‘Good luck tonight,’ I call to her.
Alice
It’s exactly eight steps from the pavement to the front door, plus two more steps to the sign-in board inside and four more down to the room where the support group is being held. That’s a lot of stairs. The door is wedged open by what looks like the Bible. I’m apparently early so I scribble ‘Alice W.’ on the sign-in board and take a flyer.
Coping with Survivor’s Remorse?
You are not alone. Survivor’s remorse – otherwise known in the medical field as survivor syndrome – is a psychological condition associated with the feelings of surviving a traumatic event when others did not.
I stop reading past the sixth line and fold the flyer, tucking it inside my jacket pocket, my fingers trembling with nerves. The meeting room is more of a small function hall with chairs arranged in a circle all facing inwards. Next to the entrance is a long folding table with an array of soft drinks and paper plates filled with cookies and muffins. I shakily slosh some apple juice into a plastic cup and cradle it in the crook of my elbow as I balance a couple of cookies. I make my way to ‘the circle’ and choose the chair nearest the door, for quick and efficient exiting if need be.
Next in after me is a tall boy, dressed in skinny jeans and a gray hoodie. He heads straight for the snack table. He turns and heads towards me. ‘Oatmeal and raisin,’ he simply says before folding into the chair next me.
‘What?’
He points to the napkin of cookies in my lap. ‘Oatmeal and raisin.’
‘Oh, I thought the raisins were chocolate chips,’ I mutter.
‘Beginner mistake. They never spring for the chocolate chip here.’ He’s wearing a name badge, stuck to his shirt pocket. WYATT. ‘Why not chocolate chip?’ he continues. ‘Or better yet, let’s splash out and offer triple chocolate.’
Two more people come in. A blonde woman who’s very overdressed – unless she’s going out to a bar right after this, which in London she might be – and an older gentleman in a white shirt and evening chinos, dressed like he genuinely thought he was getting a church service tonight and not this.
‘You’re not wearing a name badge,’ Wyatt whispers to me.
‘What?’
He gestures to the table in the corner that has a cup full of markers and pens, and a roll of sticky white labels.
‘Oh, thanks.’ I fumble at the table, taking an embarrassingly long time to write the five letters of ALICE in various colors and styles. It’s all about first impressions. Then I carefully attach the sticker to my chest, being mindful not to pat the ink that’s still wet.
The door shuts loudly and I spin around, marker still in hand.
‘Hey, everyone, sorry I didn’t get here earlier. The tube was rammed tonight.’ A short, stocky guy rushes in, a notepad under his arm. A thick beard covers half his face. He notices me and a big smile spreads across his face. ‘Oh, a newbie tonight, nice. Welcome. I’m Ian.’ He waves at me from across ‘the circle.’
The Circle. Sounds like we’re all partaking in a cult ritual tonight. Maybe we are.
‘Come, join us.’
I return to my place, the oatmeal and raisin cookies still sitting on a napkin under my chair.
‘Nice design choice,’ Wyatt winks, pointing to my name badge.
Ian clears his throat and talks directly to me. Everyone else must be a regular here. ‘All of us here suffer from PTSD in one form or other, whether it be physical or emotional, myself included. Trauma is trauma, no matter how or where you feel it. I began these meet ups over three years ago with an emphasis on psychological and emotional safety, and recovery. I’m not a doctor or a psychologist so if your GP is recommending you see one, please do that.’ He waves to the door I just came through. ‘You’re not late – come in, Sara.’
Another girl joins the circle, totaling six. More than I expected here tonight.
‘So, here we are. Together. Supporting each other.’
I don’t know why but I suddenly feel guilty, like I’m cheating on Jack or something by coming here without him. We just spent so much time together over the summer, and what happened to us was very much our shared tragedy – but now I’ll be sharing it with others, with strangers. And my story is so fused with Jack’s that it’ll be hard to share mine without sharing his. I wish he were here beside me but tonight I’m here alone. And after Jack gets his new legs, and returns to his old life which is all he talks about, then I might find myself alone more often. I’m happy Jack’s getting the prostheses, I am. It’s just hard seeing him move forward while I just feel stuck, trapped, reliving that morning at Leicester Square over and over in my mind.
Damn, I forgot to bring tissues with me tonight, and I already feel wetness pooling in the corner of my eyes.
‘Alice, do you want to share anything about yourself with the group?’
I look up and realize everyone is staring at me.
‘Um … no I’m okay,’ I stammer.
‘It’s okay,’ Ian says. ‘It’s a safe place here.’
Nowhere is safe.
An engine roars to life outside the hall window and I suddenly spring up on my feet. Warmth swirls in my belly, and I start to feel short of breath.
‘Alice?’
They’re all still staring at me.
The engine gets louder. It’s so loud it’s hurting my ears. Does no one else hear it? Why are they not covering their ears like me?
I can’t hear Ian, but I see he’s up out of his chair walking towards me. I stumble back and grab my bag from under the chair. It knocks the cookies off the napkin onto the dusty floor. Then I hurry to the door. I hear my name called as I rush down the hall and up the stairs back to the main lobby.
When I get to the car park, I don’t hear my name anymore. It’s raining again. I take a deep breath and gulp the night air wildly. My chest still throbs and hurts, like I’m having a heart attack. I stumble through the parked cars and sit down on the edge of the pavement that faces out to the cemetery. I’m still wearing the name badge. The raindrops hit the letters and they start dripping, sliding off the label until it muddies the name so much that I can’t see an ‘A’ anymore. Soon I’m wearing a label that looks like it’s been tie-dyed with an array of rainbow colors.
I slide my phone out of my coat pocket, bringing the flyer with it. It falls to the ground beside my boots, landing in a puddle. I stare at it, floating, wet. Now I see books in the puddle, an umbrella, a cup on its side with coffee spilling out into the rain. I see Jack, running past me. I feel him, running into me. My chest hurts again. I frantically type out a message to Jack, the words all jumbled and hurried. He calls right away. As his voice calms my breathing, my eyes flicker to the flyer still floating in the puddle, absorbing all the water, then sinking to the bottom beyond reach.
Jack
‘Right, Jack, just a little more.’
My hands grip the metal bars, sweat starting to make them slide. I tighten my fingers around the bars. I’ve lifted more weight than this hiking. I had to shoulder Euan’s weight once when he went over his ankle climbing the Cuillin Munros on the Isle of Skye. This is just my own weight and I’m a lot lighter than Euan. This should be easy for me. But it’s not.
‘Can you go a little further?’
I nod, not wanting to look weak by saying no but this is burning my shoulders. I try to take a deep breath in and start to inch further down the bars to where the blue mat meets the shiny tiled surface. Breath gets trapped in my airways as I clench my jaw and start to struggle. My arms buckle first, folding at the elbows. Patrick, my physiotherapist, thrusts his hands out and catches me.
‘Good work, Jack. That’s the furthest I’ve seen you go. You’re getting stronger.’
I know he’s probably right, but none of this feels any easier now than compared to my first few sessions and I don’t feel like I’m making progress at all. But I’ve lost a lot of muscle mass since March, progress is going to be slow building it back up. I need to
be kinder to myself. I’m still in a great position for the legs to be fitted. Besides, it just feels so good to be back in a gym, strength-training. I’m feeling more and more like my old self.
Noises from the rear corner pull my attention as Patrick helps me transfer my weight back to the wheelchair. I sink into it, a sigh escaping my throat. Sweat drips down my back. I glance over and see another amputee in the back. He’s older than me, broader in the shoulders. He steadies himself on the bars for a brief second then glides down them seemingly without any effort. He turns at the end, momentarily shifting his weight to one arm to do so, and comes back. His amputations seem above the knee like mine, but from his clothes and the silver chain I see swinging from his neck I’d say he lost his legs in war not the bombings here in London.
It’s just the two of us here in the training room today so it seems bigger than usual. There are long silver bars like you’d find in a gymnastics class, equipment machines, a couple of treadmills and rowers, and a line of stationary bikes mounted at various inclines. Last week there were about five of us plus the physiotherapists and I could barely hear Patrick. I glance back again, that veteran guy is the only one I’ve seen here with a double amputation like me. I wonder how long he’s been coming here? Is he waiting for prosthetics too?
‘Doing OK otherwise?’ Patrick balances his coffee cup in one hand and his calendar in the other.
‘Yeah, I’m fine.’ My chest heaves in and out as I try to regulate my breathing. My body feels so foreign to me now. I don’t recognise any sensation. Everything I sense physically is new and unfamiliar, and sometimes scares me. I feel pain where I shouldn’t. Last night I felt like I had an itchy foot. I know there’s nothing there but it still itched, and when I couldn’t relieve the itching it just got worse. The doctor said these are just ‘phantom pains’ and normal for amputees, but sometimes they’re so strong that they keep me awake at night. I wonder if I’ll still continue to get them once the artificial limbs are fitted?
‘We’re getting close. Only two weeks away until the prostheses come in, right?’
‘Hopefully the socket mould fits this time.’
‘Are you still keeping up with the skin desensitisation programme?’
‘Every night. I’ve been massaging my thighs and rubbing them with a warm damp face cloth.’
‘Good. How about the compression bandages I gave you? They’ll really help prevent a build-up of fluid around the area where they’ll attach the socket.’
‘I’m wearing them right now.’
‘Great. You’re doing everything you should be doing.’
‘How long after do you think I’ll be able to walk unassisted?’
‘Well, typically the rehabilitation treatment for prostheses is extensive and long. We need to strengthen the muscles in your core, back and arms, improve your stamina and endurance overall, so you’re able to cope better with the demands of wearing not one but two artificial limbs. You’re essentially learning how to walk all over again.’
‘And running? When can I run?’
‘You’re eager to get back at it,’ he smiles.
‘Of course. I want to do everything I did before.’ That’s why I’m doing this, to get back to the old Jack. The only Jack I know, and the only Jack my dad knows. ‘So I’ll be able to run normally again?’
‘Not “normally”, your stride will be different to accommodate for the artificial limbs but yeah, after a lot of treatment and training, and if you continue to keep doing what you’re doing to ensure a successful prosthesis attachment then I can’t see why not.’
I turn round and see the veteran back in his chair. For a second we make eye contact, each looking at one another’s injuries. He’s relaxed in his chair, like it’s simply an extension of his body. He wheels it with ease and turns smoothly with one hand. He looks strong, effortless. He makes jokes with his physio and swings back in his chair, momentarily balancing on just the back wheels. I feel so clunky and awkward in mine compared to him. Although I’ll be out of it soon.
‘That’s Charlie. He’s here all the time. He doesn’t stop training. Why don’t you go over and say hi?’ says Patrick kneeling down to me.
‘No, it’s fine.’
‘You sure? I know he doesn’t look it, but he is actually friendly.’
‘Maybe next time.’ I start to push myself towards the door. ‘Same time tomorrow?’
‘You’re not scheduled in until Friday.’
‘You free tomorrow, though?’
‘Well, yeah, I could see you between half one and half two, but don’t you want to take it easy, rest for a day or so?’
‘I’m not going to get out this chair by taking it easy.’ I start pushing harder, feeling an uncomfortable strain in my shoulders. I’ll have to ice them tonight to prevent inflammation like last time. ‘See you at half one tomorrow,’ I call back.
Alice
When I open my eyes, I see a white-rimmed corkboard lying on the floor, and my mom. She’s on top, holding me. She’s saying my name, over and over again. I hear my breathing, heavy and erratic, and I feel sweat down my back. My hands are shaking. I blink hard and gaze around the room. I’m at home, in my bedroom. Beside my mom are a stack of books she got for me scattered wildly across the floor like they’ve been knocked over: Understanding PTSD: The Journey to Finding Peace, Overcoming Your Fears, Controlling the Mind, and my favorite title, From Surviving to Thriving. I haven’t looked at any of them.
My breathing slows and my body calms, the fatigue instantly setting in. ‘What happened?’
My mom holds me tight. ‘Ssh. It was just another panic attack. It’s okay. You’re safe.’ She strokes my hair. ‘You’re safe,’ she says again.
I wriggle out of her grasp and sit back against the corkboard that fell, still panting, chest still heaving. I sound like I’ve run a marathon. I feel like it too. Why does this keep happening to me? Why is it getting worse?
‘Please, Alice, see a doctor with me.’
‘Mom, I’m fine,’ I stammer. I tried therapy, I tried the support group Dad recommended, none of that worked. What else is there?
‘Alice, you’re not. Maybe we should call the therapist and get you back there. Or we can look into checking you in to a private PTSD clinic, or—’
‘Mom, stop.’ My head is throbbing.
She stands up and starts pacing slowly. ‘I’ll call the GP again. Maybe there’s medication that will help?’
Medication? I need drugs now? ‘Mom, I don’t need to see a doctor or a therapist, or go to a stupid church peer group or read any of the self-help books you’ve been getting me from the library that are totally useless, or pop pills. I don’t need any of that!’
‘Then what, Alice? What do you need? Please tell me, because your dad and I don’t know how to help you. We don’t know what to do anymore.’ She slides down the door and drops to her knees beside me. She cries, wiping tears away with the back of her hand.
I scoot over and put my arms around her. She grips me tightly. When I finally let go, she’s stopped crying. She tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear like she used to when I was younger, and brushes the tears off my cheeks. I wrap around her again for another hug, resting my head on her shoulder. I gaze at the corkboard that I knocked over during the panic attack. It lies on its side, filled with flathead pins securing photos of the summer just past. The photos I took of Jack, the ticket stubs from Thorpe Park, a dried sprig of rosemary from the community herb patch. This is as close as I’ve come to decorating a bedroom. I always keep the walls bare, the wardrobe minimal, the drawers untouched because I never know how long I’ll be staying. Makes the move to the next place quicker and easier.
A knock from the front door downstairs startles me and my mom grips me tighter to soothe me. Then she lets go. ‘Back in a minute.’ I hear voices in the hallway, one I recognize immediately. I throw on an oversized hoodie emblazoned with my dad’s alma mater, Norwich University in Vermont, and go downstairs to meet
Jack. He smiles at me from the bottom of the stairs, his thick blond hair combed neatly to the side. He wears a gray jumper with a blue collar from his shirt sticking out, and cradles a cup holder in his lap.
‘I’ll leave you guys to catch up,’ my mom smiles, her eyes still red and puffy. ‘Jack, it was lovely to finally meet you.’
‘Pleasure is all mine, Mrs Winters.’ He nods politely as she leaves us.
‘Very charming,’ I scoff as I thud down the bottom step. ‘I didn’t expect to see you here?’
‘You canceled our cinema trip today. I wanted to check in, make sure you’re okay.’
‘Sorry. I thought I’d be able to do it, but I started to panic about being in a tight space with people sitting so close, wondering what would happen if … if …’ My breathing starts shortening again.
‘It’s okay,’ Jack says quietly. ‘I understand.’ He gestures to the backyard. ‘Want to get some air?’ We don’t have a ramp from the back door down to the grass so I sit beside him on the small patio, curled up on a cushion from the sofa. He hands me the cardboard holder from his lap, which holds three paper cups and a small cluster of sugar packets and stirrers.
‘What’s this?’
‘Figured I’d return the favor from the hospital and bring you coffee, but I didn’t know what you’d feel like so I got a selection. This is a pumpkin spice latte, this is honeycomb, and that’s a cappuccino,’ he points. ‘There was a hot chocolate but your mum stole that one. She looked like she needed it.’
I smile, reaching for a latte. ‘Thank you. My mom loves hot cocoa. And you Brits make a good one here.’
‘Thank you,’ Jack nods, like he personally made it and didn’t just buy it from the Starbucks on King Street.
I cradle the cup in my hands and gaze out at the garden, wondering if Jack has ever seen one this small in size. The air is crisp and dry, and if I breathe hard enough I can just about see my breath. We only have one tree in the garden and the branches are already stripped clean, the red and brown leaves strewn on the ground around the roots. The swing creaks eerily in the breeze.
After the Rain Page 17