Trauma Brain

Shock breaks your brain, mostly temporarily. There's science about that. From my experiential perspective, it was a familiar story. It's not the first shock I've had.

At first the slowing down of time, a kind of dislocation as adrenalin, perhaps cortisol sluiced into my bloodstream making my mind clear, my actions considered, orderly, efficient. No extra speed needed, just careful placement of feet, hands, elbows and knees to manoeuvre his body into a workable position. To get him out of his face-plant into a prone position so that I could to CPR and mouth to mouth. Twice my weight in the tight space of the bathroom floor. Working until I reached the threshold of what my body could endure versus the immovable object of death. Somehow, I was dressed again, somehow I called my son to help because I had realised I was out of my depth and my physical stamina was waning. Then the decision to call someone, no easy task in our cell phone dead-spot.

Call those who could help best. Brief my son so that he could spring into action and not be paralyzed by shock. Let the grim reality present itself to my awareness that time had passed - enough to be too much. Embrace the fact that nothing I had done to this point had made the slightest bit of difference to my husband’s mortality. What followed was a dissociated checklist of things that ought to be done, boxes that ought to be ticked in order to satisfy all those whose hearts would be broken and those whose official convenience would need to be satisfied.

Beyond those first 4 hours of horror where neighbours, paramedics and undertakers came, served gently and efficiently, and left, taking the remains with them, the dissociation remained, and the world stayed slow. By the next morning, after 3 or so hours of strange sleep, my brain had locked into a super sloth mode, fixed on the moment, shallowly skipping over details indiscriminately. I don't recall anything about the first day after, except I know that the children began to arrive, and by the time evening of the first day came, the house was full and someone had done grocery shopping to feed us all. Some neighbours brought some readymade meals. Beyond that, it's mostly out of focus. 

One key detail stood out. As I went up to bed in the early hours having watched the ambulance drive away, I noticed my husband's wedding ring had been placed on the table next to my bed, and I realised that I had overlooked it, and some kind person, likely a neighbour, had thought if it, and kept it back to place it there. I saw that this oversight of mine was a sign that I needed to audit my mind regularly, that even though I could argue I had been too busy holding our daughter in my arms, focused on the living, things could be lost if I didn't pay better attention. 

So, a regimen of double attention, in painstakingly slow and methodical persistence ensued. It didn't always achieve what I'd hoped, but perhaps it saved some things from going horribly worse. The children helped me to remember things where they noticed I was flailing. It was a blessing.

The trauma didn’t end, though. The marathon of insurance forms, death certifications, inhumane queues, the inevitable vultures. Bad news upon bad news. Finding the money to tide us over until. Fixing the things that broke on the farm daily without skills, without cashflow, without a protector. So there was no immediate “the-worst-is-over-now”. Even the funeral, being a theatrical production to serve the scale of my husband’s life and family, and little to do with our intimate, cocooned partnership, had its trauma. Though it went off seamlessly, and with many hands helping, and the entire thing was a haze. A kind of walking coma.

Years. I thanked lockdown for its teachings on going slowly. I couldn’t have done anything else, but at least it was a familiar pace. With the exception of the occasional setback, month after month I gave myself space, listened to advice of those who loved me most, let them manage my dignity. It’s so important, that, and I worry about those who don’t have children they can genuinely rely on, really good people.

Nearly 3 years, now. Much better. I can think again. I can sleep better, most nights. I guess having a pre-existing PTSD doesn’t help there. But the point is, given time, love and some discipline around physical and mental health, it subsides.