Empathy is a Two Way Street: Combat Veteran and Wife Find Unconditional Love

In spite of, yet mostly because of my husband’s PTSD, he possesses an incredible capacity to identify with comparable suffering with such empathy that I feel humbled. And although I don’t want to say I suffer from PTSD, I can say with certainty I have persistent fears related to a trauma I suffered when I almost lost my right eye in an accident involving a horse. Now, almost five years after the accident, my physical wounds have long since healed but the emotional scars continue to create problems for me to this very day. And although I don’t actively seek out his reassurance, my husband is right there to recognize and validate my feelings whenever my fears haunt me.

It was August 2005 around 6:30am; the weather was warm even at that wee hour and I could tell it was going to be a scorcher. I was managing a horse ranch at that time, and on this particular occasion there was no one else in the barn but me. To cut a long story short (‘cause long posts become monotonous) one of the horses I was turning out spooked, slammed into me, knocked me on my back, and kicked me in the face. Without a doubt it was the most terrifying event I’ve ever experienced my entire life.

The whole ordeal took place in the blink of an eye (no pun intended), but when it was over it took me at least a minute to comprehend the extent of my injuries. From my final resting position on my back I could see my ball-cap, my cell phone, my knife, strewn on the ground…then nothing…at this point blood coursed into my eyes from a facial injury. I rolled over onto my knees feeling the warm blood running between my fingers and let out a cry for help. Remembering there was no one in the barn I knew I had to go get help myself as I was going into shock from the loss of blood. Later at the ER, a CAT scan revealed a maxilla facial fracture, a fracture in the optical cavity and a ruptured arterial feeder just above my right eye.

Almost five years later, and although only a feint scar remains below my eyebrow, I am still dealing with the psychological baggage from the accident, the end result of which is an irrational fear of being injured again. Most of the time when the fear creeps in I can rationalize my way out of it, but on occasion the ghoulish flashbacks loom larger than life and twice as ugly as they did on the day the accident happened. Out of the blue I can be struck with such dread that I have to stop riding immediately; I mean literally get off my horse and be done with it for the day. There is nothing quite like the feeling of self-loathing that consumes me when that happens. Coward, pussy, stupid bitch!! I am angry that the accident ever happened, I hate that the one constant perfect joy I have had throughout my entire life is now imperfect and blemished.

But despite how extreme those situations can be, I am eternally grateful that my supportive husband who, despite suffering from severe combat PTSD and TBI, empathizes with me. He never belittles my fears, always encourages me on my bad days, applaudes me on the good ones, and for that I will be eternally grateful. For empathy is a two way street and for all my outpourings for him, he returns the favor to me many times over.

Zoning Out

I sat in the passenger seat of the truck and watched the familiar landscape pass us by as we rolled along toward our destination. Ahead was our exit which I noticed we were approaching at a higher rate of speed than was prudent, and in the blink of an eye we cruised by our turn-off at a steady 60 miles an hour. I looked across at my husband. “We just missed our turn.” No reply. “Hun, we just missed our exit.”

“Huh?” he said, turning to look in my direction with a puzzled look on his face.

“Why didn’t you turn off back there?” I inquired.

“Why didn’t you remind me?” he said as if it was my job to narrate every step of our journey.

“Because we’ve been this way a hundred times.” I said resisting the urge to add “duh” to the end of my sentence.

“Sorry, I guess I zoned out again.” he explained.

At this point I ask him to "please pull over, I’m driving from here.”

Indignantly he responds “I know how to drive.”

I assure him that I’m not challenging his knowledge of driving, fighting back the urge to say; I just want to arrive alive! Again I make my appeal “Take a break, let me drive.” I say this for both our sakes as when he says, “I zoned out again” I know how serious this can be.

There have been many incidents that he’s told me about (and who knows how many he hasn’t confessed to) like the time he found himself in a parking lot not sure where he was or how he got there, and had become filled with panic for what he might have done while “zoned out.” Or the time he set the car on cruise control and then forgot to disengage it and wondered why the car was moving too fast to merge into traffic. Or the time he didn’t stop for a red light, or took off from a red light before it turned green. Or the time his attention was diverted by tire fragments, or road-kill carcasses that might conceal an IED!

So now I don’t take anything for granted, and will tell him “turn here” “turn there” and he looks across at me like “I’m not retarded” and I know he is not. And I curse his PTSD/TBI and how a simple drive in the truck could turn out to be the last thing we ever do.

It's My Pity Party and I'll Cry if I Want to

It’s Friday morning and my husband leaves the house for the VA to attend one of his support groups and I’m left home alone. I use the time to vacuum (a noisy chore that may upset my husband), empty the dishwasher (another noisy chore that may startle him), and throw in a load of laundry. It is a scene of domestic normality as the cat follows me from room to room curiously observing me dust and mop. I spray down the kitchen counter top and proceed to wipe away the crumbs from breakfast, a mindless task that finds me gazing out the French doors. On the wall, the new 2010 calendar just recently hung briefly catches my attention and I move in for a closer look to check some of the appointments I have jotted down.

• Hubby’s VA group
• Hubby’s Psychologist appointment
• Hubby’s Primary Care Physician appointment
• Hubby’s Nurse Practitioner appointment
• ...and on, and on, and on

Hmmm, hubby, hubby, hubby. I flip through the months and the only appointment I can find for myself is my bi-annual teeth cleaning. Wtf! What about me? Where is my support group? Where is my psychologist? Oh shit, am I feeling sorry for myself?

Break out the violin, send for the waaaaambulance, do you want some cheese with that whine? Boo fucking hoo, but I still can't stop myself from wondering who’s in my corner cheering me on? “You’re doing great...you are a strong and resourceful woman” Nah, it’s not happening. And just like the sugar crash that comes after drinking a giant Red Bull I suddenly feel incredibly guilty. How dare I detract from his suffering, how dare I question why he needs so much therapeutic rehabilitation?

Let me just say this it is okay to have those thoughts and feelings. What is not okay is to allow those feelings to become the "elephant in the room". It is there, and it is real. Please discuss with your combat vet the fact that you may need to seek some help. His problems and your problems should not become dueling banjos competing for the number one spot. You need to seek support just as much for yourself as for your vet. You need to remain strong and yet allow yourself to recognize the vulnerability in yourself because you are human.