Am I Teddy or is Teddy Me?

In June 2012, my doctor called me, told me to pack a bag and check myself into the hospital. She suspected cancer. On my way, I called family and told them that I had good news and bad news, "I'm going to the hospital. They think it's cancer." 

No one understood how there was good news in anything I just said. However, after being sick for two years, I was ecstatic to finally have an answer. Now that we knew the cause, we could do something about it. 

I remember my oncologist putting his hand on my knee and saying, "I'm a fixer. We're gonna fix this." And we did.

 

The term COVID - PTSD has been floating around lately. I know my blood boils anytime anyone attempts to downgrade the reality and seriousness of it. 

Now, as the Delta variant sweeps our communities and swells our hospital rooms once again, my anger has grown exponentially, and I have experienced many more panic attacks than usual. The tension is rising with both staff and patients. I get more requests to visit anxious COVID patients. Because their breathing is already labored, added anxiety threatens their healing. 

COVID – PTSD – is it a real phenomenon? If so, do I have it? 

I posed this question to my therapist because not only does she know me so well, but she works with the military and is well versed on the topic of PTSD. 

Her assessment? Yes. 

She explained what happens with soldiers and how that translates to my world, specifically, why I feel so alive and thrive at work and feel panicky and anxious when I am not at work. 

A nurse friend noticed me sitting on the ER floor comforting a youth whose father died suddenly. She was on her way out and knew I, too, should be getting off soon. She texted me about an hour later to check on me. I was snuggled with Bailey in bed watching an episode of – you guessed it – The Good Witch. I replied that I felt great – that I thrive in trauma – other people's trauma.

After the adrenaline wore off, though, I began to feel panicky. 

As I broached the subject of COVID-PTSD, I told my therapist about one of my fictional characters. "I have been thinking about Teddy a lot lately," I said.

Teddy is one of the main characters in Life Before Me. He realized his childhood dream of becoming a fighter pilot with the Air Force. During the early days of his first tour of duty in Vietnam, it was thrilling for him to take down enemy planes. That changed the day his best friend died. Teddy blamed himself for Caleb’s death. Once discharged, he struggled to reacclimate to civilian life and reenlisted without discussing it with his wife. In his plane during wartime was the only place Teddy felt safe and in control.

My therapist explained that when I am in the throes of battle (hospital – other people's trauma), I feel calm, confident, and (strange as it is to say) happy. I am not happy that someone else is sad, but I am happy because I am in my element, the place where I shine. And . . . I am in control. 

The problem is that my circle has grown smaller and smaller over these 18+ months. 

When I first became a chaplain, I belonged to a circle of ministry which included chaplaincy - a relatively large circle. 

Hospital chaplains make up a smaller, more intimate circle. 

Hospital chaplains in the thick of a worldwide pandemic is an even smaller, more exclusive circle. 

Hospital chaplains in the thick of a worldwide pandemic who have also experienced significant personal loss while serving as a chaplain in a hospital during a worldwide pandemic comprise an even smaller, much rarer circle. 

The smaller the circle, the fewer people can relate to my reality—problem number 1.

Second, we discussed love languages. Mine is time and touch. The pandemic did away with touch. The smaller my circle, the less opportunity for touch.  The smaller the circle, the less opportunity to spend time with others. Translation, lost love—problem number 2. 

It becomes a vicious cycle. My circle is shrinking, but instead of expanding my non-hospital circles, I self-isolate, cutting myself off from the love I need, which, in turn, increases the anxiety. My old ways of coping return, and I try to manage on my own instead of letting others in and sharing what I feel and need with them—problem number 3. 

Like a soldier, I, and others like me, feel misunderstood. Those who have not experienced the battle cannot fully understand us. We try to share, but when we are met with the judgments and opinions and false realities fabricated by outsiders, we turn ourselves off and push those outsiders away.

This is how the real problems for us begin, and if we do not recognize it and take steps to relieve it, we get into more serious trouble – hence – the extremely high rate of suicide with military veterans. 

Don't worry. I am not suicidal. I know enough about how to recognize when I am in trouble and get help. 

This Delta wave put me into a critical state. So, I'm taking some time off. But I am also getting out of my room more and going out on dates!

Now, before anyone gets any ideas, I am still not interested in dating other people. I am, however, interested in dating myself. Pre-COVID, I used to go out and do things by myself all the time. But, for the past 18+ months, when not at work, I am holed up in my room. I don't even sit outside to read anymore. 

So, for the past two weeks, I have done something for and with myself outside of the house. I forgot how much I enjoyed art and live music. I remember I also loved being out in nature. I'm looking forward to getting out there again, too.

Going out is scary, though, because I don't know what will trigger me. Last night, I went to a Christian music showcase and concert.  A few songs and the pulse of the music triggered me a few times, but no one saw the tears because of social distancing and the dim lights. The entire experience reminded me of Brad – the good, the bad, and the ugly of the music business. It was an important step, though, and overall, I had a really good time. 

This is one song that made me cry. Blanca- Even At My Worst

Anyway . . . 

After talking with my therapist about COVID-PTSD, I now understand my post-pandemic withdrawal from church. 

I am angry with them (church-going-Christians) – and when I say angry, I mean livid – and disappointed – and sad – and let down. 

American Christians, especially here in Texas, tend to be highly nationalistic. Way too many of them fall in line with what I wrote about above  – because of the judgmental, self-righteous, arrogant, and uninformed vocal opinions of a people who are supposed to be compassionate and God-fearing. Christians are not supposed to make their own personal rights more important than the rights of others. That is not Christlike. So, to see them, hear them, read their social media posts disturbs me. 

It's not just my church – although my church is not miraculously immune – it is all of Christianity. We have become a noxious odor in the world – the Pharisees and Sadducees. It's no wonder non-Christians find us so repulsive. I am finding my own kind rather offensive, too, right now. 

And what is most difficult to reconcile is that I know that several of the people who say and post such nasty things do care about me. However, when they say and post such hurtful things, I know they do not truly know me – or if they do, they do not care that they are hurting me with their opinions, making me feel more alone and isolated. 

So, where does that leave me? As my therapist said, I suppose I need to tell people what I feel and what I need from them, knowing that I cannot control how they respond. I cannot make every Christian react the way I think they should. I cannot invite everyone with a different opinion to see my reality for themselves. 

All I can do is to be genuine – be honest. If they accept me and give me what I need, great. If they do not, I can let them go knowing that I gave them a chance. 

Still, openly sharing my whys and my needs is not something I am ready to do. First of all, I know I cannot yet speak rationally. My judgment against Christians who do not respond to COVID the way I think they should is fueled by raw judgmental emotion and is just as wrong as the judgment I condemn of them. Also, I don't want to come across as weak or needy, someone others have to walk on eggshells around. I am not a fragile little flower and do not want to be treated as such. 

However, I will commit to talking with those closest to me when they say and do something I find insensitive or hurtful. I will share some of my hospital stories – some deeply personal – if they are willing to listen. But I will do my best not to react in anger and judgment if they still do not get it – or get me. 

I will pray for the discernment to know with whom I can trust – when to speak and when to be silent (Ecclesiastes 3:7).

I will enjoy my vacation these next two weeks. 

I will refrain from filling the silence with noise and give God space to talk, even though it may hurt or cause panic in the beginning. 

I will continue dating myself even though, right now, it can be scary. 

I will continue with therapy and exercise and even watching the Good Witch, all of which help me to cope. But I will not rely on any single coping mechanism to the exclusion of the others. Instead, I will listen to my body and act according to what it needs. 

I will search for friends with whom I can trust and who will fill up my love tank – friends like the nurse who checked on me. I will stop making excuses why I cannot go out with them.

I will commit, just like I did when I found out that I had cancer, to do the work to fix it – knowing that, just like with cancer, I cannot do it alone.