Medical PTSD

Disclaimer/Trigger Warning: I debated for a while whether I should post this as it is a bit raw, but I feel it’s important to share every aspect of living with this disease. Please feel free to skip this post if you’d rather not read it.

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“You’re being admitted.”

Those words have been spoken so many times to so many people. No one likes being in the hospital and it can be a frightening experience. But what about when you’re being told it for the third, fourth, fifth, eight, tenth time? Time seems to stop, and your stomach feels like it’s just dropped out. And then the negative thoughts about never getting better start up all over again. And your brain is there reminding you of all the previous times you’ve been in this exact situation. And you know the doctors and nurses are just trying to help you feel better but you can’t help but feel some minor resentment towards them and you can’t take it so you burst into tears, just wishing you could wake up from this nightmare!

That’s medical PTSD.

Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder is real and can happen to anyone. It should be talked about and acknowledged, regardless of your experience. And for a lot of chronically ill people, it centres on their condition/s.

My trauma stems from having been admitted to hospital ten times in just under four years and from having tried seven different medication, none of which worked to get me into remission. It comes from having had four surgeries in three years, two of which were emergencies to save my life.

Despite the nurses being incredible and amazing, despite the doctor’s efforts to help me, I still fear going into hospital because I know what happens when I do. IV fluids are the first thing to go up, usually followed by either antibiotics or steroids. This is to stabilise me whilst they decide the next cause of action. They do x-rays and CT scans to make sure I’m not obstructed and that my bowel hasn’t twisted as both have happened in the past. And depending on what the outcome is, sometimes they’ll insert an NG tube to drain my stomach, or perhaps a drain for an abscess. Sometimes, this will take a long time and I end up with a PICC line in my upper arm so they can give me TPN in place of food.

And sure, I’ve come out alive and mostly unscathed. I’m breathing and still able to move and work and take care of myself because of (or perhaps in spite of) what I’ve been through. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

People tell me I’m brave, but bravery implies there was a choice. I didn’t choose. I wasn’t asked. On life’s questionnaire I didn’t tick the box labelled “chronic illness”. That was something that was thrust upon me without my consent.

What I’m trying to say is that for me at least, hospitals are a source of endless trauma and fear, and even going in for a simple blood test or check-up puts me on edge.

I suppose I should say something positive about how I’ve got my family beside me keeping me grounded through all this. But the truth is, not even they know the full extent of how badly this has affected me. I’ve sought out therapy before and I dare say I’ll seek it out again before long.

I’m sorry there’s no happy ending to this article but thank you for reading if you’ve made it this far. And please know that whatever you’re going through, you’re not alone. Please stay safe.

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