This post is dedicated to my husband….and the crap he puts up with. Figuratively….and Literally.
While engaged in full-blown PTSD, my husband was always there, fully supportive of the shell of my former self that I had become. Immediately after the birth of our child, but prior to any real diagnosis, my husband recognized that I needed help, support, and unconditional love. And, he gave me all these things without question. My husband did ALL of the housework, ALL of our life maintenance (bills, shopping, answering phone calls, making appointments, filling our cars with gas, driving, etc), and most of the childcare. Yes, I fed our child, however, my husband changed her, brought her to me when she needed to be fed, helped me play with her, attended to her in the night when she was crying, etc.
A typical day for me during full-blown PTSD looked like this: My husband waking two hours before me to work on the house, grocery shop, or do bills. My husband waking me up gently (alarms were a trigger for me), my husband handing me the baby to be fed, my husband burping and changing the baby, my husband urging me to shower, my husband ironing and washing my clothes, my husband making my breakfast, my husband getting the baby ready for daycare, my husband handing me my ready-made lunch and placing my work stuff into the car (which he always made sure had gas), my husband driving my daughter to daycare (even though it was right across the street from where I worked-leaving her was a trigger) before he brought himself to work, me going to work in a haze, me leaving work, me picking up my daughter, coming home and feeding my daughter, me sitting in a comfortable chair with her until my husband came home from work, my husband making dinner, playing together as a family, my husband helping me with bedtime routine, me sitting in my chair, my husband cleaning up the house, both going to bed, my husband helping me through nightmares, twitches, and teeth grinding while simultaneously attending to the baby in the other room. REPEAT DAILY.
That’s a lot of figurative crap to put up with. Not to mention the literal. Fecal Incontinence is not pretty, and yes, there is a lot of literal crap. Was I doing the laundry? Was I emptying the trash filled with used incontinence pads? Was I purchasing the pads, enemas, and fiber supplements? No, it was my husband.
Now, I would never claim my husband is a saint, but, I know he’s a better person than most to be able to navigate the trials of PTSD and fecal incontinence with grace and courage. It is my hope that everyone could have someone just as wonderful to help them through their own trauma, however; the reality is some marriages cannot sustain the angst that sickness and trauma thrust upon the parties involved. Our marriage has survived and strengthened through this major medical trauma in my life, and I am truly grateful that my husband was able to remain by my side holding not only my hand, but my heart throughout the duration.
Thanks for Reading,
Lauren
Image may be NSFW.
Clik here to view.
Image may be NSFW.Clik here to view.
