Posting this again so PTSD can read it.

EVERY NOW AND THEN

Now

"You can see him," a non-descript nurse in scrubs said as she scurried by.

The cement-block wall that was holding me up was cold. As was the nurse. As was the corridor. I made sure to get some air deep into my lungs before I stepped into the recovery room. Sometimes I forget to breathe.

At first glance my husband looked fine. A half-groggy smile of recognition fell across his face when he opened his eyes. "Hi hon," he slurred before he drifted off to sleep again.

"Okay, we're gonna sit you up and get you dressed so you can go home," the non-descript nurse said. Maybe this won't be so bad after all. She slipped an arm behind his back and sat him up.

We'd been at the hospital for three and a half hours now, just long enough for a drive-by shoulder surgery. The doctor told me all had gone well and gave me instructions on what to do once I got him home. "Get him in the chair for a few hours," he'd told me. The chair, a clunky-looking, electronic arm-raising contraption that had been delivered the day before.

"I, ah, I, ca-can't b-b-breathe," my husband stutters to the nurse. My heart flips. I see panic on his ashen white face as he tries to draw a breath. Then another. He is gasping now; the nurse tries to calm him down. "It's just a reaction to the medication," she assures him. I hold my breath and brace myself against the low clang-clang of my warning bell that has begun to ring. I hold my breath as my husband struggles to catch his.

In a flash I am gone.

Then
I sit up lightning fast when my heart stops ticking and starts pounding instead. I hear a loud, rattling gurgle and I know this is not another dream. Alarmed, I scramble out of bed sensing danger. Anxiety twists my stomach tight around my lungs till I stop breathing, then rushes me to my brother's room where I flip on the light. Stephen's chest is heaving. Up and up it rises as he tries to draw an impossible breath.

Now
"Are you in pain?" the nurse asks and I am back. I check to make sure my feet are firmly on the ground. "I'm going to get him a blanket and something for the pain," she says and disappears. Through his chattering teeth and blue lips he tries to spit out words and draw in some air. "I, ah, uh, I" get blended together with whirs, beeps and whooshes of machinery.

I reach out to rub his arm, stroke his forehead, anything to try and reassure him. "It's okay, hon," I say unconvincingly as my whole body shakes. When the skin on my fingertips makes contact with his I pull my hand away so fast that I'm startled. He's so damn cold.

The nurse is back with the anesthesiologist who calls my husband buddy and reminds him he is having a reaction to the medication. "Remember we talked about it? Remember I told you it might seem like you can't breathe?" My gasping, gurgling husband can barely nod. The nurse puts the pill on his tongue and holds the plastic cup full of water to his lips. "Swallow," she gently persuades him. He is asleep in minutes. I am shaken to the core.

Then
A burnt bottle cap and a hypodermic needle are on his night-stand. "Stephen?" No response. I see his lips are purple. "Oh my God, Stephen!" I move in slow motion and touch his cold, clammy arm then jerk my hand back with fright. I have touched the dead.

With rubbery legs I fall into Brian and David's room, trying not to panic.

"Brian wake up, there's something wrong with Stephen. ******* it Brian!

WAKE UP!" But he's high on heroin and doesn't react right away. "David!

GET UP! There's something wrong with Stephen." David opens his eyes and hears the gurgle. He rushes into Stephen's room, takes one look and slaps him across the face. Hard. I turn my face to the wall and try to escape by pushing into it with all my might.

Now
When hubby wakes, he is wobbly but breathing without trouble. I am nervous to take him home so soon. I have not regrouped yet from the breathing mishap and I am not a medical professional. My danger alarm is still ringing as I get him in the car. And pull away with instructions to call if I have any questions. I drive real slow, afraid that a bump will hurt him. I don't want to hurt him.

"I'm not feeling so well," he tells me in the middle of a busy intersection.

"Do you need me to pull over?" I ask, thinking he might need to throw up.

When he doesn't answer I look over and find he is slumped forward in the seat. "Hon?" He's passed out. My heart is pounding yet I am still thinking clearly. I am in crisis mode, my hands are trembling, yet I signal safely and turn. I don't know what to do. I'll call 911. I'll ask someone for help. Oh please don't let him die.

Then
I don't know what to do, where to go, how to help. I want to wake my mother up but don't want her to see this. Brian is up now, sitting on Stephen's chest. Slap - Slap - "Stephen, wake up" Slap - Slap. I don't understand why they're hurting him. Please oh - please don't slap the dying.

Now
"I really think I need to go home," hubby says when he opens his eyes and sees we're in a parking lot. I try to sound calm when I answer but my fingers gripping the steering wheel have cut off all circulation and now I'm the one who feels like passing out.

Home sweet home and he's feeling better. He looks like hell. I get him into the chair to start his exercises. The slow mechanical arm lifts his and within seconds he's feeling ill. "I don't feel so good. I think I'm gonna throw up." But before I can even grab the bucket, he passes out.

Then
"I’m going downstairs to get Ma." Hysteria pulses through my veins and catches in my throat.

"No! Don't wake her up! And no cops," Brian warns.

"Get a bucket of water! Now!" David snaps, but I see his eyes are pleading.

Off I go down the curved wooden staircase, putting extra lead in my feet in hopes of waking my mother, who sleeps on the sofa since Dad died. I clang pots and pans around, find a large bowl and fill it with cold water. I’m trying to hurry when I hear her voice come from the darkness in the living room.

"What is it? What’s wrong?" I hear panic in those simple words.

"Something's wrong with Stephen. He can't breathe and he's turning blue," I sputter, relieved she's awake but so damn sad this is all happening.

Now
"Oh my God! Hon!" The panic has taken over when I see he has bitten down on his tongue. His eyes are open and rolled back in his head. I try to open his mouth. Try to pry open that clamped jaw so he doesn't choke to death on his vomit. Choke on his vomit and die like my brother. A voice yells, screams at me. Open his mouth so he won't die! But I can't. He's going to die and I can't save him. Slap-slap-slap. "******* it, wake up!" I command. Slap-slap.

Then
It's utter chaos now, slapping, screaming, splashing. I think I’ll burst with fear. My mother yells at David, "Hurry up and call an ambulance!" As he runs to the phone she adds, "And tell them not to use the siren!" Guilt and shame make her say that. She doesn't want the neighbors to know the house reeks of addicts.

Both the police and medics are here, shouting their tough guy orders. The commotion and confusion are too much for me to take, so I drift down the hall to my parent's vacant bedroom. I rest my head on the cool window and watch the raindrops flicker, red - white - red - white - red - white. As the ambulance drives away into the pre- dawn hours, I fog up the glass with my living breath and write with a shaky finger.

Please don't die.

Now
"Hi Hon," my husband says and smiles. "What's wrong?"
"Nothing," I smile. It's just that every now and then I fall apart.

Copyright © 2006 SJN

[PTSD]

OMG, Orange_Blossom, I am so sorry for all you've been through...now I am shaking and cold and pale as a dead person. Thank you so much for sharing this with me. I don't know what to say. The only thing I can say is that I lost my baby sister to drugs too...she was only 14. If you want to hear more about it, let me know, and I will either PM you or if you want I could try to share it on the board...although is kind of hard for me to talk about it.

Thanks for sharing

Do you think your hubby would "get" the connection of how triggers work if he read it? It all clicked into place for mine when he read it. It opened up my sister-in-law's eyes too. It was the sole purpose of me writing it in the first place.



I'm soooo sorry to hear about your sister. So tragic. So very young.

I'm also sorry if I upset you. I should have warned you that it was deep. I also see I forgot to put the trigger icon on it. I'll see if I can fix that.

If it's hard for you to share your story -- don't. I really, really mean that. It can be very unsettling to put your stuff in print, or as I said to a friend just recently, it's as if it's etched in stone." I strongly advise against it unless you are sure you are ready.

It truly can feel like you're standing naked in front of thousands of people.

Take your time.

[PTSD]

Hi Orange, thank you for your kind words. To answer to your first question: I don't know if my hubby would understand...maybe yes, or maybe not. He's a wonderful man, but he doesn't like to see me in this condition...he keeps saying that I am strong and that it should be easy to surpass this disorder.
The answer to your second issue:
I wish I could write as good as you do...even though I am almost done with my English Masters, I don't think I could write as good as you do. I would love to be able to write the story of my baby sister the way you did with yours, but it is not going to happen. Not too many people know the real reason why my baby sister died...my parents try to cover their ******* by saying that it was Hepatitis B, when that is only a small part of the reason why she passed away. They didn't know how to take care of her, and I wasn't there to take care of her...she used to come to my house only during the weekends, but I wasn't there for her when she needed me...I wish I were....maybe I could've saved her life...we used to be so closed to each other...

P, (my new nickname for you.)

It's not about how well you write your story, it's about telling your story. You don't have to share it with another living soul if you don't want to, but there is healing in writing. We need to tell our stories until they're told and they don't hold as much power over us anymore.

As far as your hubby goes, ask him to read this article.

http://www.giftfromwithin.org/html/partners.html

About your sister. I hope you can find peace in the fact that she was the only one who could save herself.

Trust me on that one.

[PTSD]

O (my new nickname for you)

Well, what can I say...I would like to trust you on that my sister

was the only one who could save herself

, but I don't know if I am ready to do that...she would've been 25 years old now...oh, well....I will try to write her story...but it might take me a while...it's too painful, especially that I haven't told anyone about the whole and true story of her death (well, except my hubby....he knows because he was there).
I will also, try to make my hubby read the article you sent me...see if I can succeed with this task...
Thank you for everything!

[phoenix7]

Then - - my heart breaks...

Now - phew! Glad H was ok

I could've sworn I answered these posts.

Now that I see I have not, I would like to now thank the two P's (I know, I crack myself up) for reading, responding and supporting.

[PTSD]

Originally Posted by Orange_Blossom

I could've sworn I answered these posts.

Now that I see I have not, I would like to now thank the two P's (I know, I crack myself up) for reading, responding and supporting.

@ O...you're welcome! You're such a wonderful friend...thank you for your support and kindness.

[phoenix7]

hmmmm 2 peas in a pod ay... well we both have ptsd so I guess youre right!

I want in.

[PTSD]

Originally Posted by phoenix7

hmmmm 2 peas in a pod ay... well we both have ptsd so I guess youre right!

You're so funny P...and you're right...we're 2 peas in a pod and we both have PTSD....we'll have to thank O for the nickname....! How are you today P?

btw....Happy Mother's Day!

[PTSD]

Originally Posted by Orange_Blossom

I want in.

LOL ....You just made my day with this picture O! I like it a lot! Where do you want to come?.......How are you doing today? Did you get your beauty sleep?

Happy Mother's Day!

((((( Orange)))))

Yes, I rested my weary petals.

[phoenix7]

I'm the one with the book ok!!!! I loooove that pic O - glad your petals are rested - now you can stretch and turn your face to the sun

P - hope you are well too

hey put us together and we spell POP!

If we add my friend oksomaybeimnuts, we'd spell poop!

[phoenix7]

EEK!

[PTSD]

Originally Posted by Orange_Blossom

If we add my friend oksomaybeimnuts, we'd spell poop!

LOL O...and P....you two are so cute....you made my day...It's so funny...thank you for being here....and I am so glad that you both are well...hugs!

btw...how are you today? both of you....P and O!

[phoenix7]

triggery

[PTSD]

Originally Posted by phoenix7

triggery

Hi there my dear and sweet friend P!
I am so sorry to hear that you're triggery today! What can I do to make you feel better...just tell me and I'll do it...I feel like a genie in a bottle right now...so you have to help me to help you.... Please feel free to PM me if you feel like you want to talk to somebody...I really am here for whomever needs me.

Hugs

Take care

Originally Posted by Orange_Blossom

I want in.

room for me in there ? Ill just be sleeping thou ok......

Two P's, an O and a sheep in a pod? Sure! Of course there's room.

Originally Posted by Orange_Blossom

Two P's, an O and a sheep in a pod? Sure! Of course there's room.

(((ty))(((orange)))) I promise to sleep

[PTSD]

Originally Posted by Orange_Blossom

Good morning Sunshine! How are you doing today O? What's new with you? Please don't be a stranger...let me know...I would love to hear from you!