My take on the post traumatic stress sydrome is this: the brain cannot take in the whole experience at once, so instead the traumatic event is split into tiny little fragments and dispersed by a cruel, useen hand into every soft, vulnerable nook and cranny. These bitter seeds nestle, feeding on insomnia, guilt, and hopelessness. They grow into techni-color flashbacks and nightmares that could rival the most well made horror film. Look out Rob Zombie. They pop up over and over again as the brain tries to process the experience in whatever way in can- if not as a whole, then piece by painful piece. But in some fashion, it must be done.
The second or third night after the accident, I dozed fitfully from pure exhaustion. Trying to sleep after the violent, unexpected death of your child is the devil's own job. I woke screaming, bringing Tim on the run. It was not the road this time, like almost every time I shut my eyes for the first few months, but instead it was Tim. I had dreamt that he had walked down to the gas station for a gallon of milk, like he often does. When he reached the entryway, a faceless man jabbed him with a switchblade, gutting him like a fish. He fell to the ground, arms pinwheeling, and a maroon stain already seeping into his cotton t-shirt like a grisly map of the world. There was blood, so much blood. Upon a closer look, I could see his intestines, glistening as they hung loosely from the opening that looked so much like an evil grin. I started screaming, "Has anyone called 911?" No one answered, because I was the only one there. As I watched he began to close his eyes. I knew if he did, he would die. I woke up screaming.
Many people tried to comfort me after the accident by saying at least she didn't suffer- that she died instantly. Unable to stop myself, I imagined the scenario over and over again in my head. I wondered if she even knew what happened. I wondered if she realized at the last second, but was frozen to the spot. I wondered if it hurt her. I wondered if she knew what had happened, and had laid there wanting me. Did she call for me, if even only her mind, to get no response because I couldn't get there quickly enough? To know my baby girl had died alone was eating me alive. She hated being alone. It was then that the voices preyed on her the most; she was open game. Please, please tell me she did not die hearing them say mean things to her. I should have been there to say, "I'm here." She should have felt my hand take hers even if there was nothing else I could do but to let her know I was there. Failure, Nick, failure.
So a few days after the accident I dreamt I was in the bathroom brushing my teeth. Cory would often hang out in the doorway while I did my hair or makeup, sometimes chatting with me, other times just watching. She had made a habit of watching me put on my makeup since she was a little girl. Imagine my joy, when that narrow bathroom door swung open and Cory was in the doorway. Cory was alive! She was here! I took a step towards her, but stopped at the look on her face. She was crying, her face dirty and swollen. She opened her mouth to say something to me, and I could see every tooth was painted in blood, and more seeped from her mouth as she moved her lips. The blood trickled down her chin as she sobbed, "Mom, don't believe them. It hurt; it hurt a lot!" I stepped towards her to take her in my arms, and woke up, my arms closing in on thin air. Don't believe them, Mom. It hurt; it hurt a lot!
I didn't get a full night's sleep until November, when the right sleep med arm wrestled my exhausted brain and laid it out on the table. Boom! I could kissed Dr. Z, tongue and all. To go to sleep right away, and stay asleep until morning was a faint memory by that point and something my body craved. Going without restful sleep does terrible, unspeakable things to your mental and physical health.
Even with the new drug-induced slumber, there were nightmares. Come on, Nick, women who send their daughters to their death over chili powder don't deserve beauty sleep.
My mom has been having a terrible time. I have been trying to comfort her, which is laughable really, sort of like the blind leading the blind. Basically, I just share. I share my tears; I share my dark thoughts; I share my memories.
When I found some honey vanilla pillow mist at Bath & Body Works in the aromatherapy section, I picked up some for my mom, too. She wasn't sleeping either. She didn't get to the scene until they had covered Cory with a sheet, but I know that image of a stark white sheet covering every well loved plane and valley of her granddaughter's face kept her awake most every night. If there is anything to be thankful for in this whole miserable business, I guess it is that my mom didn't have to see her before they covered her up. I wouldn't want anyone who loved Cory to have to walk around the rest of their days with the pictures I have in my head.
So, the pillow mist...brilliant. Yes, it does work. It took a few nights- I think your brain has to begin to recognize the scent as a cue to begin hutting down all the works. Jake is hooked on the "sleepy stuff". "Mom, can I have some sleepy stuff?" He has his own dreams, you see. Waiting on the lawn, hearing the sirens and being worried sick is no job for a ten year old.
The Sleep Sheep has helped us all. It is for babies, I think, but I don't care. It is a cuddly stuffed animal with a sound machine inside it. You can set the timer for 20 or 40 minutes, and fall asleep listening to a babbling brook, the rain, the ocean, or whale calls. Jake and I were in love. I ordered one for mom a couple of weeks ago. She said it gave her the best sleep she'd had since July.
We were texting late at night about it last week. When I went to sleep, I dreamt that she passed away during the night. I was out of my mind. Why did this keep happening?
In my dream, three or four days went by as her service was planned. I was at home when the phone call came that my dad had passed away during the night. I awoke shaking all over, unable to decide if it was real or not for a full ten minutes.
And the most recent bad dream:
Jacob. Jake will talk the most right before bed. In this particular dream, he was wedged up against me, telling me his head hurt, and that he didn't feel good. I asked him if he wanted to take something for his headache. I turned towards him, watching him put his little hand to a temple as he said the same words Cory had said to me over three years ago, "Mom, sometimes my head doesn't feel right. I've been hearing these voices."
Some nightmares happen while you're sleeping; some while you're awake. Sweet dreams.
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