Rare and Precious Things
Page 41
Jokes aside, it really wasn’t like him to forget to message me, or call. I tried once more with a text. Is there a problem? Where r u?
I wondered if he would still meet me for lunch. We had a little routine after seeing Dr. Burnsley—lunch somewhere in the city, before he had to return to his office, which was keeping him busier than ever. He’d be leaving for the XT Winter Europe Games on an important assignment for the King of Something-burg right after New Year’s. Ethan didn’t seem thrilled about the job of babysitting a royal crown prince at an international sporting event, but when the king asked for him personally, I think he pretty much had no choice but to say yes. I couldn’t go with him to Switzerland anyway, because flying in the final trimester was a no-go. I’d be here on my own, but it was only for a week. I planned to use the time to get the final touches on the nursery finished up. Make that, nurseries—plural. I had two homes to get prepared by the end of February.
I decided I would go shopping once I was finished here, with or without Ethan. Originally, I’d thought that it would be a good day to get some Christmas shopping done. Only twelve days left to pull it all together, and the presents wouldn’t wrap themselves.
“Brynne Blackstone.” The nurse ticked something off on her chart, and held the door open for me. “Go ahead and leave a urine sample and then I’ll take your weight.” She smiled sweetly, probably to counter the stink eye she usually got from pregnant women who desperately needed to do the first task, as much as they dreaded having to do the second one.
Fun times.
REPLAYING the statistics Dr. Wilson has just rattled off to me didn’t really inspire a great deal of optimism for my future. One in five firefighters; one in three teenage survivors of car crashes; one in two female rape victims; two in three prisoners of war. Especially the last two items on that wretched list. What in the f**k did that say about Brynne and me? PTSD sufferers. Damaged souls who had somehow fallen into each other’s lives by a twist of fate. Brynne was owning up to her demons, and worked with Dr. Roswell to find a way to cope with what had happened to her. She amazed me with her strength—very British in her methodology—just like the WWII poster the doc had plastered above his desk: KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. Brave and beautiful was my girl. Straight-up truth.
Was there some hope for me, too? I wanted there to be. Now, I craved to find a way to be free of the f**king curse that had woven itself into the darkest caverns of my psyche. I needed relief so badly.
I needed it so I could be the husband and father I had to be for Brynne, and for our little one.
“So, I’m listening.” I gave the doc my focus and thought about why I was here with Combat Stress Psychiatrist, Gavin Wilson, at his nondescript office in Surrey, discussing the merits of a course of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
“The goal is not to force you to dwell on events in your past, but to gain insight into your emotional state of mind at present. This is not a "lie on the couch and tell all" type of therapy, Ethan.”
Thank f**k-all for that. I took in a slow breath and felt relief at what he’d just told me. Talking terrified me. If I spoke of it, I’d go numb, freezing back in time to that place, hearing those voices, smelling the piss, and puke, and shit, feeling the cold, seeing the knife and the …rivers of blood. I’d only told Brynne a fraction of the worst part, because I’d felt so strongly that she deserved to know what I carried around, but it pained me terribly to share all of the ugliness with her. The shit was too dark, too horrible, just too f**king much for her to have to be burdened with.
“That’s good then, I think. So, how does the programme work for somebody like me?” I asked.
“CBT tends to deal with the here and now—over the events during your service in the BA that led to why you’re sitting here talking to me.”
“My wife…she’s had a traumatic event in her past, too. I worry that if I give into this—fuck, I don’t even know what to call it—my worst flashback memory, then I won’t be strong enough for her when she needs my support. We’re expecting our first child at the end of February…” I trailed off, wishing I didn’t sound so pathetically weak, but figured I should be honest with the doc.
“Congratulations to you both.” He wrote something down on a legal pad. “Is your wife in therapy?”
I nodded. “For over four years. She tells me she can’t imagine not having her doctor visits.”
“And you support your wife in seeking treatment and help through psychiatric therapy?” Dr. Wilson asked. I had an idea of where he was going with his line of questioning.
“Of course I support her. It helps her and that’s most important.”
His mouth turned up on one side. “I am sure your wife wants you to have the same level of support that she has, Ethan. But the decision will have to be yours, of course.”
I know she does. “So what will we do when I come here?”
“CBT recognizes that events in your past have shaped the way you currently think and behave. In particular, for you, from what you have told me, is, delayed-onset PTSD. We’ll explore what is bringing your flashbacks to the forefront more intensively now versus immediately after the event.” I know why. “And even so, CBT does not dwell on the past, we’ll aim toward finding solutions of how to change your current thoughts and behaviours so that you can function better now, and in the future. It’s the emotional processing of your past, rather than simply reliving it, which is key.”
I nodded and absorbed his explanation. I felt ambivalent, not particularly optimistic this would work on me, but in no way critical either. I liked the doc. I especially liked his non-bullshit way of explaining things. He didn’t promise a miracle. Because there won’t be one coming to you. My miracle had been used up over seven years ago…on the twenty-second day. I knew that. I accepted the gift as I’d received it. Dr. Gavin Wilson had served in the same army as me. He was a comrade in arms of sorts. If anyone could help me, it was probably going to be someone like him.
We got down to the nuts and bolts of things and by the end of our time, I was feeling somewhat lighter about my decision. I was given a bit of homework to do as well.
CHECKING my watch as I hurried out of the building, I knew I had at least an hour of travel time ahead of me in order to make it all the way across town to meet Brynne at Dr. B’s. Highly doubtful I could manage it. I patted my pocket for my mobile, and remembered I didn’t have it on me. I’d been so distracted about my first visit to the Combat Stress Centre, I’d left it somewhere. Bloody shitting hell. This was precisely the sort of crap I did not need right now—my number-one worry. Distraction. The motherfucking worst thing in my line of work. I absolutely could not allow for distractions, or I wouldn’t be able to function at my job. Impossible. All of this dredging up of phantom memories was f**king with my day-to-day routine. I should have my mobile on me right now so I could contact Brynne. I needed let her know I’d be late, or she would worry.
I wondered if he would still meet me for lunch. We had a little routine after seeing Dr. Burnsley—lunch somewhere in the city, before he had to return to his office, which was keeping him busier than ever. He’d be leaving for the XT Winter Europe Games on an important assignment for the King of Something-burg right after New Year’s. Ethan didn’t seem thrilled about the job of babysitting a royal crown prince at an international sporting event, but when the king asked for him personally, I think he pretty much had no choice but to say yes. I couldn’t go with him to Switzerland anyway, because flying in the final trimester was a no-go. I’d be here on my own, but it was only for a week. I planned to use the time to get the final touches on the nursery finished up. Make that, nurseries—plural. I had two homes to get prepared by the end of February.
I decided I would go shopping once I was finished here, with or without Ethan. Originally, I’d thought that it would be a good day to get some Christmas shopping done. Only twelve days left to pull it all together, and the presents wouldn’t wrap themselves.
“Brynne Blackstone.” The nurse ticked something off on her chart, and held the door open for me. “Go ahead and leave a urine sample and then I’ll take your weight.” She smiled sweetly, probably to counter the stink eye she usually got from pregnant women who desperately needed to do the first task, as much as they dreaded having to do the second one.
Fun times.
REPLAYING the statistics Dr. Wilson has just rattled off to me didn’t really inspire a great deal of optimism for my future. One in five firefighters; one in three teenage survivors of car crashes; one in two female rape victims; two in three prisoners of war. Especially the last two items on that wretched list. What in the f**k did that say about Brynne and me? PTSD sufferers. Damaged souls who had somehow fallen into each other’s lives by a twist of fate. Brynne was owning up to her demons, and worked with Dr. Roswell to find a way to cope with what had happened to her. She amazed me with her strength—very British in her methodology—just like the WWII poster the doc had plastered above his desk: KEEP CALM AND CARRY ON. Brave and beautiful was my girl. Straight-up truth.
Was there some hope for me, too? I wanted there to be. Now, I craved to find a way to be free of the f**king curse that had woven itself into the darkest caverns of my psyche. I needed relief so badly.
I needed it so I could be the husband and father I had to be for Brynne, and for our little one.
“So, I’m listening.” I gave the doc my focus and thought about why I was here with Combat Stress Psychiatrist, Gavin Wilson, at his nondescript office in Surrey, discussing the merits of a course of Cognitive Behavioral Therapy.
“The goal is not to force you to dwell on events in your past, but to gain insight into your emotional state of mind at present. This is not a "lie on the couch and tell all" type of therapy, Ethan.”
Thank f**k-all for that. I took in a slow breath and felt relief at what he’d just told me. Talking terrified me. If I spoke of it, I’d go numb, freezing back in time to that place, hearing those voices, smelling the piss, and puke, and shit, feeling the cold, seeing the knife and the …rivers of blood. I’d only told Brynne a fraction of the worst part, because I’d felt so strongly that she deserved to know what I carried around, but it pained me terribly to share all of the ugliness with her. The shit was too dark, too horrible, just too f**king much for her to have to be burdened with.
“That’s good then, I think. So, how does the programme work for somebody like me?” I asked.
“CBT tends to deal with the here and now—over the events during your service in the BA that led to why you’re sitting here talking to me.”
“My wife…she’s had a traumatic event in her past, too. I worry that if I give into this—fuck, I don’t even know what to call it—my worst flashback memory, then I won’t be strong enough for her when she needs my support. We’re expecting our first child at the end of February…” I trailed off, wishing I didn’t sound so pathetically weak, but figured I should be honest with the doc.
“Congratulations to you both.” He wrote something down on a legal pad. “Is your wife in therapy?”
I nodded. “For over four years. She tells me she can’t imagine not having her doctor visits.”
“And you support your wife in seeking treatment and help through psychiatric therapy?” Dr. Wilson asked. I had an idea of where he was going with his line of questioning.
“Of course I support her. It helps her and that’s most important.”
His mouth turned up on one side. “I am sure your wife wants you to have the same level of support that she has, Ethan. But the decision will have to be yours, of course.”
I know she does. “So what will we do when I come here?”
“CBT recognizes that events in your past have shaped the way you currently think and behave. In particular, for you, from what you have told me, is, delayed-onset PTSD. We’ll explore what is bringing your flashbacks to the forefront more intensively now versus immediately after the event.” I know why. “And even so, CBT does not dwell on the past, we’ll aim toward finding solutions of how to change your current thoughts and behaviours so that you can function better now, and in the future. It’s the emotional processing of your past, rather than simply reliving it, which is key.”
I nodded and absorbed his explanation. I felt ambivalent, not particularly optimistic this would work on me, but in no way critical either. I liked the doc. I especially liked his non-bullshit way of explaining things. He didn’t promise a miracle. Because there won’t be one coming to you. My miracle had been used up over seven years ago…on the twenty-second day. I knew that. I accepted the gift as I’d received it. Dr. Gavin Wilson had served in the same army as me. He was a comrade in arms of sorts. If anyone could help me, it was probably going to be someone like him.
We got down to the nuts and bolts of things and by the end of our time, I was feeling somewhat lighter about my decision. I was given a bit of homework to do as well.
CHECKING my watch as I hurried out of the building, I knew I had at least an hour of travel time ahead of me in order to make it all the way across town to meet Brynne at Dr. B’s. Highly doubtful I could manage it. I patted my pocket for my mobile, and remembered I didn’t have it on me. I’d been so distracted about my first visit to the Combat Stress Centre, I’d left it somewhere. Bloody shitting hell. This was precisely the sort of crap I did not need right now—my number-one worry. Distraction. The motherfucking worst thing in my line of work. I absolutely could not allow for distractions, or I wouldn’t be able to function at my job. Impossible. All of this dredging up of phantom memories was f**king with my day-to-day routine. I should have my mobile on me right now so I could contact Brynne. I needed let her know I’d be late, or she would worry.
