It has been a pleasant distraction this week, after five years of supporting my husband in his hazy world of relentless PTSD, which has no clearly defined approach or guaranteed treatment options, to concentrate instead on a completely different medical problem.
My son’s vague set of ongoing health complaints has finally delivered us to the paediatrician this week. After ruling out coeliac disease (thank goodness, that was definitely worth the blood test), and a large number of environmental allergies (skin prick testing was clearly a walk in the park for us), we have moved onto the next stage – the lactose-free trial.
This has been simple to explain to my 5-year-old son, easy to organise, and straightforward to implement. It’s a very tangible process, and to be honest, I’m finding that just so refreshing. Within a week or two, we’ll have a clear answer about a possible lactose intolerance, and march forward from there whatever the outcome.
But, selfishly – and I say selfishly because I’m always, always reminding myself of how much worse things could be – it makes me imagine how different our life might be if PTSD was just as transparent. Just as clearly understood. Just as simplistic to treat.
If only PTSD was as straightforward as a lactose intolerance.
“No, my husband doesn’t suffer with PTSD, he merely has an Ambulance Intolerance.”
Without doubt, long-term exposure to the emergency services gave birth to the beast in our world, so the simple theory of removing the obvious influences to achieve a cure seems logical enough.
Step one, remove the offending vehicles that wail and flash. Step two, remove every last trace of every last haunting memory. And finally, step three, remove my husband from the only career he’s ever known.
Ambulance intolerance. If only PTSD was that simple.
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