Last night, I saw an old picture of my husband. He was probably about three or four years old with white-blond hair and those same blue eyes. This mini-version of him was sitting on a small pony with a look of utter frustration and consternation on his stubborn face as he tried desperately to get the pony to bolt away from the barn, but his mother and others were there, keeping the pony in place. This moment captured in time is quintessentially my husband. He is independent and daring. Part of this though is his willingness to tackle any problem on his own, solving the world’s problems one at a time single-handedly. This last week, it finally caught up to him, and it was not something he could fix on his own.

In December, his grandfather, who was much more like a father to him, passed away. From the time we were dating, I knew that when this event happened, it was going to hit him hard. And, the way things ended up playing out, made the situation exponential worse. We were hitting an all-time high stress level going in, my mother-in-law’s dramatic flare at the funeral and my uncle-in-law’s leaving his mother to deal with the death of her husband alone, worked together to make an already rough situation so much rougher. This was the catalyst.

My husband was depressed, upset and experiencing anxiety. He went to his doctor, who prescribed Xanax on top of the cornucopia of drugs prescribed by his new pain management doctor. A week went by as the anxiety built up and I cannot say for sure exactly when things started to fall apart.

My husband started passing out again. This time, the passing out spells were different. They seemed to be triggered by something else (other than the muscle spasms which caused the Thanksgiving episodes). He would suddenly collapse, falling to the floor (usually hitting his head or bad shoulder). But, when he would open his eyes, he would be somewhere else.  He would regain consciousness mid-PTSD flashback. Then, he would pass out again. And again. Each time becoming slightly more aware of his surroundings, until he was back, sitting on the floor next to me in 2012. Last Sunday, he was gone for 2 hours before he finally completely realized where he was. The things he told me, I am quite sure, I will never forget, but am positive, I would love to wipe from my memory. He doesn’t remember any of it.

It started happening more and more. Monday night, I took him to the emergency room where we normally go. (How horrible to have “the usual” ER.) His doctors said if he passed out again, we should go – so, finally, we went. The main complaints were pain and anxiety. As soon as we got back into a room, he passed out again. I yelled out into the hallway and the gaggle of med students seemed giddy and yet completely confused on if they should do something. After a few exasperating moments, a doctor walked in, filling the room with students behind him. The doctor did a quick examination, trying to rouse my husband. When he did, my husband startled. He pushed himself halfway up the bed, terrified. After a moment, he calmed, realizing where he was.

Medication orders were given, treating pain first, then anxiety. Bad idea. The pain meds triggered a bad flashback and it was a miracle he didn’t get put on a psych hold, after pulling off all his leads and thoroughly freaking out. Some injected anxiety meds worked wonders though. And, we were just sent on our way.

The next morning, I dropped the kids off at the sitters and came back to the house. I found my husband sprawled across the kitchen floor with a cup of water spilled out everywhere. He had passed out again. I got him to come to, but first, he startled and scooted under the kitchen table. But, then, something changed – he saw someone. Someone in the kitchen with a gun. I was worried when he started talking, then yelling, at the imagined person. But, when he pushed me behind and grabbed a knife from the wooden block, I had one hand on the laundry room door handle, just in case he turned around and didn’t see me, but another intruder. I was terrified. I was practically screeching in my asking him to put the knife down and trying to explain that no one was there. Finally, he put it down.

After a few stops along the way, we went by his doctor’s office. She gave us some resources for out patient programs and was in the midst of writing a prescription for a new anxiety med, when he passed out again. When he startled away and took a minute to process where he was, she called a psychiatric hospital herself and suggested the in-patient program.

At that point, we both felt helpless and on-edge. I was in a constant state of alert, just waiting for him to pass out again and scared how this could escalate anymore. And, he was a buddle of nerves, trying to hold himself together in front of me and kids. So, we headed to a nearby town, trusting that we would get the help we so badly needed.

(I’ll write the rest in a minute. I need a break.... Now posted: The Wrong Help Is No Help at All.)