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Recently, I took to social media, overwhelmed by the ongoing effects of Covid. I poured my heart out in a candid post about the frustration I feel towards those who disregard Covid safety measures, while individuals like myself—who are immunocompromised or caring for those at risk—bear the burden of this pandemic. I empathize deeply with healthcare workers, who must be experiencing their own levels of trauma and fatigue. Alongside this, I disclosed my own battle with PTSD stemming from over fifteen years of medical trauma.
I didn’t intend to reveal that I live with PTSD. For many years, I simply labeled it as medical anxiety. I genuinely believed I was just dealing with anxiety related to medical issues—until I met with my therapist. During our first session, I shared my experiences and came to realize that my “white coat syndrome” might be something much deeper. After researching PTSD, I felt a sense of liberation in acknowledging my situation. Identifying the problem is a crucial first step.
If you were to cross paths with me, you might never guess that I have PTSD. Even if I shared my journey, you might perceive me as simply resilient and strong. People often commend my courage and positivity, which is true. I’m not pretending to be someone I’m not, but there’s a shadow that looms over the brightness. I’m drained, traumatized, and haunted by my past experiences.
Fifteen years ago, I found myself in the emergency room, gasping for breath and trembling. I had been ill for more than a year and visited five different healthcare providers. My symptoms included constant hunger and thirst, unexplained weight loss, chronic fatigue, depression, numbness in my extremities, weakness, and blurry vision. One doctor, frustrated by my persistent sinus infections and weight loss, dismissed me as a hypochondriac and accused me of anorexia. He was gravely mistaken.
In the emergency room, nurses took multiple blood samples and wrapped me in warm blankets. Moments later, a doctor entered, his expression grave as he reviewed my test results. He informed me I was severely ill—an undiagnosed type 1 diabetic. Within minutes, I was admitted to the ICU and placed on an insulin drip. I was fortunate to be alive, having entered a state known as diabetic ketoacidosis. My body was in crisis.
You might think that one life-altering diagnosis would suffice, but eleven years later, I discovered a lump in my breast. Initial tests were reassuring, yet I felt an unsettling intuition that something was amiss. Seeking a second opinion led to a biopsy, and weeks later, I received the diagnosis of breast cancer.
The subsequent months were filled with MRIs, genetic testing, and numerous appointments. I opted for a bilateral mastectomy with direct-to-implant reconstruction. During my recovery, I learned I had caught the cancer early enough that further treatment wasn’t necessary. While I was grateful to be a survivor, as the medical visits dwindled and life began to normalize, PTSD crept in. Anxiety became a constant companion.
I devoted myself to addressing my medical trauma in therapy, embracing meditation, exercising regularly, eating well, and attending all follow-up appointments. I reluctantly tried anti-anxiety medication, but it left me feeling fatigued. Nonetheless, I persisted. I journaled, continued therapy, and explored literature on trauma to comprehend how my experiences had altered my brain and body chemistry. I realized I was perpetually in a state of fight-or-flight.
As if my journey weren’t challenging enough, I faced a second diagnosis of breast cancer this year. I endured three surgeries, twelve rounds of chemotherapy, and now, thirty-three rounds of radiation treatment.
Staying present is a daily struggle. I find myself obsessing over medical test results and easily getting lost in research. My heart sinks whenever I receive calls from medical offices. I remember significant dates—the anniversaries of my diabetes and cancer diagnoses, along with surgery dates—feeling trapped in a cycle of fear.
Living with PTSD is often misunderstood. I can brew coffee, drive my kids around, and maintain a job, but the trauma is ever-present. I confront it daily, sometimes without realizing it. Triggers can arise from the simplest things—a song on the radio or a sterile smell. A visit to the dentist can send me spiraling back to memories of my breast cancer surgeries. When Covid emerged, I was paralyzed by anxiety. The sight of people in masks reminded me of the helplessness I felt on the operating table.
I could simply wear a mask of bravery, but that facade is exhausting. PTSD is not my entire identity, though it plays a significant role in my life. I’m actively learning to confront it through methods such as EMDR, a specialized therapy aimed at helping individuals process traumatic memories. Embarking on this journey requires courage—a quality I possess.
One cannot discern the battles someone faces merely by looking at them. PTSD does not conform to a single narrative and is not limited to specific groups, like combat veterans. Its manifestations vary among individuals; for instance, I don’t experience nightmares. PTSD is a complex issue, one that anyone who has endured trauma should be aware of. I’m grateful that my trauma can lead to growth and healing, and I believe that the path I’m on will bring me to a place of significant recovery.
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Search Queries:
- What are the signs of PTSD?
- How to cope with medical trauma?
- Is PTSD treatable?
- Understanding breast cancer treatment options
- How to support someone with PTSD
In summary, living with PTSD can be an invisible battle. My journey through medical trauma has shaped my experiences in profound ways, but I am committed to healing and growth.