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di's Insite
Coping With Flashbacks
Accidents are a good way to describe the flashbacks experienced in a sudden death seen by a survivor. In the past, a car accident with a huge truck, gave me flashbacks for months whenever a big semi-truck came rolling up behind me on the highway. If you have ever experienced a direct collision, only to barely escape with your life, then you know what I am talking about. You relive the scene for months.
As a widow who saw her husband struggling with his last breath, the flashbacks are horrendous at the most unexpected times. I read where the experience is familiar to traumatic shock victims. Dreams are frequent during the first few months, waking me in a cold sweat, with tears soaking my pillow, making it hard to wake up into reality. Yet it is the unexpected flashbacks during the day that drew fear into my mind of going out anywhere. After months of avoiding shopping or even driving more than to the post office, I began to become more alert to the signs of a sudden vision's impending pain.
At first, the shopping was avoided as others stepped in to help or supplies in the pantry slowly dwindled. Dread crept in as the knowledge came that I was being held captive by my own mind. Being a former strong-minded female had nothing to do with my ability to stop these memories. They just came whenever they liked. Though most things can be avoided by using drive-up windows, thus by-passing the familiar surroundings that triggered most of my flashbacks, there came a time when I had to face others and the inside of stores.
Stores were significant in our relationship as we always had shopped together. My husband made shopping a delight, discussing choices even when we had no intention of purchasing an item. We would walk down each aisle often in our favorite stores, becoming so familiar with the layout and brands offered that when we needed something, we could advance right to it on a future shopping trip. We delighted in finding a new product, discussing its virtues and possible uses. It was like a hobby with us to shop for home improvement items. My husband found it fun to tease me in stores, often coming up behind me for a quick pinch or kiss on the neck. We joked about finding a storage room to take out our passions with each other. Our love shone in our eyes and often we received smiles from the housewives shopping during the day hours. I loved shopping with this wonderful man!
It is no wonder then that after he died, shopping brought back memories reminding me of his absence. I found grocery shopping the worst. Food is a necessity and finally I could no longer avoid the stores' brands nor familiar aisles. Canned goods were particularly a trigger of flashbacks. I would see the brand of beans he loved, see him standing there telling me how much he loved those, feel the hug and kiss as he put it in the basket when I told him to get whatever he liked. It seems silly now, but we got great enjoyment out of pleasing each other in the little things like favorite foods. Tears would flow with these memories, and quickly I would leave the store, knowing other shoppers might understand if they knew, but hating the explaining of his recent death. I couldn't just quietly cry during those first few months; I could only rack with sobs. No matter what my intellect said about grief, it had no control over its demonstration in public places. I began to hate shopping when the flashbacks appeared suddenly following a lovingly memory. There, standing in a silent stare at some item on a shelf, remembering his sparkling blue eyes smiling at me, the scene of his dying would suddenly appear as if a giant TV screen had popped up out of the shelves. The pain was immense, flooding my senses, blurring my bumbling way out of the store as I hurried to get back to the safety of my car where loud music could be played to drown out my thoughts and sobs.
Driving was at best a struggle during those times. Carefully, I would drive home, trying to hold back the screams inside, bursting my lungs and clouding my judgment. It was a great excuse not to go out again for awhile. My family became alarmed when they realized my cabinets and refrigerator were becoming bare as I avoided food shopping. I knew the humiliation of being a mature adult, who knew I needed to conquer these fears, to let the grief flow over me, hoping to finally become less sensitive so I could function better, yet seemingly could not. I hated worrying my adult children, hated this woman I saw in the mirror who now would disappoint her spouse should he return and find her in this state. He always said I was the strong one in the relationship. I wondered if from his heavenly post, he was shaking his head in disappointment.
Making choices became a difficult task, knowing each choice had responsibilities tagged on it. One day, I yelled towards the ceiling at him, telling him I didn't know what to do anymore and blaming him for leaving me in the state of mind I now suffered daily. Afterwards, exhausted with the expressed emotions, I laid down to rest, trying not to fall asleep for fear of the nightmares beginning again. As I lay there on our bedspread we had carefully chosen from a wedding gift card, the flashback of him dying started anew. Jerking myself up quickly, I screamed at him, telling him to leave my mind alone! Prayer was my way of talking over, out loud, my frustrations to God about this torment. This time, I told God to take this awake dream and bury it with my husband. I visualized it being laid in his coffin, disappearing in his grave. It seemed to work. The flashback vanished. From then on, whenever it threatened my reality's safety, like when driving, I made myself think of that burial memory. It reassured me that I was now living and in control of my emotions.
The tears still came though on the grocery shopping trips. Now, almost five months later, certain aisles still blur my vision. My daughter insisted recently to take me grocery shopping. She had no idea of the pain it would cause both of us. Trying to make the walk down aisles quicker and avoid the tears, I made few choices, frustrating her attempts to help her mother have a healthy diet. I refused canned goods saying I didn't like leftovers so she turned towards the frozen food aisles, thinking bags would be easier to pour out smaller amounts to cook. Naturally, she was thinking of frozen dinners or small dishes of favorite foods. I glanced and somehow found the choices overwhelming. The pizza section was the last straw. There, staring at his favorite pizza, all I could think about was our disagreement over what made a pizza taste good. He liked pepperoni, I preferred a vegetable or cheese one. I actually became nauseous thinking of a pepperoni aroma in my kitchen now, standing there, not hearing my daughter repeat her question of which was my choice. Suddenly I bolted from the store, crying to my dismay on the way past puzzled customers. At the same time, this disgust at my own behavior welled up inside of me. I had shown my daughter her mother was not as strong as she had admired in the past. My pain was in humiliation, hers was in seeing her mother in this new state of confusion and heartache. I don't know who hurt more, the daughter knowing she had just wanted to help her mother, or this aging woman wanting to please her daughter. Her eyes blurred with mine as we sat in the car and discussed this problem at length. Living a few hours away increased her worry-- she could not be there quickly to help me if I should find myself unable to drive home one day.
It was the beginning of many discussions on how my safety and future would best be handled. I began anew to try to find just where I had placed my mind. For a while, I ate whatever was in the cabinets, be it crackers and peanut butter, to avoid another journey to the grocery store. Or I would find something to eat while paying for gas at stations with small stores. I told myself the extra cost for such groceries outweighed the possible accident waiting for a driver who was distracted so easily.
As the days floated by, my avoidance became an art applied to other chores in my life. My family discussed my finances and my isolation where I resided. Decisions were easy to leave to them especially as my checking account dwindled. Finally a major repair's expense forced me to consider another habitat, leaving me no choice but to leave our home for another city where my children resided. When the plans were in place, the flashbacks returned with a vengeance, perhaps out of guilt, nonetheless, to a woman exhausted from crying over her misfortunes. Leaving was done in a daze, the moving by family and friends, determined to protect me from conflicts or further pain.
Once moved, the flashbacks left. Shopping in the new stores didn't lessen the pain but the unfamiliar layouts kept my mind busy enough to let me purchase a few items before hurrying out. Each day has become easier, yet not without memories. I still choke back tears on the food aisles, and my shopping trips are short ones, but at least I am accomplishing it alone. Well almost alone-- the struggle with finances are another story coming soon.
by di: Do you have an experience where grief and flashbacks hampered your lifestyle? Write to di and tell her how you coped.
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© 2002 di
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