This year Bill’s Alive Day hits a bit differently. I am still in a grief-filled space. The trauma of the past couple of years is fresh. It seems to be pulling a scab off the old TBI trauma. All of the events are running together, dredged up in my mind and heart. We celebrate this day every year in our house, but along with the celebration come the memories. I was never so alone as that day when everything unfolded. That car accident changed our lives forever. In the blink of an eye. I had no idea of that truth on that day. No idea how drastic a turn my life had just taken. We were babies with no inkling of how to handle such a catastrophic loss. I am still in amazement that we survived the trauma of the season that never ended.

Secondary trauma is defined as the emotional distress and trauma symptoms experienced by someone indirectly exposed to another person’s traumatic experience through hearing vivid accounts, seeing graphic details, or repeated engagement with victims. Also known as secondary traumatic stress (STS).

On this day, I wonder if my trauma stress from Bill’s accident 38 years ago is primary or secondary. Usually caregivers’ trauma is secondary. Nurses and counselors, anyone with a job which requires continuous exposure to people in traumatic situations, are not the ones who experience the trauma directly, but they carry it. Family caregivers, who actually live with a loved one who experienced some type of trauma have a more direct line to the day to day life of what that means.

Our situation is odd because the one who experienced the traumatic event, Bill, doesn’t remember anything. It is his brain injury. I am the caregiver. Yet, I am the one who sometimes struggles with the triggers and anxiety. Smells in hospitals can send my heart racing. Witnessing a car accident or a medical event sends me inward. I withdraw from the immediate environment. My brain gets a bit foggy. The sound of beeping machines can transport me back in time. He is oblivious. None of this affects him at all.

The past couple of years have been distressing, no doubt. Numerous hospitals/medical situations with Mom, Dad, and Michael have heightened my previous traumatic experience with Bill. It is a mixed bag in that, I am familiar with ICUs…at the same time that I hate them. The patient rooms are filled with mechanical reminders and the waiting rooms are filled with sad and anxious people. Neither are new to me. Both are triggers. Yet, avoiding the hospital wasn’t a possibility in those critical moments. I simply added more trauma on top of my preceding pile. Primary or secondary doesn’t matter. Hard. That’s the truth of it.

But there is a silver lining. Because of my experience with Bill’s critical care, I understand others who are dealing with similar circumstances. So, even though I have trepidation when it comes to crisis situations, I am pretty good at helping others who are walking a similar road. In a way, I find healing from my own trauma when I can be an encouragement. For example, in the ICU waiting room in Orlando, a woman was crying so hard she couldn’t use the phone to call back to her loved one’s room. Instead of being triggered and withdrawing, I asked her if I could give her a hug and pray with her. She said yes. I held her while she cried. I said, God help her like you have helped me. We did some deep breathing. I showed her how to use the phone. I felt some of my previous heartache fade. Healing in some way, even as I was about to lose my Dad. All of it is such a mixed bag. Grief and joy. Trauma and healing. Mourning and dancing. The human condition…a complex emotional puzzle.

Today is the day I set aside every year to remember. To celebrate our outcome. To marvel at my husband and how he survived then and survives still. I remember the phone call. The rush to the ICU. The damaged and distorted face and head. The moves from ICU, to surgical, to rehab. All Bill’s uncontrolled emotions. All my own horror-filled feelings and tear-filled nights. How we got through it all. (God) How we get through it now. (God) I put another year upon the altar. Another memorial stone. Bill’s alive. So am I.