The Aftermath of Trauma

Last night I had a dream. I was in a restaurant with my mum and my son, and we discovered that friends of ours were sitting a few tables away with their kids.

My mum brought my son and the other kids into the play area so we could sit and have a glass of wine with our friends while he was entertained.

I was anxious about this and a few minutes after he went to the play area I decided to check on him, only to find that someone had taken him. And that was it. He was gone.

The night before this I had another dream. He was playing football with friends. The game was over and he did not come out of the dressing room. So I went to get him, and walked inside to find him slumped over, lifeless, on the floor.

I have these dreams almost every night. I dream that he is taken from me, in some scenario or another. I never know it is going to happen, I am never in control. And in every dream, I lose him. Over and over, night after night.

In July this year, in real life, we nearly did lose him. He was hurt, very badly, and experienced mental and physical trauma that no kid ever should. Trauma that I witnessed seconds after it happened, trauma that I have struggled to remove from my mind, like a heavy fog that hangs around day after day, despite other storms blowing in.

Months later, we find ourselves here, in the strange aftermath of what happened, thanking our lucky stars for skilled doctors, and discussing the wonder that is the human body, while passing our days in a place that looks so much like home, that looks like ‘normal life’, but feels so very different.

Every day now is just like every day before; there’s getting dressed, and making dinner, and helping with schoolwork, and walks in the park, and watching TV, but with the newly added addition of jumping out of bed in the middle of the night gasping for breath, and catastrophizing normal situations when someone else is looking after your child, and the all too regular thinking you’re on the verge of a heart attack when you hear kids playing, because for a brief horrifying moment you think it’s your child screaming because he is hurt.

Every day I look at him, and there he is, absolutely fine, and then I’m reminded in the exact same moment of what happened, of what we went through, of running through the doors of the Emergency Room, holding his blood-soaked hand, and promising him again and again that he wasn’t going to die, even though I didn’t know if it was true, and hearing someone screaming help us, help us, only to realise that it was me.

In all honesty, I’m not exactly sure what putting these words down will do, or what effect the telling of this trauma will have. But I feel it’s time to put a marker in the sand, in the hopes that it will propel me forward, and allow me to think about what happened without becoming completely, heart-poundingly overwhelmed. Because this is what’s happening. This is my day-to-day.

Maybe writing about it will help take the power of what happened away, and help me realise that yes; it could have been a lot worse, but it wasn’t. And we’re here, and he’s alive. And actually, despite everything, we’re going to be fine.

I’ve read so much about the aftermath of trauma, and its impact, trying to find myself in the text, so that I can immediately read the paragraph about how to fix it. But all I’ve come across is lessons, and learnings, and the correct approach, dos and don’ts. Where is the quick fix when you need it?

There is none, the research says, infuriatingly. But there are definitely lessons to be learned. Lessons to learn about yourself, lessons to learn about resilience, and coping mechanisms, and approaches, and what to do. And there is one very strong don’t, repeated over and over again - and that is to never turn away.

Trauma is like a tidal wave, it says, absolutely fine when you observe it, and watch it, and respect it. But an absolute monster when you turn your back.

So here I am, not turning my back, ready to learn, ready to talk about it by putting virtual pen to paper.

And that will have to do for now.

Simone Gannon, November 2020.