“I don’t have long, Michael,” Chris said, closing the door behind him. “A patient will be here in ten minutes. Is it Keith? Are the nightmares getting worse?”
Michael sat down in one of the floral cushioned chairs. “It’s my wife, Chris. She’s … different. Last night she drank a few glasses of wine—I know that doesn’t sound like much, but her parents were alcoholics. I’ve never seen Jolene have more than a few sips of alcohol. And she woke up screaming.”
“She give you that shiner?”
“She’s always had a hell of an arm. You should see her pitch.”
Chris smiled and sat down. “Obviously, we need more than ten minutes for this discussion. I’d be happy to talk to Jolene if she’d do that.”
“She’s not a big talker in that way, but she did say she was in trouble.”
“She’s a soldier, Michael, which means she won’t want to appear weak, and it will be difficult for her to admit that she’s having trouble adjusting. As you know, nightmares and trouble sleeping are common symptoms of PTSD, but they’re also a normal reaction to having been at war. In most cases, these nightmares will diminish over time. We really need to worry if she’s still experiencing acute symptoms in three months. But she’s going through a lot of emotions right now—she’s probably grieving over her lost crewman and her comatose friend; she’s probably feeling some guilt—misplaced—that it’s her fault the bird went down; she’s probably afraid that your family is irrevocably broken and that she doesn’t have the strength to hold you all together again. Add to that the fact that she’s lost her leg and most likely her career, and you have a woman in crisis.”
“So how do I help her?”
“She feels like she’s coming apart,” he said quietly. “You think you’re one person, and then suddenly you’re not. You don’t know who you are. And the nightmares can be absolutely terrifying.”
“I saw that.”
“Make sure there are no weapons in the house.”
“Jesus…”
“And watch her drinking very carefully. That can really exacerbate the problems she’s having. Mostly, Michael, get her to talk to you. Listen without being judgmental.”
“Jo and I have never been particularly good at talking.”
Chris gave him an understanding nod. “This would be a good time to change that, Michael.”
*
On the ride home from rehab, Jolene wanted to talk to Mila, but she couldn’t form the words. She kept reliving last night, when she’d woken from her nightmare, on the floor, screaming, with her children staring down at her in fear. It was eating her up inside; it had been all day. She’d barely been able to concentrate in PT.
What in the hell was wrong with her? She needed Tami more than ever. The thought of that only made her feel worse.
As they pulled up to the house, Mila turned to her. “Are you okay, Jolene? You’re awful quiet.”
She imagined herself saying I’m afraid, Mila, something’s wrong with me, but she couldn’t do it. She was terrified of opening the floodgates, of revealing the depth of her fear. For the first time in her life, she was really, truly afraid. More afraid than she’d been in Iraq.
“Rehab was a bearcat today. The blisters are killing me.” She smiled tightly, hating the lie.
“Do you want me to stay with you until the girls come home?”
“No. I’m getting better. Honestly. I’ll take a nap and then I’ll be stronger. I’ll have snacks ready for them when they get home from school. Maybe we’ll play a board game.”
“Okay,” Mila said hesitantly.
Jolene managed a smile. Giving her mother-in-law a quick kiss, she got out of the car and went into the house. When the door closed behind her, she sagged forward on her crutches, and finally released the breath she’d been holding.
She needed a glass of wine. That would calm her jagged nerves, still the trembling in her hands. Just one glass. There was nothing wrong with that.
Her hands were shaking again. She went to the refrigerator, poured herself a glass of wine, and sat down. By the time she’d drunk two glasses, she felt slightly better. The wired feeling had dissipated somewhat. But the fear remained.
She needed help.
There. She’d thought it. Nothing mattered more than her children, and she was losing them, pushing them away, frightening them. She’d punched her husband in the face and didn’t remember doing it. What could she do to her children? She went to the phone. After a quick look in the phone book, she dialed the Department of Veterans Affairs.