I'm a blast injury survivor, with a TBI and polytrauma. And yes, I've had notable PTSD.
Don't assume that exhausted emotion is the critical sign. For me, it's been something like a stay against suicide.
I was injured well before the wars of the last twenty years, in a time when the doctors who took care of me were as competent as any others alive, which meant they were without a clue to treatment of TBI, particularly blast induced TBI, which has a pattern unique to itself. This has to do with damage to astroglial cells. Regarding this, doctors currently have a sense of how little it is they do know, but years before the phenomenon of astroglial scarring was discovered, one of mine admitted to me that BINT ( Blast Induced Neuro Trauma ), as it's now often called, has a - a: he couldn't find the word. "Witchiness?" I suggested.
"Yes, that works," he agreed. "It does something to the brain which makes treatment at the clinical level much less likely to help a lot. And in your case - " He shook his head slightly.
He was alluding to my having been injured before medicine had figured out the remarkable emergency and beyond protocol they've had in place for TBI for close to forty years. When I was injured, other than transfusion; surgery; the yanking of shrapnel out of me; and i.v.s providing antibiotics, hydration, and nourishment while I spent the next three days thrashing at space in a delirium, I got no treatment.
Who but God knows how I would have fared if they'd known then what they know now? My neurologist, intending no irreverence, is pretty sure he does.
"You'd have been a relatively easy case to manage," he said once.
More than the general physical misery it leaves behind, the worst part of getting your brain blown apart is that your persona, your identity, hemorrhages away, over time, over the months and years. For me, and I suspect for other BINT survivors, this had much less to do with the slipping away of marriage, career, and the other markers of identity which we naturally think identify us; and much, much more to do with the deterioration of brain function which BINT or any other significant TBI leaves its ungrateful recipient with.
The irony is that if Magickal Drug A were to be discovered, I doubt I could find a doctor who would prescribe it. My two excellent specialists understand that if I could feel, really feel again, I would have an energy for rumination which I do not have now. And maybe an hour's worth at most would be all it would take to provoke me to suicide.
I do have occasional odd hours during which some particularly bad medication choice and combination bring back my ability to grieve. Those are the worst. Those are the times when the idea of suicide seems a blessing. I know that aside from actually killing myself, the only treatment for them is a moderate overdose of benzodiazepines, and getting to bed. I've been late to cannabis use, but have been experimenting gingerly with vaping terpenes for a month. Most of the time, it does make sleep easier, but being stoned with a BINT isn't anything like the fun it seems to be for the uninjured. It may be that I need to be using more, but I'm scared it will spend itself in its effectiveness if I do.
If it were legal for me to sign something allowing the authorities to cut, scoop, lift, and yank whatever I have which might help others, I'd do it without question. ( My brain has a confirmed reservation at a brain bank, at least. ) But my doctors have been so good about teaching me the improbability of my being anything at all that I no longer have the undeserved self - contempt which I did have for many years. But, as I can't make clear enough, those dead emotions are much likelier to be my friends in my ongoing war to avoid suicide. ( Obviously, I can speak for no one else. ) If I weren't a Christian, I would still try to deny myself suicide, on principle: I live on because I didn't make myself, and therefore have no right to unmake myself, as little actual self of me as there seems to be left.
Despite my aesthetic disgust at what circumstances forced upon me, I do believe that God raised Jesus from the dead, and that because of that, I, too, shall live, really live. I love Tolkien because when I read him, what my pastor and other Christians say does seem true: the splendors God has for me really will trump my sorrow. Most of the rest of the time, my non - Tolkien reading time, it seems highly unlikely. But we walk by faith, not by sight.
No, thank you for reading and for leaving this brutal but very honest comment. I'm very glad you're still here to make it. In which war did you suffer your injuries?
It wasn't war, it was much weirder than that. I survived a suitcase bombing when I was a child. This was the bombing of the playground of Poe Elementary School, in Houston, on September 15, 1959. ( "Bobby Lime" is a username. ) You can understand why, because of its freakish nature, I elided the matter of circumstance. It would, I thought, only have gotten in the way. But a suitcase bomb made by a man who had made bombs for organized crime was more than enough to equal an i.e.d. Aside from the madman, or as I'm apt to refer to him to a friend who lost a leg, "our psycho," three children, two of them my best friends, were killed, as were two adults who tried to get between us and the lunatic. My friend, I, the older sister of an uninjured classmate, who herself had a providential escape, and a man who was in their class do not know what has become of two little girls who were so savagely injured one was pronounced dead at the scene. ( Thank God, she wasn't, but she probably died decades early because of blast lung injury, which kills more bombing victims than BINT. ) And we can't know the numbers of children and adults who were assaulted by PTSD before it was given that name in 1980. I suspect a friend and classmate who accomplished the remarkable task of drinking and smoking himself to death at age 41 never got free of it.
The best easily found account of the event is John Lomax's "Suffer the Children," from the March 15, 2013 Houstonia, though the excerpted chapter from a memoir of a retired, now dead, Texas Ranger, is also evocative, as is Gordon Rottman's article. But in Lomax's article, the reader finds a shocking example of how destructive, and latterly destructive, PTSD can be.
As for TBI itself, until about twenty years ago, it was taken for granted within medicine that the Kennard hypothesis, which asserted that brain injured children might be better able to cope with TBI because of neuroplasticity, was true. For five or six years now, I've seen it generally referred to as "the now discredited Kennard hypothesis," and every time I do, I think, "I could have told them that." ( Dr Kennard herself, a physiologist, was dismayed that her idea, derived from working with baby macaques injured in the laboratory, was taken up by the medical Establishment as true. )
Only doctors could have concocted the notion that, as one wit said it inelegantly, "If you're going to get a brain injury, it's much better to get it at 7 than at 27." Children do seem often to do very well after BINT, as well as other TBIs, but the neurocognitive stall which tends to come with puberty is a monster, the presence of which has been inferred from a lot of cases. It certainly exists.
But I got through the night, and now begins the decisionmaking about how to medicate myself today.
I thought I remembered seeing a piece on suicide in your archives and went back to look for it this evening. Thanks for keeping this up. You wrote this so long ago that I'm sure you'll probably find a comment on it surprising.
I'm a rural EMT and I lost a patient to suicide early this morning. It took us and the sheriff's office four hours to find his house on a forest service road in the middle of nowhere. He was, shockingly, alive when we got to him but would not remain, nothing we did could keep him here. He was 34.
I say all that to sincerely say, thanks for writing this, it was helpful to read after a very long day.
Oh man, thanks so much for reading and sharing. That's heartbreaking. I'm so sorry. I have a friend who's a cop and sometimes shares stories like this. Your line of work is so very hard. Thanks for sticking to it.
I'm a blast injury survivor, with a TBI and polytrauma. And yes, I've had notable PTSD.
Don't assume that exhausted emotion is the critical sign. For me, it's been something like a stay against suicide.
I was injured well before the wars of the last twenty years, in a time when the doctors who took care of me were as competent as any others alive, which meant they were without a clue to treatment of TBI, particularly blast induced TBI, which has a pattern unique to itself. This has to do with damage to astroglial cells. Regarding this, doctors currently have a sense of how little it is they do know, but years before the phenomenon of astroglial scarring was discovered, one of mine admitted to me that BINT ( Blast Induced Neuro Trauma ), as it's now often called, has a - a: he couldn't find the word. "Witchiness?" I suggested.
"Yes, that works," he agreed. "It does something to the brain which makes treatment at the clinical level much less likely to help a lot. And in your case - " He shook his head slightly.
He was alluding to my having been injured before medicine had figured out the remarkable emergency and beyond protocol they've had in place for TBI for close to forty years. When I was injured, other than transfusion; surgery; the yanking of shrapnel out of me; and i.v.s providing antibiotics, hydration, and nourishment while I spent the next three days thrashing at space in a delirium, I got no treatment.
Who but God knows how I would have fared if they'd known then what they know now? My neurologist, intending no irreverence, is pretty sure he does.
"You'd have been a relatively easy case to manage," he said once.
More than the general physical misery it leaves behind, the worst part of getting your brain blown apart is that your persona, your identity, hemorrhages away, over time, over the months and years. For me, and I suspect for other BINT survivors, this had much less to do with the slipping away of marriage, career, and the other markers of identity which we naturally think identify us; and much, much more to do with the deterioration of brain function which BINT or any other significant TBI leaves its ungrateful recipient with.
The irony is that if Magickal Drug A were to be discovered, I doubt I could find a doctor who would prescribe it. My two excellent specialists understand that if I could feel, really feel again, I would have an energy for rumination which I do not have now. And maybe an hour's worth at most would be all it would take to provoke me to suicide.
I do have occasional odd hours during which some particularly bad medication choice and combination bring back my ability to grieve. Those are the worst. Those are the times when the idea of suicide seems a blessing. I know that aside from actually killing myself, the only treatment for them is a moderate overdose of benzodiazepines, and getting to bed. I've been late to cannabis use, but have been experimenting gingerly with vaping terpenes for a month. Most of the time, it does make sleep easier, but being stoned with a BINT isn't anything like the fun it seems to be for the uninjured. It may be that I need to be using more, but I'm scared it will spend itself in its effectiveness if I do.
If it were legal for me to sign something allowing the authorities to cut, scoop, lift, and yank whatever I have which might help others, I'd do it without question. ( My brain has a confirmed reservation at a brain bank, at least. ) But my doctors have been so good about teaching me the improbability of my being anything at all that I no longer have the undeserved self - contempt which I did have for many years. But, as I can't make clear enough, those dead emotions are much likelier to be my friends in my ongoing war to avoid suicide. ( Obviously, I can speak for no one else. ) If I weren't a Christian, I would still try to deny myself suicide, on principle: I live on because I didn't make myself, and therefore have no right to unmake myself, as little actual self of me as there seems to be left.
Despite my aesthetic disgust at what circumstances forced upon me, I do believe that God raised Jesus from the dead, and that because of that, I, too, shall live, really live. I love Tolkien because when I read him, what my pastor and other Christians say does seem true: the splendors God has for me really will trump my sorrow. Most of the rest of the time, my non - Tolkien reading time, it seems highly unlikely. But we walk by faith, not by sight.
Thanks for the article.
No, thank you for reading and for leaving this brutal but very honest comment. I'm very glad you're still here to make it. In which war did you suffer your injuries?
It wasn't war, it was much weirder than that. I survived a suitcase bombing when I was a child. This was the bombing of the playground of Poe Elementary School, in Houston, on September 15, 1959. ( "Bobby Lime" is a username. ) You can understand why, because of its freakish nature, I elided the matter of circumstance. It would, I thought, only have gotten in the way. But a suitcase bomb made by a man who had made bombs for organized crime was more than enough to equal an i.e.d. Aside from the madman, or as I'm apt to refer to him to a friend who lost a leg, "our psycho," three children, two of them my best friends, were killed, as were two adults who tried to get between us and the lunatic. My friend, I, the older sister of an uninjured classmate, who herself had a providential escape, and a man who was in their class do not know what has become of two little girls who were so savagely injured one was pronounced dead at the scene. ( Thank God, she wasn't, but she probably died decades early because of blast lung injury, which kills more bombing victims than BINT. ) And we can't know the numbers of children and adults who were assaulted by PTSD before it was given that name in 1980. I suspect a friend and classmate who accomplished the remarkable task of drinking and smoking himself to death at age 41 never got free of it.
The best easily found account of the event is John Lomax's "Suffer the Children," from the March 15, 2013 Houstonia, though the excerpted chapter from a memoir of a retired, now dead, Texas Ranger, is also evocative, as is Gordon Rottman's article. But in Lomax's article, the reader finds a shocking example of how destructive, and latterly destructive, PTSD can be.
As for TBI itself, until about twenty years ago, it was taken for granted within medicine that the Kennard hypothesis, which asserted that brain injured children might be better able to cope with TBI because of neuroplasticity, was true. For five or six years now, I've seen it generally referred to as "the now discredited Kennard hypothesis," and every time I do, I think, "I could have told them that." ( Dr Kennard herself, a physiologist, was dismayed that her idea, derived from working with baby macaques injured in the laboratory, was taken up by the medical Establishment as true. )
Only doctors could have concocted the notion that, as one wit said it inelegantly, "If you're going to get a brain injury, it's much better to get it at 7 than at 27." Children do seem often to do very well after BINT, as well as other TBIs, but the neurocognitive stall which tends to come with puberty is a monster, the presence of which has been inferred from a lot of cases. It certainly exists.
But I got through the night, and now begins the decisionmaking about how to medicate myself today.
I thought I remembered seeing a piece on suicide in your archives and went back to look for it this evening. Thanks for keeping this up. You wrote this so long ago that I'm sure you'll probably find a comment on it surprising.
I'm a rural EMT and I lost a patient to suicide early this morning. It took us and the sheriff's office four hours to find his house on a forest service road in the middle of nowhere. He was, shockingly, alive when we got to him but would not remain, nothing we did could keep him here. He was 34.
I say all that to sincerely say, thanks for writing this, it was helpful to read after a very long day.
Oh man, thanks so much for reading and sharing. That's heartbreaking. I'm so sorry. I have a friend who's a cop and sometimes shares stories like this. Your line of work is so very hard. Thanks for sticking to it.