Choosing to Revisit Medical Trauma
Two nursing students will interview me today about the medical trauma I faced 2 years ago. Amidst countless flashbacks, I've avoided writing about it — but today, I choose to face the memories.
This post will be messy, meandering, and unedited, but it’s a start. It’s my first attempt at revisiting the medical trauma I experienced in the weeks before the pandemic. I’ve been avoiding this subject for the past two years, but I know it’s time to face the feelings. Prompted by my high school friend, Ric Holloman, a nursing student, I’m diving back in and exploring the complicated feelings I’ve had since then.
Suffice to say, I think we need to talk more about creating support systems to help people revisit their memories of past medical trauma. If we’re lucky and come out on the other side relatively intact, it’s natural to think, “Thank God that’s over. I got through it. It’s in the past. Now let’s move on…”
It’s our natural instinct to try to put painful things behind us, to choose not to dwell in pain and discomfort. Why would anyone choose to do that?
I think back to when I was five, learning to ride my two-wheeler in the alley behind my family’s apartment in Oak Park, Illinois.
“It’s okay! Get back up and hop back on!” my father called from the other end of the alley after watching me fall to the ground.
“No!” I cried from the pavement, palms scraped raw from multiple failed attempts to protect myself. “It hurts! I don’t want to do this anymore.” Curled in a ball on the ground, I listened to my breath and the silence it filled.
Why would anyone want to get back on such an unwieldy contraption, one with a proven record of inflicting pain? Why would anyone choose to risk losing their balance, their security, their sure-footing? How would getting up and getting back on that scary machine be a good thing?
Because we choose to conquer fear.
Because we don’t let ourselves feel like victims.
Because we keep going and prove to ourselves that pain doesn’t have to mean defeat.
And so, despite uncertainty and discomfort about revisiting what happened, I know I need to write about this…not just for my own healing, but for (hopefully) an even greater good. I’m grateful to Ric for encouraging me to speak about what happened, and for parents everywhere who teach us the early lessons in life that we carry through our days. Here we go…
About a year ago, when Ric first approached me, I attempted to write a post about what happened — then promptly quit. The memories were still too hard, my emotions still too raw, and the uncertainty about my feelings way too intense. I abandoned the piece and felt terrible. I knew Ric was working on a capstone project for nursing school and hoped to incorporate my story. Initially, I thought I’d be able to write about what happened and share it with him. No problem.
But that didn’t happen. I was flooded with emotion and overwhelmed whenever I let my mind drift back to my medical crisis. Consequently, I felt guilty about not being able to “produce” a piece of writing (it’s my profession!) for someone who wanted to use it to help others.
I recently found the draft of the article I started and abandoned a year ago. Here it is:
Hospital Care and Mental Health
Last year, I was hospitalized for three weeks with a life-threatening infection. Recently, my friend Ric, a nursing student, interviewed me about the experience.
My friend Ric, a former high school classmate who’s now a nursing student at Rush University near Chicago, recently reached out via email:
“I’d really like to get your thoughts/feelings/observations/suggestions on hospital care and mental health. I’ve just begun my orientation for my graduate nursing program, and this issue really resonates with me.”
Ric continued, “I think there’s a pretty good chance I’ll pursue the topic for my capstone project down the line. I know you’re incredibly busy, so I certainly don’t expect you to drop everything just to chat with me, but I’m hopeful you’ll be willing to schedule a time to either write down your thoughts or to talk/text/whatever. No hurry. It can be this month or 6 months from now, no matter.”
He concluded with, “I really value your perspective and I hope to use it to help others.”
What follows are my reflections on — and responses to — Ric’s questions as they relate to my personal experience.
Quick Background
On December 18th, 2019, I was unexpectedly hospitalized for a medical condition I didn’t even know I had: diverticulitis. For 10 days, doctors worked to get my infection under control before sending me home to regain my strength until I was ready for surgery, which happened the following month.
Since then, I’ve barely written about what happened. Part of the reason was the trauma of it all. Another reason, obviously, has been the pandemic, which changed my perspective on everything.
So, when Ric recently reached out, I felt like I had a new reason to sit down and think about everything that happened to me. And, to make it a bit easier to dive back into my memories, I asked Ric to send me specific questions as prompts.
What follows is more than just a Q&A between two former high school classmates. It’s a future nurse and a former surgical patient discussing an actual medical case, exploring how the physical and social-emotional aspects of my case were handled, and how we might all consider seeing things in new and compassionate ways.
This is about how American hospitals approach patients’ psychosocial needs, particularly when patients a) have a history of mental illness, b) are admitted due to emergencies or c) endure lengthy stays.
When I was admitted to the hospital, I was a 51-year-old woman already managing anxiety and depression on a daily basis who suddenly found her life turned upside down a few days before Christmas.
Within a matter of hours and with Christmas presents still waiting to be wrapped, I went from my living room to my doctor’s office to my local Emergency Room to a bed on an acute care floor at my local hospital where a trauma team suspended all food and water, diagnosed me with a chronic illness and labeled me their “sickest patient”.
For the next 10 days, I encountered more than 50 medical professionals — including surgeons, infectious disease specialists, nurses, radiologists, nutritionists, phlebotomists, and pharmacists — most of whom had access to my electronic medical record which included my diagnosis of recurrent depression. And yet: I was never once contacted or visited by a member of the hospital’s social work team.
I, like many who manage anxiety and depression, have mastered the art of convincing others I’m okay, of navigating the world with a bright and sunny disposition, one that exudes strength, stability and competence.
However, underneath that positive exterior was a terrified, traumatized human being, someone scared and confused and overwhelmed — by pain, by the complete disruption of my life, by the shock of my body betraying me without warning, and by the sudden need to understand and assimilate a new and unfamiliar diagnosis.
After I was discharged from the hospital, I used my journalistic skills and researched everything that happened. The most alarming thing I learned was that my electronic medical record never once triggered a visit by a member of the hospital’s psychosocial support team — nor did my medical team seem to dig into my record beyond my “presenting” medical issues. Most disturbingly, I was informed that medical staff found me “pleasant” and giving no signs that I warranted a visit from the social work team.
Not once was I asked if I needed to talk to someone.
Not once did anyone ever say, “What you’re going through is traumatic.”
Not once was I given a phone number to call if I — or my loved ones — had questions about managing my care in the hospital or at home.
After 10 days in the hospital, I was told that I’d likely need surgery in six weeks to remove a section of my colon. I was then sent home with 7 pages of discharge instructions.
There was not one mention of the emotional challenges I might face during the transition from hospital to home.
Not one acknowledgment that I may experience flashbacks after such a lengthy, unexpected, emergency hospital stay.
Not one acknowledgment of the struggle some patients face weaning off 10-days of a continuous, narcotic IV drip to Tylenol.
Not one word about the adjustments I would have to make, moving from round-the-clock support to an empty house.
Not one suggestion that I might burst into tears without warning or perseverate on my experience and wonder if I could have done anything to prevent it.
All of these things mattered to me, and they should matter to health professionals looking to improve patient care.
When a resourced patient like me with solid health insurance and a strong social support system ends up feeling as terrified, as overwhelmed, and as lost as I did in this process, how on earth do less fortunate patients cope?
And though I’ve personally seen it happen to others, for the purposes of maintaining focus in this piece, I won’t even get into the critical need for opioid pain medicine education — or how swiftly a real medical condition can lead to narcotic dependence. That subject deserves a book in itself — and believe me, that book is forthcoming.
For this piece, what I hope to accomplish is pulling back the curtain on what a patient experiences during a medical crisis, and how medical professionals can better connect with compassion. This isn’t a plea for something fantastical or woo-woo. It’s a plea for increased humanity and healing.
Almost every medical professional I encountered was overwhelmed, overworked, and focused on the pressures of how little time they had to share. Some were able to acknowledge these burdens and shared their frustrations with me. Others were in their own worlds, heads down, checking off boxes.
In a sense, the medical professionals were, like me, managing a state of panic under a surface of outward calm — their operating systems fighting against disillusionment, trying desperately to survive.
I can only share my own point of view. I look forward to hearing what it’s like to be a medical professional on the front line with patients like me. And I hope my story helps us all understand each other better.
In an effort to shed light on the patient perspective, I’m revisiting my medical trauma. I’m here to raise my hand and say, “Let’s go back there. Let’s talk about what happened. Let’s try to prevent others from having to endure the struggles I did. Let’s educate and inform those who work with patients like me.”
Here are the questions Ric originally sent me.
Following our live interview tonight, I’ll write my responses to these (and any other questions he asks), and share them in a followup post which I’ll link to this one.
Wish me luck.
The Interview Questions
1. Tell me exactly what happened on the first day of your medical crisis. What were you doing that day? How did you know you were having a medical emergency? Describe the events and especially what you were feeling/thinking as the situation unfolded. If there is some small detail that feels salient, include it.
2. Describe your interactions with hospital staff, doctors, and nurses in the first 24 hours of your hospital stay. Who made you feel safe? Who listened to you and made you feel you were being heard? Who failed to support you?
3. I think you had emergency surgery. How did you feel physically and emotionally when you woke up? Who was there?
4. Tell me about the long days afterward. Tell me about the boredom, how you passed the hours. Also, did physical pain affect your emotional state during those long hours? Related: tell me about the progression of your state of mind as the days added up. It was a long stay, something like 10 days, right? You must have had an emotional rollercoaster, I imagine.
5. I seriously hate to ask this, but if you’re willing to get into really embarrassing territory, tell me about the indignities of toileting. The reason I ask this is because I think it would be very emotionally upsetting and I wonder how the nurses helped make this feel less humiliating. Plus I know that your medical issue had to do with your colon, so obviously waste elimination is of prime importance to the overall story.
6. I’m going in more or less chronological order with my questions and we’re still in the middle of the timeline. I haven’t asked about your post-discharge experience yet.
7. What sort of mental health support did you get (and by whom), and what mental health support did you need that you didn’t get?
Christine, thanks so much for sharing your story. I'm so sorry this medical event happened to you, though I see you are making meaning out of your suffering by educating others and highlighting the broken parts of our Healthcare system (mental and physical). I echo your concerns, both as someone who has been severely and permanently injured by medication (fluoroquinolones, steroids, and Pfizer vaccine #1), and as a psychologist. I have significant social anxiety and a bit of PTSD from medical trauma. A recent ADHD diagnosis is now at times dismissed because I'm so "high functioning" learning to mask my symptoms and blend in. It's exhausting and dismissive in the worst ways. My overfocus on my health issues is used against me as my former doctor told me that my ongoing severe headache post-vaccine is probably psychosomatic. I knew to cut the cord at that moment and now see Dr. David Rakel who heads up UW Madison's Integrative Medicine Clinic. He even wrote a book titled "The Compassionate Connection: The Healing Power of Empathy and Mindful Listening" - geared toward medical providers. Thanks again for telling your story!!
Christine, reading your words felt like an echo of my own thoughts. My entire body is still tense after reading, while not having gone thru your experience myself, I can imagine it all too well. Every contact I have with the medical system has sent me over the edge, into a ball, and back to bed. I relate so well to being deemed pleasant and highly functioning - nothing to look at here folks - that even when I have told medical providers the true state of my mental health, they don't believe me. It's infuriating and heartbreaking.
Our system has always failed on sending folks home without resources and without any acknowledgment of the long road ahead, the healing that continues. Hospitals are like factories, churning out "fixed" bodies, and that's it. Even more frustrating is that I truly believe most workers in healthcare begin their careers out of genuine compassion and a desire to serve people. But even the best doctors and nurses are now trapped in the corporate money-making requirements that do not allow time for real conversations or for thoroughly checking medical histories.
My heart is with you as you revisit this trauma. Honored to listen and hold space for you. Be gentle with yourself.