A couple of years ago, my partner, Jake, visited the doctor and came home with a diagnosis of PTSD. I wasn’t shocked—after all, I had been diagnosed myself not long before, and I recognized the symptoms well: flashbacks, nightmares, irritability, social withdrawal, and deep mistrust. He exemplified many of these signs.
Our lives were irrevocably changed a few years back when our four-month-old son, Leo, passed away unexpectedly. It was a seemingly ordinary weekend until that fateful morning when I woke up to find him unresponsive, with a grayish hue to his skin and a bloody nose—a cruel reality of sudden infant death syndrome. We called 911 and attempted CPR, but every effort was a reminder of our heartbreaking reality. With every chest compression, it felt like we were losing him all over again. By the time we reached the hospital, it took mere minutes for the doctor to utter the words no parent should ever hear. The trauma of that moment is something I will carry forever.
What torments me most are the vivid images from that dreadful morning—the blood, his lifeless body, the frantic attempts to revive him, and Jake’s gut-wrenching cries of despair. It felt like our perfect child had slipped through my fingers, and I know Jake shared that same anguish as a father.
Different Paths of Grief
From the very beginning, Jake and I have grieved in strikingly different ways. In the trauma room, I held Leo tightly against me, tracing his features and whispering my love, while Jake sat in a corner, overwhelmed by grief. His instinct was to flee from the hospital, while I couldn’t bear the thought of returning to our empty home. The very next day, he put away Leo’s swing and car seat without consulting me, trying to lock away the memories that haunt him. In contrast, I find solace in remembering our baby, cherishing every moment we had together.
Even though we share the same PTSD diagnosis stemming from the same tragic loss, it feels like we are living in completely different worlds. For me, the fear of the unknown is an ever-present shadow, while Jake wrestles with anger over the injustice of it all. Even years later, I crave conversations about Leo, as it helps me process my grief, but Jake prefers to avoid mentioning him entirely.
The Strain on Our Relationship
Our relationship has undoubtedly suffered. The bond we once shared now feels strained, and it breaks my heart. We struggle to find common ground in our grief, which means we often grieve separately, and this disconnection is painful. Jake is the only person who truly understands the depth of our loss, yet he is also the one who refuses to talk about it. His anger often spills over, affecting our interactions, and I bear the weight of his resentment. While I strive to be supportive and compassionate, I can’t help but wonder about my own needs in this situation.
I witness the impact of his nightmares and the panic that ensues when he thinks our other children are sleeping too soundly. I know he is battling his inner demons, but I long for him to feel safe enough to share those struggles with me. His irritability and anger are merely masks for deeper issues that I understand, but it doesn’t lessen my sense of loss for the man he used to be before this tragedy struck. We both miss each other and the couple we once were, and most of all, I miss the days when we were free from the shadows of PTSD.
Resources for Coping with Loss
For anyone navigating similar grief, I recommend checking out this post on support for moms and visiting women’s health for valuable resources on coping with loss. There are also great insights available at intracervicalinsemination.com that can offer guidance on these difficult journeys.
Conclusion
In summary, Jake and I are working through our grief in deeply personal ways, both burdened by the loss of our son, Leo. Our differing approaches to handling PTSD have created a distance between us, but the shared pain of our experience bonds us in ways that words cannot express.