“Behold, I will bring it health and cure, and I will cure them, and will reveal unto them the abundance of peace and truth.”
‭‭Jeremiah‬ ‭33:6‬ ‭KJV‬‬

A little over five years ago, I sat on a stool in the corner of an emergency room and watched them do CPR on my husband. It went on FOR-EV-ER. Stop. Start. Shock. X-Ray. Start. Stop. Check. Shock. Over and over and over. I sat with my hand clasped over my mouth to keep from screaming. I wrapped my feet intricately around and through the legs of the stool to keep from jumping up and running away. My shoulders slumped…my free hand dug into my thigh so I could feel something other than horror. And all of that…all of the valiant efforts, all of the shouts for more drugs, all of the hustle and bustle and orchestrated chaos could not save him. He died in spite of the best efforts of the Western Slope’s best and brightest. He died. And I could do nothing to stop it.

I ran away in my camper for three months. I busied myself. I “dated” a guy which turned out to be more about putting a tourniquet around my bleeding heart than it did about “love”. It had nothing to do with love. It had everything to do with escape. Then, one sunny afternoon at a fair in the park, a gentleman standing nearby choked. Like, Heimlich Maneuver choked. And I was frozen. Instead of jumping in as I had been trained to do…as I was certified to do…a movie started playing in my head as I stood in the park. Suddenly, I was back in the ER, sitting on the stool, watching them do CPR on my husband. It went on FOR-EV-ER. I mean, I KNEW I was in the park. So why was I “seeing” this rerun?

The rerun scared the crap out of me. And, I immediately associated it with a medical emergency…both my husband’s heart attack and the gentleman choking on chicken. I began to dread what might happen if there was a real emergency and I couldn’t step up to the plate. I avoided being in situations where someone could get hurt or sick or…God forbid…NEED me. I suffered wave after wave…not only of grief, but also anxiety. To the point of vomiting uncontrollably for hours. Simply put, I was a mess.

I went to see my doctor and asked her if she could recommend a grief counselor. And when I first talked with her, she said, “Ginny, I think you have PTSD.” She told me she wanted to do something called EMDR on me. Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing. It is THE most accepted PTSD treatment. Normally, when we experience a disturbing event, our brains process it and file it away neatly in it’s appropriate folder in our memory bank and life goes on. But, when the event is associated with trauma…like watching prolonged CPR…something happens in the filing process and the memory gets stuck. It is like a video playing on a continuous loop…over and over and over. The thought becomes intrusive…meaning, unbidden. Uncontrollable. It creates fear. And it is terribly distressing.

After the first EMDR treatment, the improvement was extraordinary. It’s non-invasive and is accomplished so simply. You sit in a comfortable chair, You conjure up the image that is giving you the most trouble…no matter how painful it is. You hang onto that thought while watching the practitioner move her finger back and forth, back and forth, back and forth across your field of vision. You follow her finger with your eyes. The rapid eye movement actually reprograms your brain. It can make the memory fade. It can change it into something else. It can process it and let it go into the file with all the other memories. And it can release you from the pain of seeing it over and over and over.

I really did well. My anxiety level was lower. I had few, if any, real panic attacks. I still dealt with grief waves, but not the horrifying repetitious movie starring CPR. Then, about a year and a half ago, I started having episodes of anxiety again. About once a week or so, I would spend the night sick as a dog. I couldn’t keep anything down. I began to dread going places. I began to fear medical situations again. What began slowly, started cranking up more and more and with every insult to my central nervous system, it got worse. Surgery cranked it up. The episode with my aunt with dementia cranked it up. Flying cranked it up. Being away from Mr. FixIt cranked it up. I texted my grief counselor, Karen, and told her I thought I needed an EMDR tuneup so we scheduled it to coincide with my trip this week to visit my brother.

As I caught up with her yesterday, I told her about Mr. FixIt and how happy we are. We talked about all the really good, positive changes that have come into my life. Then she asked what happened a year and a half ago that started the cycle again. I told her about the car accident. She asked what it was about that that triggered me and I surprised myself by bursting into tears. I sobbed and covered my face.

“I thought I killed her!” I cried.

“Who?”

“The young girl in the backseat! Her head was lolled over, her face was bloodied. Her mama cradled her head in her hands and begged her to wake up. The man who was driving ran at me screaming, “You killed her! She was supposed to turn 17 this week!!!””

I sobbed and Karen put her hand on my knee.

“Oh, Ginny…that had to be terrifying.” She comforted me with her soft, caring voice. “I think that’s it. I think that is what has prodded your PTSD awake.”

Just like grief, you don’t get “cured” of PTSD. It can raise it’s ugly head just like unexpected waves of grief can overtake you at any given moment.

We did a session of EMDR. We repeated it eight times or so. With each subsequent series of back and forth movements, it felt as though someone were turning down the volume knob like a radio in my brain. The first series resulted in me feeling immediately calmer. The second made me feel like I had taken a step back and I wasn’t sitting in the driver’s seat of the truck. I was in the back seat. The third set had me standing behind the truck. The fourth set had me even further behind the truck…like zooming out on a long camera lens. I was surprised by the fifth set. I had a flash of the young girl going to prom. The implication being…she was fine and healthy. Each subsequent set of movement took me further and further into this relaxed, soft, safe place. It is remarkable something so simple can have such a huge impact.

I had not cried about the accident up to that point. I had not processed, or even acknowledged, the trauma of thinking I had killed someone. Of being verbally and physically challenged by the other driver. And we all know that unprocessed trauma, like unprocessed grief…festers. It does not serve us to grit our teeth and white-knuckle our way through these episodes. From now on I will be proactive and get the help I need instead of trying to handle it on my own. I can’t tell you how much better I feel. When I got home from the mountains yesterday, my son-in-law’s dad made the observation that even my voice was different…relaxed, easy, slower. There is no shame in admitting you need help to work through something. We women think we are supposed to have it all together. I told a friend the other day that I just want to be normal. She smiled and said, “Sweetie, you ARE normal. Everybody has something they have to deal with. What you want is perfection!’ Ahhhh…she knows me well.

None of us are perfect. Ask for help if you need it. Don’t try to just get by with a stiff upper lip. Just “getting though it” is no way to live. ❤