Medical Update: PTSD, diapers, almost diapers, and more!

I haven't given a proper medical update in... months. Honestly maybe even a year. I will be all over the place, but as always, if you have questions, feel free to leave a comment, email me, message me on IG, and I'm happy to do my best to answer them. 

Well, the best way to start the year is with a broken mirror, am I right? Well this was this summer courtesy of Pickles and it is still right there and it is still just as broken. At this point it really just feels like a metaphor for my life, you know? 

Let's talk about PTSD though, because I am finding out that lots of people don't actually know what it is. To be honest, I would have been in that group because when you think PTSD, I think we all automatically think combat veteran struggling when they come home. Right? I remember maybe three months-ish after having Lucy my doctor flat out held my hands and said, "You aren't crazy, you have PTSD. This is normal." I know I huffed, and I refused to believe it. 

Until stupid things would happen and I would find myself struggling, sometimes out of nowhere, and I didn't really have any other explanation for it. I've been in therapy for six full years now and I am able to recognize my triggers, I have coping strategies for different situations, and I also know how to manage my self-talk so I don't get to the point of needing the coping situations, if that makes sense. 

Cue December. 

Olivia and Jackson were finishing up their senior project hours for school, which was them participating in the Penney's From Heaven project. Different businesses in the community have Christmas trees full of tags with items the family(ies) chosen need. It's always a family (or multiple families as donations allow)who have been hit with especially hard times outside of their control. (We were a recipient in 2016, the same year we had Lucy and it's been important to our family that we give back, very much a pay-it-forward for us.)

We bought a lot of items, lots of different tags and I didn't even look at the tags I was picking up. One of the tags was a pack of diapers. Now, a normal person would walk in, grab the diapers, and keep it moving. Not me, lambs! 

Instead, I break into a cold sweat, that turns into a gross, weird sweat, my face, neck and chest turn read, and I start shaking because I feel like my blood pressure is going out of hand. Enough for Jackson to notice and nicely ask what the hell is wrong with me. There isn't anything wrong with me, I'm just freaking out for whatever reason. Baby things are really hard, even still. 

Also hard? The OB office. I hadn't been in here since November 2016, where I had the worst panic attack I had ever had (except I didn't know that's what it was). I learned that it isn't OK to break out in tears and tell people I died having a baby, and that they might die. Yup. I'm not even kidding. 

Fortunately, this time when I had a panic attack, I was steadily going through my coping things and I was able to get through the time in the waiting room. I cried, but quietly, and not to the point that I'd scare anyone. I do need to have a follow up OB appointment but it'll be in a new office so that was officially the last time I would ever see this waiting room. Which is bittersweet. *sigh*

Let's talk adult diapers though. Thankfully, I am not there. My god, I'm only 40, almost 41. I will say that four children has really taken a toll on me but also, the last two were REALLY hard on me and my insides. (I'm not naming anyone specifically, but Penelope was the largest baby, so..) None of my abdominal muscles do a damn thing so it is a surprise to nobody that it is the worst experience having a chest cold when your bladder and muscles have become squatters doing nothing in this house. Every time I would cough, I pee. Sneeze? Pee. God forbid you get the combo of a sneeze/cough, big trouble. I also have no idea where the hell it is coming from because if I pee, you'd think there would be nothing to sneak out, right?? RIGHT?? 

WRONG, loser. Wrong. 

Enter the incontinence pads and the little old lady doing me a solid at Target. Not only did I hear her entire journey from romps in a car with her husband when her hip was still good and he was alive, how she has three children but only one is grateful and in the will, and she's onto full diapers herself, but helpfully pointed me to the pads she recommends. (And then told me to get diaper cream because I might chafe and that it is no fun.) (I did not buy the cream and it was no fun.)

So that's where I'm at now. 

Between that now wishing I took eye serum more seriously in my early 30's because I'm paying for it now, that's for sure. (Get a good serum, ladies! Moisturize your damn face! Wear sunscreen!) My eyelashes are lightening, my hair is changing, my skin is thinning, wrinkles are popping up, and I feel like I'm in that weird zone that people panic in. I'm scared to get old, but I'm also not going to sadly cling to the youth that is packing up and leaving out the door. It's funny how we were desperately to be a grown up and now here we are and we want to stay young. 

Crazy times. 

But stay tuned because this coming week I'm going to update medical stuff by specialty, because I have hit them all, I think. Well, no. But if this was a Girl Scout badge, I'd have a pretty full sash, we can say that. 

Four years of flowers.

I realized I've had this post in drafter since a few days after Lucy's birthday and I'm not sure why I didn't post it. I'm going to post it now because I use my blog as a journal of sorts and I find myself going back to read things from previous years to maybe understand where I was at.  

**

It is really strange to think Lucy is four. Every year I struggle with her birthday and I really hate it. I hate that her birthday, which is a time that I should celebrate and be grateful I have this amazing little kid, is also synonymous with the worst thing that has ever happened to me. It's the source of my trauma and the starting point of all of the things I struggle daily with. 

I hate that it is the same event. 

Most every year I think her birthday is going to be the worst, maybe the hardest day. And every year I forget that it is always the day before that is a struggle for me. I think maybe because I don't remember anything from the day she was born, which is certainly a blessing and a curse all on its own. The day before her birth is the last memories I have of my old life. When everything was easier, it made a little more sense, I had a little more control. 

On that day, I was in tremendous pain, I didn't feel well. I was sick to my stomach, everything on my body hurt, I was swelling up in weird places, I felt faint and dizzy the entire day. I had Olivia and Penelope at exactly 39 weeks so the goal was to walk this baby out because the next day, I would be exactly 39 weeks. 

It was mid morning so we went to Canal Park, that's where I successfully walked a baby out before. The kids pretended to be tourists, we threw some rocks in. We went to eat lunch at Grandma's Restaurant, just like before I had Olivia. 

After lunch, all of us went to the Rose Garden/Leif Erikson Park. We hadn't ever taken the kids there and we thought it was weird. It was starting to get hot. There were artists on the walkway and a woman with interesting art that she was giving away on magnets. I don't remember looking at her art, but I remember her giving me a magnet and telling me it would all work out. Thinking that was strange, I put the magnet in my purse. It's actually still on my fridge because I feel like I can't throw it out. 

Penelope was obsessed with flowers that summer so we spent so much time sniffing flowers, right up until her nap time. The last thing I remember of my old life is getting into the cry with everyone crabby and Penelope crying. 

That's it. 

Every year I think about that day. The last few years I've gone to Leif Erikson Park by myself. It's usually been after a doctor appointment or something, so I've always been basically right there. Every year I've sat on a park bench, looking at the lake, and cried. 

Alone. 

And I've been OK with that. I'm not sad because I'm alone. I'm sad because I struggle with being happy and being sad and being angry. I have a hard time being all of those things. I feel like if I'm angry, I can't be happy. If I'm happy, people think I've moved on and I haven't. I won't move on from this. 

This year though, I asked Matt if we could do our nightly walk there instead. 

Because he's such a great guy and he gets it because he has memories of his own from those days that he doesn't share with me, he said yes. 

So that's what we did. 

We did our whole walk, mostly in silence. I looked at the lake. I tried hard to not cry. I don't know if you know this, but if you sit on a bench, staring at the lake, and you are silently crying, people think you are mentally ill and unsafe. You get the quick glances, people point, some laugh, but nobody asks if you're OK. 

This year I had Matt though. He doesn't do any of those things. I didn't cry on the bench, though. I think maybe I was all cried out from earlier in the day, though. He will hold my hand and pull my hair back when it gets sticky on my face from the humidity. He doesn't say anything. Maybe he's thinking his own things. Life hasn't been the same for him either. He doesn't have the same wife, the same partner. We both make do with what we have. 

A theme I've really struggled with this year is being grateful and being angry and sad at the same time. I've worked a lot on it in therapy. I've thought a lot about it. I still do. 

So imagine my surprise when, on our way out of the park, I literally stumbled on this: 

I didn't even notice until Matt said the established year is the same year we got married. Maybe I'm just an actual klutz and the world is a coincidence. Maybe its something more. I don't know. 

On Lucy's actual birthday my friend Amy sent me flowers. Of course I cried. 

Then my friend Tammy sent me flowers. Of course I cried again. I am lucky, and grateful, to have friends who know those days are really awful for me. I know I don't even have to tell them those are hard days and I am at my emotional lowest point but I'm trying to be upbeat and happy because Lucy is so excited. I am lucky. I am lucky to have amazing friends, terrific kids, and a great husband. I know of other survivors who don't have that kind of support system and I don't know how they do it. I know I struggle so hard with it, I don't know what life would be like without them.  

💕

The cusp of 3.

I often wonder if I am always going to feel the way I do now about Lucy's birth. My therapist says it might change over time but it might not, because your body will always remember what happened to it, like a reflex. I might not remember, but my body does so there is a natural fear response happening. Which is such a weird thing to think about but I suppose it's true.

It's hard to tell you exactly how I feel on this day. The day before Lucy was born is my last real memory and that's not even really true because I don't have memories like you, I can't replay a scene like an old movie in my head. What I remember are the actual snapshots that we took of the day.

I remember Penelope standing next to roses at the Rose Garden in Duluth. I don't remember Olivia or Jackson. I don't remember Matt, but I remember taking this photo. It's so weird, but mostly scary, to look at this photo and know that that person died the very next day. It doesn't look like me. Well it does, but I don't recognize it as me. To me it's like looking at an ex-wife of Matt, which is weird because I know it's me..... but its not. 

It's strange to know this woman is dead. She died the very next day and somehow I'm here in that body and nothing about it feels familiar. I cannot tell you how many times I have stood in that exact same spot to see if a memory would come, would I remember standing there? Would I remember what it was like to be pregnant? Would I remember what it felt like to have a baby inside of me? 

To say this has been a hard three years is an understatement. I can't remember all of the doctor visits, the medical buildings, the procedures, the lab work, the waiting rooms, the hope, the disappointment, the frustration, the desperation, the resignation that I've had in these three years. I know its there and I guess its best if I don't remember it all. 

Not one person in the whole world can tell me that I haven't tried to get better. That I haven't marched forward, kept swimming, climbed the mountain, done the work. I have taken bad news like a champ and not told anyone. I have accepted the looks from people who think I'm crazy, I've been told to "just deal with it" and kept my mouth shut even though I want to scream, "I FUCKING AM" but I don't. I've become a better person because I really believe if I do good I will get good back and I just so desperately need that some days. 

I have confronted really awful truths from my past that I haven't told anyone, ever. Matt doesn't know. My mother doesn't know. My best friends don't know. I can see things around me a little more clearly now which is bittersweet because I realize how awful some people are and I never saw it before. I have lost friends. I at least know which ones are fair weather friends too but that comes with its own wave of disappointment. I have battled crippling depression, I have sat in darkened closets and in my car in the dead of winter wishing I could just die and thinking that being alive is really the cruelest punishment of all. 

I have confronted the things that hurt me the most. Did you know that I never look at my scar? I think sometimes maybe I don't lose weight because if I did the scar would be more prevalent on me. It's just a scar, millions of people have them and ones just like mine, it shouldn't bother me, but it does. It brings feelings of anxiety and panic. I get a tingling in my chest and I can't catch my breath. I feel fear, like something is trying to get me and I need to run.

So I don't look at it. I don't look at myself in the mirror anymore because I don't know this person or this body. I want to be old Sara so badly and I know I can't and so I feel shame. I feel shame because I'm not pretty and I'm not skinny, and no matter how many times Matt assures me I'm still attractive I don't believe him because he has to say that. 

I hate feeling broken. I hate feeling like everything in my body is malfunctioning and there isn't a fix. Sometimes I lash out. Sometimes I scream in a pillow until my voice is raw. Sometimes I go on walks and cry so hard neighbors look at me, probably wondering if I'm OK or crazy. Sometimes I sit and my car and cry. Sometimes I cry in the shower. Sometimes I cry when the girls nap.  I have to deal with everyone else and their problems and I'm dying a little more inside. I know it's daunting when I tell people it's going to be like this forever, like "Ugh, we have to help her FOREVER?!" and believe me, what you feel? I am more angry than you are. Trust me.

And then I have Lucy.  Lucy is really the best thing in the whole world. I wish I remembered what it was like to be pregnant with her. I wish I could have seen her born or remember what it was like the first moments with her. I wish I remembered what she was like as a baby. What she smelled like. I wish I could remember what her fuzzy hair felt like. How little she was. I wish I could remember her looking at me like I was the greatest thing in the world. Or what it felt like to rock her to sleep, or hold her on my chest. The irony is that I don't do well around pregnant women or little babies because they scare me and are a PTSD trigger... which I never knew was a thing until I'm in the thick of it.

It's weird to think I took this picture on Sunday, but I don't remember. I can piece things together. I know we were at Thomas the Train, I know we were on a train, I know it was summer. Anything else? I have to ask Matt because it's not there. I know I think I'll remember, I always do, and then I don't and I'm angry that I'm so stupid and thought that in the first place. But I forget how quickly I forget.

So tomorrow Lucy is 3. Tonight I'll go to bed absolutely petrified of what will happen. I'll be scared, panicky, and sad all day. I will try not to show it because I don't want to ruin her birthday. I will cry when I go to bed. I will pull it together because on Friday she has a doctor appointment and I need to pull it together. On Saturday we have her party and I will try to not cry and not ruin it. I will try to smile and be happy. Because ultimately, nobody cares. And it's OK. It's not your burden. It's not your PTSD or depression. It's not your trauma. It's not your stolen memories. You aren't broken. You don't understand where I'm at. You don't know that all the therapy in the world can't fix this and suddenly make me normal. And it's OK.

I'll keep trying anyway. I will fake it until I make it. I will get through today. And the next. And even the next after that. I can only do what I can do.

Exercises in memory

One of the things I struggle a lot with post AFE is my loss of memory. Easily the MOST annoying things is when people try to pander to me about my memory. Or try to relate. I hear a lot of, "Oh my god, I know- I'm so forgetful the older I get!" or "I get that- I can't remember last week either." and I'll be honest and tell you in my head I'm envisioning punching people in the face. I'm not proud of it but it really is a testament to the strength of my medication because I'm able to smile and nod my  head and move on quickly.

Because it is absolutely nothing like age related forgetfulness or being busy and forgetting what you did for a minute there. If you had to you could stop and think back, recall what you did generally and be able to tell someone. You can recall stories with ease and when your kids ask you what they were like as a toddler you can tell them. When your doctor asks you if you have had any problems you can talk about some symptom that's bothering you. When they ask when your last period is you give the general month at least, be able to tell them when you ate last or when you took your pills that day.

I cannot.

I cannot do any of those things.

Lately I am realizing that I forget that I forget. It's not so glaringly obvious every day to me anymore and for that I'm grateful. It's nice to forget that you forget. It's not so much of a problem then. And if I don't put any effort into remembering something, sometimes the memories is just there. Sometimes someone will say something and suddenly I have a memory, or a fragment of a memory, and I can join into a conversation like a normal person. Only the people closest to me can tell when the memory scatters away because I'll end a sentence with, "yeah... huh. I remember that." I'll abruptly end a memory as if I don't want to reveal all of it. I do. But I can't. It's gone, like I only get to borrow it as if it's not even mine.

Sometimes it's not so bad. Life gets busy and I have too much happening around me to remember what Olivia looked like when she was two. Then other times Jackson wants to see pictures of some trip he remembers and I have to desperately figure out when that was. I have tens of thousands of photos on my computer meticulously labeled but it doesn't really help most of the time because it's like looking at the life of strangers.

Then there are other times where I will try to challenge myself to remember and I start looking at old photos. I will ask the kids if they remember. I look back on old blog posts for an explanation of what we were doing, who are the people in the photos, where were we. 

Most of the time I cry. It's really hard to look through all of these memories and not have them in my mind. They are all so personal and I just want to be able to have them.  I try to imagine what I was feeling as I took the picture. Try to figure out why I chose that exact moment to snap a photo.

Sometimes it feels like having a house fire take all of your possessions. No  matter how badly you want those things back you can't have them. You can't replace them. All you have are what you can remember. 

I feel like everything has been stolen from me. It's actually pretty scary sometimes. When I forget where I live is really scary. I will often forget who I should call. How to make that call. How to ask for help. Where do you go for help. Did I have my kids with me? Maybe I forgot them somewhere and now someone has taken them and everyone is going to say I'm a bad mom. 

I worry that this is just going to get worse as I get older. I'm afraid the fact that it's not coming back isn't a good sign, like the longer I go without having my memory back means those memories are falling more and more into the recesses of my mind.

I know people try to compare their issues to mine to somehow try to make me feel better, make me think that it's really not that bad. I know it's bad. I know there isn't anything a person can say or do to make it better. You don't have to sugar coat it for me. It's OK to tell me when whatever it is that I'm experiencing isn't normal and it's damn sure not good, that it is really awful and you can't even understand it or how I do it.

It's OK to say it because I say these things to myself every day.

It's hard to look at pictures of the person that looks like me because I feel in my bones that person is gone. She really did leave and I feel like a fraud. I'm in the wrong body, the wrong life. These people think I'm this person and I'm not. I feel more disconnected than I already do. I try to think about what this mom would do in my situation. I hope I'm doing as good of a job as she obviously did. A lot of days I very much feel like I'm not up to par and my family is too nice to say so. I wonder if Matt feels a difference. I don't even dream anymore. Well, that's not true. The dreams I do have aren't ones anyone wants. It's just episodes of scary moments, a stereo playing a tape telling me I'm not supposed to be here and I need to go and all the ways I could do it, or me strapped to a table in a hospital actively dying. That's all that I dream.

It's a bizarre way to live.

But I do these exercises in memory often. I keep thinking eventually if I see these things enough my brain will come back online.

Depersonalization/Derealization Disorder. It's a real thing, apparently.

I know that was kind of a long one and it was kind of rambling, but that's just how my brain works now. I can't really fix that. (Thanks, stroke!) But if you want to learn more about Depersonalization or Derealization Disorders, you can go HERE and HERE.

Like I said in my video, I am really struggling with this piece and I feel a mix of, "finally- it's a diagnosis!" and "are you kidding me- what ELSE is wrong with me?!". I mean, on one hand it's great to get a diagnosis because you can always work with that, you can find a fix or a way to cope with it. This kind of feels daunting because the big thing to fix this is talk therapy, but I've been doing that for two years and I just.. I feel GREAT going to that but I feel kind of stuck.

There is also EMDR or CBT therapies to help with PTSD available. What my insurance would cover... I'm not sure. My next concern is I've had a stroke, so I am really nervous about doing anything that might make post stroke symptoms worse or giving me another stroke. I have read a lot of information about both and it sounds safe but I don't know... something in my gut is telling me no. It might be paranoia but I feel like my body isn't stupid. I knew something was very wrong my entire pregnancy with Lucy and I blew it off and look where that got me.

I also mentioned in the video above that I have lost a lot of friends over the last two years. Honestly, I don't blame them. It's really hard to relate to me and I know I have a hard time being the friend that I used to be. I think you get used to someone being a certain way and then they aren't so you break up with them like you would a boyfriend or girlfriend. I get that.

It doesn't mean it doesn't hurt.

I try to "reach out" but part of my issue, a big part of it, is I don't really know how to. I don't really know what I need to be better and I wonder if that makes it seem like I'm doing really well? I tell my therapist I try really hard to not let people see me struggle. I don't want to be seen as helpless, or stupid, or let people see me cry for no reason or wince in pain, all of it. I don't want people to feel sorry for me.

Then she asked me why not? If that's my reality, why am I hiding it?

I don't know if it's because it's a pride thing or if I don't want to make other people feel uncomfortable. Because I know I always felt awkward when someone was disabled in some way and its like, do you hold the door for them? Help them sit? Do you ask if they understand the menu? Like what do you do to be helpful without being rude and assume they can't help themselves?

Even with my family or the people who interact with me fairly often, I hide it. You don't see me cry a few tears in the bathroom because I just can't do it anymore. Or I'm just around the corner wincing in pain and breathing through it. Or I'm biting the inside of my cheek because my stomach hurts so bad I can barely breathe. Or I'm so physically exhausted walking my kid into preschool that I want to burst into tears. Or I'm so exhausted that I want to sleep the rest of the day and I'm desperate for someone to just take over for me. I can't call in sick. I have help and people I can call but I hate being dependent on people. I hate burdening them with my issues. They didn't ask for this. I didn't either, but it's my cross to bear.

So it is really hard. When I say I'm hanging in there, it's all of this and then some. I'm having a hard time juggling all of it with my appointments. I'll be honest and say there are times I'm SO EXHAUSTED by it all that when a doctor asks how I am I just say fine because where do I start? Every single thing is awful. I don't know what is worth mentioning, who I tell it to. No doctor wants that person to show up on their list that day. They must dread seeing my name come up. And I get it. I feel like a burden to medical people now, too.

So that's how things are going for me.

Ha.

Do you have questions about any of it? I guess I can answer questions better than just blindly talking about stuff. You can ask here in the comments or shoot me an email: sarastrand9438 AT hotmail DOT com.

Reliving trauma.

One of the things I had never understood with PTSD victims is when they would discuss "reliving trauma" and how small things can be big triggers. I didn't fully understand what a trigger is or why it's a big deal.

Until now.

I totally get it. For the last year that I've been in therapy I have been told that eventually I'll learn what my triggers are, but that doesn't mean I won't add to that list, and some things might end up being OK in time. It all seemed really vague and I don't really do well with vague. Give me a concrete answer, a list of tasks to complete, that I can work with. Maybe that's been my problem this entire time- I know that I'll never be the me I was before Lucy, that ship has sailed without me on it, so what am I working towards? How will I know I have gone as far as I'm going to? Where is the finish line?

Nobody knows.

It's frustrating and I get so angry when I try to give myself some end goals, things I want to work towards. I spent my whole life perfecting myself and getting to a point where I was happy. Remember when I went through my weight loss and running phase? That was always something I was going to do again, after I was done with babies. I was looking forward to it, oddly enough. I can't do that now because I have serious issues to contend with now that I make no cortisol, I can't take enough synthetic in fast enough to compensate the stress that running would do. So what do I do in place of it? Remember when I was doing more for myself in terms of self care? I was going to concerts, going on trips with friends, taking the kids on adventures... a lot of that is gone too. Well, I can do them but I can't do them alone. The days of me driving to Chicago on a whim? All night road trip? That's all gone. It's hard because a lot of the things that brought my joy are no longer reasonable options for me. I have to find new things that bring me joy.

You know what's strange? You know how in the book Me Before You where the character wants to die because he's paralyzed and only thinks of the things he can't do and doesn't want to find new things? He knows that the new things, while they might be OK, they aren't like the old things he loved and he won't get the rush from them like he used to- and that's what he misses. Not the activity itself but the way it made him feel? So he arranges his suicide and that's the story. That's how I feel. I'm not at arranged suicide level but I finally understand his point of view. I could never imagine how a person feels when they get to the point of wanting to be done. I used to always think it was such a selfish act but now that I'm in it, I'm swimming in those waters, I finally understand that it has nothing to do with anyone else. It's really a battle against our own brains. Sure, we can "reach out for help" but for what? So people can tell us all the reasons why we're great and that they'd miss us? What if that isn't enough to keep us here? Do you think that we don't know all of this? Forgive me if I don't reach out to be lectured. The voice inside of my head is loud enough, I don't need it on the outside too.

My psychiatrist said an interesting thing at my recent appointment, "if you wanted to be dead, you would have already done it" - is that true? Is that really the litmus test for that? I'm not sure. I've thought about it a lot and I don't know that I agree. I think I've thought so much about it, I'm very much that person who wants to be sure. So I keep going to doctors, I keep trying to find solutions and fixes, ways to cope with all of this, because I really just want them to say, "We've done everything that we can, this is really it" and then I'd be done. I'm starting to suspect they all know that and are purposely telling me we have lots of things yet to try.

At my last therapy appointment I was challenged to write Lucy's birth story, involving not just the narrative I've been given, but incorporating much more detail. Think about the event from all angles and maybe I'd remember something. Anything. How do I think I was feeling being rolled into a c-section I didn't want? Do I remember a smell? Lights? What was it like holding Lucy? Was I scared to not remember? What did the nurses think? Did I say anything to them? How long was I really dead? What is every single medical event on the timeline?

All of this feels really challenging. A rational part of me says that my memory blocks things out for a reason, that maybe I shouldn't press into this, that maybe I'm not emotionally able to handle it. Then I feel defiant because I'll be damned if someone tells me what to do. So I've reached out to all of the medical personnel that I can think of. I know they have gone over this with me a hundred times but I can't help it, I have to hear it again.

In the meantime, I'm going through the records I requested from the hospital again and man... it's traumatic. I have read these maybe 15 times, nothing in this is new to me but every time I read it I feel panic rising in my chest and I don't know if I'm remembering the fear of the event again, but it is scary.

Another thing I'm going to reluctantly try? Regression therapy. I heard about it in Steph Arnold's book 37 Seconds, she really had a hard time connecting with her AFE event because she couldn't see it happening. Which is exactly how I feel. As traumatic as it would have been, I wish I had more pictures, or video, to look at so I can wrap my head around it. The few that I do have don't even look or feel like me. It feels like I'm looking at someone else. It's strange. I've reached out to someone near me that thinks he can do it and I'm scared. I feel like I need to do it but I'm scared.

Learning about PTSD, flashbacks, and a reflection of one year.

I have to start this post by sharing with you the very last memory I have before everything goes blank. That would be the day before I gave birth to Lucy, July 31, 2016, and our trip to the Rose Garden. It's worth noting that even that post freaked me out because in all of my therapy sessions I talk about the walk around the Rose Garden, I remember what Penelope was wearing and how excited she was to see flowers- she had been obsessed with flowers. I remember not feeling well and having to go home.

I don't remember going to Canal Park, or even eating lunch at Grandma's Restaurant, the same place Matt and I ate at while I was in early labor with Olivia.

This would be the last photo of me before I gave birth. It feels weird to look at things, photos, and not have any memory of it.

I remember when I started counseling, I think in September, I was convinced I didn't really need it. That my depression would go away once my memory came back and I could get my health back to pre-pregnancy normal and get off of all my medications. Then I started going to follow up care and I learned that I'd be on the medication for life because it keeps me alive, my memory likely won't come back but they don't really know because the brain is a strange (and fickle) thing, and that not only did I have depression and anxiety, but I had PTSD too. I absolutely scoffed at that and thought, absolutely not. I just had a crap experience giving birth- sure, I died and was revived, but that's not the end of the world.

I remember the moment where it hit me that I absolutely had PTSD and it scared the crap out of me: it happened in the OB waiting room for my 6-8 week check up. I was surrounded by women in various stages of pregnancy and I freaked out. I had my first actual panic attack and I had to hide in the bathroom until my name was called because I couldn't handle being in there. I was absolutely terrified. I thought it was just a phase and I discovered over this year that nope- definitely not a phase. At least not yet, because pregnant women scare me. I can save face and not freak out but as soon as I turn away I melt down.

Over the course of this year I've had all kinds of panic and anxiety attacks, I have nightmares and flashbacks. Logically, I know this can never happen to me again. I will never have another Amniotic Fluid Embolism. I'm still terrified. The fact that you can have a perfectly healthy pregnancy and still end up in this situation, or worse, it unsettling. I had a stroke, I hemorrhaged, but I did everything right. What's to say something bizarre won't happen to me again? I take my medications diligently, I track my water and salt intake so I don't become imbalanced, I watch my diet, manage my sleep, etc and yet... it doesn't really matter, does it? I could die of some other freak thing.

The worst part over the last few weeks is the intense chest pain. Or the time I felt like I was having ACTUAL labor contractions. More nightmares. Flashbacks of my labors with Olivia and Jackson. It's been horrible. My counselor explained to me about PTSD and how just because I don't remember what happened to me, my body does. A lot of what I'm experiencing is body memory and I have to recognize that in that moment, and I have some breathing exercises to do to help bring my anxiety down.

And it kind of works. Then I get so upset that I can't remember, WHY CAN'T I REMEMBER? I feel like I would be in such a different place in my recovery if I had memories of being in labor, being wheeled to surgery, holding my baby for the first time- all of it was robbed from me and I'm so angry. You know what makes me more angry? Being told this whole year, "wait until you're a year out, it'll be a different scenario" and here I am, and it's the same. Sure, I'm not wandering off or totally out of it anymore, but everything else remains the same. I'm in pain every day. I can't remember things from day to day, I've discovered I've lost long term memories too, and managing my health is so difficult. I know we're supposed to embrace major life changes and go and make things even better, but I'm struggling. I'm a year out, and I'm no better in all of the ways that matter to me.

So as I get ready to celebrate Lucy turning one, and I realize I have no memories of her first months and I can't tell you when she hit any milestones, I'm really having a hard time. I'm trying to keep it together because it's HER birthday, but in my mind it's an anniversary for me and I am struggling.

Almost one. Trigger happy.

I had been noticing the last few weeks that my sleeping patterns have been worse than usual, which isn't saying much because I don't sleep well as it is anyways. I have been feeling irritable and on edge, panicky, and nervous. I feel like running and I don't know why. I feel scared, terrified and I couldn't figure out why.

Until last week when Olivia asked me what we were doing for Lucy's birthday. And then it dawned on me. She's going to be one soon. I'm having a PTSD trigger episode. I vaguely remember my counselor telling me I may or may not experience this, not everyone does, but here I am.

The closer I get to Lucy's birthday the more scared I get. I have no reason why, rationally I know I have no reason to be scared, I know I'm not going to die again. I'm home, my medications are managed, my health is managed as well as it can be, the Amniotic Fluid Embolism could not have been predicted nor prevented, I did nothing wrong, all of this I know.

I know it.

Logically, I know it.

Mentally and emotionally?

I'm terrified. I'm nervous. I'm angry. I'm reliving all of the emotions I've spent the last year working on moving past. I'm angry that any of this has happened to me. I feel like I'm being punished. If I hadn't wanted more children, this wouldn't have happened. I should have just been happy with what I had.

I feel guilty for feeling that way. There are millions of people in the world who would give anything to have a baby and look at me, being a hot mess of a mom. They could be doing a better job. They could love them better.

I feel frustrated because this entire year every doctor has told me, "it's only been XX months, wait until it's been a year, you'll be so much better" and now we're approaching that year and surprise... I'm not better. I'm not like I was the day I came home, thankfully, but I'm still not the Sara I was when I went to the hospital on August 1, 2016. Aside from my pituitary issues and my water regulation issues which bore people to death but are life threatening and serious, its my depression and memory issues that scare me the most. I can't remember to feed my baby. You'd think by kid four feeding and and changing a diaper would become muscle memory but it doesn't. I forget I have to feed Lucy. Or change her diaper. Put her in for a nap. Driving? I run red lights. Stop signs. I can't figure out four way stops. I space out if the radio is on so I often drive without it on now because it's distracting for me. I never drive with just the babies in the car because I'm convinced I'll forget them in van. Reading books isn't as easy as it was, it takes me longer because sometimes I don't understand what I'm reading. If I'm tired I can't understand what people are saying. If someone gives me directions I won't remember them. I can't count coins without help. I'll start crying for no reason. Stress makes my ability to remember and do things go right out the window.

I went in as me and I came out as a totally different person and nobody told me how to do that. Nobody told me how to get used to people treating me differently because I'm not the same.

I spent this weekend looking at some of Lucy's pictures thinking I should start her baby book and I realize I don't know how to do that. I don't remember my pregnancy. I don't remember any of it. I don't remember giving birth to her. I get so angry that all of those first moments with her I have no memory of. She is my last baby and it feels so cruel to be punished in such a way that I don't have the memory of holding her the first time. It's bad enough that I don't remember delivering her but to not remember having her handed to me and getting to kiss her? It's awful.

That's what I keep saying to my therapist, that I don't think people truly understand what it's like to have died and then come back from that and then be missing entire chunks of memory. It's not like I'm missing things like what I ate for breakfast today, I'm missing my wedding day. Birth of my children. Major events of my life, those are things I can't recreate. Those are gone. It's not like a vacation and you think, well- I'll just go there again and use my pictures as a road map! Nope, I can't make another Lucy. Or another Jackson. I can't get married again.

Sigh.

So yes. Almost one year. It's hard. I'm getting there. I'm trying. I'm trying so hard. I don't know what I'm going to be like on the actual day, I'm almost scared to think about it to be honest.