A Lost Key--PTS

I locked myself out of my house last week. I'm always losing keys or leaving them in some inaccessible place. It's why I have so many spares. But in the last five years since my husband died, I've used those spare house keys and haven't put them back in their hiding places.

Had Al been alive, those keys would have been replaced immediately. Although I've been managing my life well enough, I haven't taken over every aspect of his organizational activities. It was one of his strengths, not mine.

As the house keys dwindled, little by little, a part of me noted these careless acts of self-sabbatage, even sending myself weak warnings. You're going to need that key one of these days, and it won't be where you need it. I can't say I ignored the warnings. It was more like a shrug. I'll deal with it later, I'd think, like an adolescent daring fate or like Scarlett O'Hara.

When I found myself locked outside of my house with my only set of keys inside, I couldn't think what to do. Panicked, I searched all of the hiding places where I knew keys had once been. I tried to remember my neighbors who had copies of my keys, but when I finally managed to recollect their names I realized they were away or at work. I stood outside of my own locked home, paralyzed, furious with myself, and deep in the middle of hopeless dispair.

Talk about an overreaction! After what seemed like a lifetime but was probably about fifteen minutes, I regained my composure, thought, called one of my neighbors who works nearby, drove over to pick up her copy of my house key, came home, and let myself in. I was relieved and yet still shaken by my panic about this small incident.

In my career, I've supervised an organization with hundreds of employees and put on large events. In my personal life, I've managed households. I've solved real crises and deflected others many times in my life. I've done so with a calm demeanor and a steady focus. I would have said that I'm good in a crisis.

I was certainly "good" at managing my critically-ill husband's care. I never (until the end) admitted the possibility of failure. I did my research, kept my notes, asked my questions, and planned our course of action. I reassured, exhorted, and exuded optimism. Surely, brains and dedication would win the fight. I was determined to provide it all by myself, since my brainy, dedicated husband was too ill to do his part. When we lost the fight, I turned my efforts towards healing. I didn't rush myself. I got help. And for the mostpart, I've been doing alright, seeking and finding comfort in my small steps into my new life.

Which is why I was surprised to find myself so upset about my overreaction to a lost key. Since it happened, I've been pondering its intensity and my crisis-like emotions. Have I been kidding myself that I'm basically okay? Am I not as strong as I thought I was? Was I being too hard on myself?

What I think is that I had a bout of post-traumatic stress disorder. We usually associate PTS with war veterans and civilian victims or survivors of crime violence and other traumas. But what about the survivors of the wars with cancer, heart disease, and the other fatal illnesses and accidents that wrenched their spouses from them? What about the years, months, and days of the caregivers who had to keep their fears at bay in emergency room after emergency room? What about the accumulation of suppressed panic while they played the strong one over the days, months, and years?

It was war, and we widows are its veterans. It now seems obvious to me that, occasionally, some stressful event will trigger a flashback into feelings of panic, helplessness, and anxiety. Or perhaps it will show in a fall into depression and hopelessness. I think recognizing our own post-traumatic stress episodes with grace and understanding might help contain it. Of course, if it doesn't help, and the feelings persist, then it makes good sense to seek help.

We so much want our lives to progress in orderly stages. We believe the myths that tell us how one stage leads to another on a one-way journey. We don't want to acknowlege the possibilities of regression or circling back to spoil our illusions of a self-controlled, well-planned life. Despite the indisputable evidence, we expect the sequence to run: birth, growth, marriage, children, more growth, old age, and then, finally, death. And when the death of a loved one finally comes after a long, well-lived life, we expect our grief to progress in discreet stages that start with denial and end with acceptance. When I looked up Kubler-Ross' stages to remind myself, the consoling subtitle said "Know What to Expect."

How neat we want our lives to be! What wishful thinking! Five and a half years after the trauma of my husband's death, I want to suggest that when and if the unexpected messy feelings emerge, we view them with compassion and understanding. That we own them and then move on.