Post Traumatic Interrogation Syndrome

I'm not sure if there is such a thing as that, but if there is, I am certainly suffering from it this past week. I keep replaying the deposition, over and over, in my mind. And worse, I keep replaying the events of the morning of October 21, 2010. Over and over. Like some nightmarish horror movie. And I can't stop thinking about this stuff. And I am shaky and trembling and prone to fits of crying. I had thought once the depositions were over that I would be fine. But I am not. Instead, I am a complete basket case.

It doesn't help that once again it is October and the third anniversary of the stroke will be soon upon us.

Or that Bob is still constantly complaining about foot pain.

And I am strung out. Exhausted, even.

I go about my daily duties and I cannot stop thinking about the morning of October 21, 2010. And I can't stop seeing that nurse, in my mind, that nurse wearing a starched white uniform -- like a throwback from the 1970's -- like some kind of Nurse Ratched, complete with the little hat. Because truly, that's what she was wearing that morning. With a glittery silver angel pinned to her bosom. White sheer stockings. White shoes. Hair tied in a bun.

And me, running after that nurse, shouting: Something's terribly wrong with my husband!

And that nurse saying, "Isn't your husband always like this?" and "I didn't think he seemed right this morning."

And at the deposition, my attorney touching me gently on the shoulder, saying, You're shaking. Do you want to take a break?

Me: No, let's please just get this over with.

And the questions being hurled at me, like What doctors, hospitals, clinics did your husband visit in 2005? In 2006? In 2007? And on and on, through the years. And I'm supposed to remember this stuff.

And feeling like a criminal. Like Bob was on trial. Like Bob had done something wrong instead of the nurses.

Then having to go through the events of October 21. Telling my story. Detail by detail. Down to the white starched uniform. Down to the time on the clock. Down to each person I spoke to and what they said and the partially dissolved pills falling out of Bob's mouth when he tried to speak. How he could only make noises. How he couldn't move. The terrified look in his eyes. How the nurse had just propped him up in bed and walked away. Reliving the whole thing. Moment by moment. What did you do next? When did you next see the doctor? What did he say? When did you next see your husband? What was his condition? Then what did you do? And breaking down, sobbing. Sobbing like a broken child. Right there in front of lawyers and strangers and a video recorder...

I do begin to wonder if I'm ever going to get over this.

We have a busy schedule this week with three different doctors' appointments starting with Pain Management today. I am hoping our busy schedule will help me get my mind off this stuff.