I Blew Myself Up: PTSD

Interestingly enough, just prior to having blown myself up on March 23rd, 2008, I had been working with adolescent girls who have severe emotional dysregulation and, among other things, post traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). In fact, I was supposed to be finnishing my last week at the school in Boston when, instead, I accidentally blew myself up and now here I was, lying in a hospital after four days and a skin graft to my abdomen, chest, arms and shoulders.

While I have much empathy for people, it is based primarily in trust, not necessarily in experience and having never experienced PTSD in my adult life, I always had difficulty understanding the concept. In my capacity as a special educator, I would hear the psychologists and sometimes my students, talk about nightmares, inability to sleep, depression, etc., but I have to admit, I was pretty much just trusting that their struggle was real to them. I could not truly understand it.

My reality has sunk in a bit more now. They say I will be here at least ten days, maybe back to work in three weeks and healed in one year. It doesn't sound so unmanageable. But I have no idea what I will look like when all the bandages are gone. Will a woman ever be able to look at my bare chest without being grossed out? What about my arms and wrist? Will I be able to play guitar? Because right now, my wrist is in a lot of pain and doesn't feel like it can stretch straight.

It's approaching midnight and I'm heavily sedated. I can't really remember the last time I was fully asleep...sometime earlier in the day I think. I turn off the TV and start to nod off. A few minutes go by.

I awake with a jolt...I was almost asleep...I nod off again...I start to dream of smoke...blue smoke....after a few minutes

I awake with a jolt...I was slightly asleep...I nod off...it's a little harder this time...I'm almost asleep. After a few minutes

I feel my hand moving and I slap myself on the chest.

I awake with a jolt and a bit of pain. What the hell is going on? I turn on the TV and watch a little...I start to nod off. After a few minutes-

I awake with a jolt...

This routine continues through several doses of medication made to make me sleep, and through the next day. I tell the doctor and he has a clinical psychologist come to see me. She comes down from the psych ward and asks me what is wrong. She is a tall, blond, attractive med student with a Eastern European accent. I explain that I can't sleep, etc., etc., etc.. She states that this is normal and that once I get out of the hospital I should seek counseling. She orders me more pain medication and maybe an anti-psychotic? I am not sure.

The night comes. Every time I start to fall asleep I start to dream about fire, explosions, and smoke. I hit myself in my sleep and this wakes me up. I awake with a jolt numerous times and I start to believe I am losing my mind. I realize that I can't sleep, I'm exhausted, I'm sedated and it's just one big cycle that never ends.

I call the orderly. This big dude comes to my room.

Now I know I said earlier that the most humiliating thing was crying while naked in front of a nurse. But women are used to that. However, crying in front of a big, hulking dude definitely ranks up there in the high humility range. I'm trying to explain the madness cycle of not going to sleep to this guy. He seems to understand and he doesn't laugh and he doesn't walk out. No, he just says that I WILL fall asleep and he says he'll leave the door open and that he's right across the hall if I need anything. He says I can call him as many times as I want.

Phew............now that I know that even the big, hulking, nurse-dude even cares, I can finally fall asleep.

I Blew Myself up: Living with 1 layer of Skin

OK..here's the deal.

I came out of surgery with a thin layer of skin taken from my right leg (knee cap to hip...alll the way around) which was then put through a meshing machine to spread it out (like playdough through the playdough press) and then grafted (laid over and stapled) to my abdomen/chest, arms and a little bit on my shoulders.

I can't do the pain justice.

Doing ANYTHING with my leg other than lay down, the blood rushes to my the limb where there is one layer of skin gone. There's really nothing to compare this to.

I would lay in my bed until I had to go to the bathroom. The nurses would tell me to use the bed pan but I knew that longer I stayed off the leg, the longer it would take to heal (leg needs fresh blood flowing to it to help regeneration of cells). So I'd say screw them and feebly sit up in the bed. Then I'd anticipate the pain.

I let me leg slowly fall over the edge of the bed. The pain is really not bearable. It feels like my leg is a humongous pimple that is about to burst. I tear-up and slide off the bed hobbling on one leg. Why does the movie "Misery" come to mind as I limp out the door?

I moan all the way down the hall and quietly hum to myself- because if I don't hum, I'll cry. I guess I'm using my 'inside" voice to cry?

When I finally get to the bathroom, I sit down. Really, my bodily need to relieve myself is completely secondary to my need to manage the pain. It's like my body and my pain are two different things. The body goes to the bathroom while "I", the real "me", hums songs, counts numbers, swears, spits, goes a little crazy, until I can stand up again and hobble back down the hall to my room.



Back in my bed I feel the sweet relief of having my leg up. Besides that, I bask in the glory of having kicked the pain's ass. Well, Ok,at least I feel like I "beat" the pain. A guy has to have something to hold on to in situations like this. The fact that I'm alive isn't enough anymore. That was so "yesterday."

I blew myself up in 2 seconds: It's NOT FUNNY

I took quite a break from writing about the explosion for several months. Mainly, life has had other things in mind for me and I'm a fickle writer by nature. I go through periods of inspiration and periods of writing insomnia.

However, I also stopped writing for awhile because I wanted to seriously consider whether or not my story could be hurtful to others who are burn victims. Gone are the days when I could give two-shits about what I said or did in the name of brutal honesty. The question here is not whether I want to be honest (I am honest), but whether or not I'm writing for the right reasons.

There was another man who did exactly what I did. I read about him back this past Summer. Unfortunately, he had burns over 80% of his body while I was lucky enough to only burn about 15% of mine. I wonder is someone who has had their face burned off would read my story and feel angry or hurt because I can take such a cerebral view of what happened to me. Would I write the same, find the humor and surreality in it all if I had burned my hands, face or penis off? No, I imagine it would be different. But at the end of the day I only have my experience. I imagine, being who I am, I would probably continue to find those same characteristics regardless of the severity of the experience.

I started writing this Blog because NOWHERE could I find any support for burn-victims with medium burns like me. I know it must exist and I did find a few sites but no support groups, no blogs, etc.. No, I didn't burn my face off and my heart goes out to those folks with serious, serious burns. I can only say that no matter what a person's tradgedy, it ultimately becomes their strength.

Stay Tuned: Next time I tell about the one-time changing of all bandages and the staple that got stuck in my wrist.