being what I (lovingly) refer to as a "nut bag"?
For those who made it all the way through this epic, thanks again. I promise to (try to) be more succinct in the future.
Warmest Wishes,
Elaine
