Medical Trauma, PTSD, Irrational Fears and Insomnia.
It’s been two and a half years now since I fought my way through what was, hands down, the scariest ordeal of my life. Though honestly, in many ways, it may as well have happened yesterday- or even still be happening right now as I lie here in the dark.
In February of 2020 I went in for a sub -total colectomy, as a stoma advocate I was fully intending to document my journey through surgery and recovery. However, what ended up happening was a snowball of events that ultimately lead to me abandoning my blog as I fought for my life. Though I’ve attempted to return to it before now, I’ve just not been able to talk about things. I still don’t know if I’ll be able to. The only reason I’m trying tonight is because my counsellor seemed to indicate writing would help and I’m more desperate for sleep than you can believe.
Still though, I am not ready to delve into everything. But, for context it’s important to say that a doctor made a mistake that ultimately lead to me having sepsis and a whost of other complications in the months running up to the discovery of the problem. I came very close to death and found myself repeatedly put in hospital; where I felt I was crying out for help, only to be dismissed, belittled and left to worsen by countless doctors.
I suffered months and months of pain, fear and trauma – all at the very height at the Covid pandemic when families were unable to visit during my repeated stays in hospital.
I had thought I was coping OK. Yes, sleep was difficult, as I had recurrent nightmares and flashbacks – but on the average day I was able to put on a smile and hide how close to the wire I really felt when it came to emotions of unrest over what I’d been through. Until, at the beginning of this summer, it was decided I needed another surgery.
When I tell you I almost had a nervous breakdown over the idea of putting my life in the hands of a physician and hospital again, I’m not over exaggerating. The panic attacks which had become periods of breathlessness where I had time to safely react to them, blew up to episodes where I fully flaked out – many times. This of course wasn’t helped by the fact that I have POTS and the stress and hyperventilating was triggering my symptoms massively.
I would snap and snarl, or break down and cry. Other times I would be completely zoned out, unhearing of the world around me.
I attempted to continue on; but the last straw was when I began to become so fearful of the pain of recovery and surgical complications I secretly wished to not wake from the operation. These were some of my darkest hours. Dreading dying and living with equal fervor and honestly not knowing which would be worse for my family. By now my simmering undercurrent of feeling like a burden, something many disabled spouses/ parents struggle with, had become a raging torrent, not to be brought under control again.
I felt the fear was ripping me in two. At night, as I tried to sleep, I’d hear the voices from the nurses of the ward rousing me as if to perform painful procedures. When I slept my dreams would twist between this surgery and parts of what happened before that my mind had previously blocked out for my own sanity – I have huge blanks in my memory from that time. I feared lying awake in the dark, tripping over terrible memories that would rise like spectres from the grave to haunt me as much as falling asleep to terrible nightmares of a horrific future of catastrophic complications in my nightmares.
Suddenly, I was further overcome by an all encompassing terror that I wouldn’t survive the surgery and nobody could convince me otherwise.
Having escaped death so many times over the storage of the year in 2020, and holding the underlying feeling I simply wasn’t strong enough anymore to push through a fight should I need to – death seemed the logical outcome.
After all, I was, and will forever be, a high risk case. I’m also now at high risk of getting blood clots, since my body formed several during the hell that was 2020. Then, there was the fact that I had tempted fate. Despite all the times I chanted in my head I didn’t mean it, prayed to anyone who would listen that I was desperate to live and I wouldn’t let anyone near me say ANYTHING remotely about me dying, I was positive I was doomed.
I couldn’t stand to watch the news or stories on social media about people dying or having bad luck, anything remotely unsettling and I couldn’t have it around me. I still can’t. I’m either triggered and end up in tears, blubbering about how that could have been me. Or my skin crawls and I get this awful feeling I’m drawing bad karma to me by watching the problems of others.
Its nonsense. I’m an intelligent woman, I hear myself say these things and I know they’re nonsense. But I can’t help becoming irrationally upset and crying or hyperventilating. I feel so stupid.
Luckily, I did manage to get in with an amazing counsellor over the phone. She approached counselling in a way I’ve never been spoken to before and we had much more conversational sessions than I’ve ever known. She made me feel heard and understood. But there was only time for six sessions before I had to head for the chopping block and now I’ll need re referring if I want anymore.
I’m so grateful to her though, she honestly stopped me falling into an abyss unlike I’ve ever known. I was circling the rim of something I can’t even now fathom, my mind going in more directions than I could cope with at the time. She and I captured my fluttering thoughts and helped me stay tethered long enough to get through surgery and hospitalisation.
So, now I’m home. There were complications again this time. I had infections, but my surgeon was not to blame – it was the scarring that was caused by the sepsis that made the surgical field difficult to navigate. I believe him. He’s the one doctor I trust.
But, its all trauma on trauma on trauma. The infections were the least of my worries during my stay and subsequent healing.
Hospitals are so understaffed, I don’t think many patients come out without a traumatic experience these days.
Mine is all one layered on another on another. All giving more ammunition to my demons.
Which leads me to now.. lying here, in my bed, desperate to sleep. I know in my logical mind it’s all over. But everything else in my body is crying out to stay on alert. Not to sleep, because that’s where the nightmares lie. Because when I rest, there’s a chance I’ll wake up sicker than when I dropped off – like I often did in the hospital. Because, no matter the position I sleep in, remaining still any length of hours caused my scarring to seize up, my bladder to fill and my abdomen to scream in pain. So best to sleep as little as possible.
But mostly because no matter how hard I try, I still can’t shake the feeling that death is stalking me. I’ve foiled him too many times and if I sleep too deep, will I ever wake up?
This little life of mine. 
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