Beyond the Fence

My Throat Punching Life after Cassy

"You have just learned you have PTSD," my counselor said to me, "what are you going to do about it?"

"What do you mean," I asked, "what can I do about it?"

"You have a choice," he said, "You can let it run, ruin, and or enslave you, or, you can throat punch it, wrap your arms around it and wrestle it to the ground, and work your way through it every time it rears its ugly head."

I know there are technical, professional, clinical terms, and treatments for PTSD and I know he used them on me, but his way of introducing the treatment, in my opinion, was the best way to reach me.

My throat punching, arms wrapping, and working began at that time and will continue for the rest of my life. I refuse to let it enslave and rule over me. It's difficult at times and feels like it is impossible to take a breath or get out of bed at other times, but, I keep swinging, grabbing, and working.

Chrissy and her mom had gone through a horrendous and traumatic situation. They lost their husband and father while Chrissy's mom was pregnant with Lisa, who was now seven and a half years old. They had no idea the pictures they had seen on the news and in the papers of the firefighter kneeling next to his wife while crying was me. I don't make it a habit of introducing myself by telling people I meet I am a firefighter and the one that felt like he got repeatedly hit in the head by a sledgehammer while his entire world was crumbling around him as he kneeled over his murdered wife.

After Chrissy left, I started the lawnmower and began throat punching the thoughts, images, and feelings in my mind while I cut even strips in the lawn. I no longer heard the din of the lawnmower as my mind filled with the mantra I had said since my first day on the job as a firefighter, "I didn't cause the bad situation to happen, I am here to help and try to fix it."

The nightmares began before my wife was murdered. I would wake up at different times throughout the night yelling for a crew member to get the lifeless kid I was holding out of the smoke-filled window, or trying to do chest compressions on a pillow in an attempt to save a person's life.

One time, Cassy woke me up by asking me who I was talking to.

"The boy," I replied, "he's right there."

She had turned on her side, rested her head on my chest, and looked in the direction I was pointing.

"Honey," she said softly then kissed my chest, "there isn't a boy there. You are dreaming."

"No," I had insisted, "he is right there. He said hi to me and thanked me for helping."

"Tell him goodnight then," she had said as she pulled my hand back under the covers and held it, "tell him you need to go back to sleep and he needs his sleep too."

I remembered telling him, watching him nod, then kissing the top of her head and falling back to sleep.

Cassy was always a compassionate and understanding person. She wouldn't say anything the next day about my overnight conversations with the ghosts of traumatic calls. She would wait for me to ask if I had another bad dream and she would remark, "We got you through it, honey, it was the little boy again." Or, "It took a while to get you back to sleep. You were talking to the guy that kept asking you to not let him die."

I was not coaxed back to sleep by a loving wife when I had the dreams about Cassy.

They all started the same, I walked up to her body, kneeled next to her while my bunker pants soaked up her blood through all of the thermal layers, lifted the blood-soaked ponytail from her face, and stared at her unseeing eyes. One eye punctured from a knife tip and the other frozen in a look of terror.

I would begin screaming as the various scenes of the nightmare changed. Sometimes, she would try to talk to me, plead with me to help her. Other times she would wheeze an accusatory curse at me through her perforated esophagus for not protecting her.

The nightmares had never stopped and the terror, sadness, and guilt I felt never abated. I discussed them with my counselor and he reassured me the dreams would decrease in frequency.

"You know you are not to blame for her murder," he had said, "you are not the one that stabbed her. It was a very bad man and you had no idea he was going to do anything to hurt your wife."

I knew he was telling the truth and deep down within me, I believed him too. It didn't ease the pain or feelings of guilt then and it doesn't now. But, once again, he helped me by teaching me coping techniques and by having a sympathetic ear.

Cassy's best friend was a fellow nurse named, Rachael. They accepted the moniker, "The Wonder Twins", given to them by their co-workers because of the similarities in their appearance, mannerisms, and love for the job. They were close to the same height, body build, and hair color. Each shift, they would coordinate the color of hair tie they would wear in their ponytail and the type of scrub top they would wear.

Cassy and I had gone out to dinner with Rachael and her husband, Andy, about a year before the hospital murders. It wasn't a bad night out, but, I was ready to return home and spend some quality time with Cassy instead of eating dinner with another couple. We had spent a total of half an hour with one another over the previous week and I missed being with my wife. I missed holding her hand, talking with her, listening to her, kissing her, and making love.

I think Cassy sensed my desire to be alone with her, or maybe my percolating hormones were emitting a secretion so intense she wanted to get me away from everyone so they wouldn't notice. She had kindly refused the invitation to take a walk on the beach and watch the sunset by saying I had a busy shift at the firehouse overnight and had to get me home and into bed.

Andy had made a rude remark, saying I needed to get Cassy into bed soon or other guys would get her there for me. Before I was able to say anything, Cassy had squeezed my knee and told Rachael that she would see her tomorrow night.

I had opened my mouth to put him in his place, but another squeeze of my knee and a look from Cassy had kept me from speaking.

During our drive home, I asked her why she protected that jerk.

"I didn't protect him," she said softly, "I was protecting Rachael."

"Protect Rachael," I asked, "How did you protect her? Does he hit her or something?"

"No," she replied, "Not with his hands, at least. If you would have responded, he would have turned the conversation toward belittling and bashing Rachael. He has done that before in front of all of the other nurses."

We made slow and passionate love that night. I loved the feeling of her on top of me. She was in control and, to me, it was beyond satisfying knowing she was using me as a way of pleasure. I was able to watch her face change from a little grin while she was rubbing my hardness on the outside of her lips. Her mouth would pucker slightly when the ridge of my head flicked her clit, just the right way. Two little lines would form from her forehead to the area between her eyes when she slid me inside of her. She controlled the tempo and the depth and I was able to watch her nipples harden as they rocked as well as her face show deep pleasure.

After she reached an orgasm and I had emptied myself inside of her twice, she lay her head on my shoulder and ran her fingers through my chest hair.

"Thank you for not saying anything to Andy tonight," she said after she turned her head and kissed me, "thank you for respecting my discernment."

"You are welcome, my love," I said, "He is a narcissistic jerk and needs to be dealt with. I don't trust him and he has no right talking to anyone that way."

"He is a narcissistic jerk," she sighed, "but the patients love him. He is one of the leading surgeons in the state."

"His bad behavior will escalate," I replied, "He won't stop at verbal humiliation. He will hurt her and maybe others if he isn't stopped."

Little did I know my words were to be prophetic.