Shattered Heart

Chapter 9: Diagnosis

-America's Point of View-

I never felt like doing anything. Ever. Not even getting out of bed to go on a date with Québec.

After the attacks, I suddenly became noticeably lazy. Well, not lazy, just severely depressed to the point where I was too tired to ever engage in any activity, physical or not. I received a terrible grade in eighth-grade gym for all marking periods, but my teacher raised my first grade slightly the day after I received my diagnosis, since it was a disorder that affected my physical capabilities as well as my mental health. It was over a year after the attacks. I am sure the date was near or exactly Thursday, October 17. All of us countries and the provinces of Canada and Russia had just arrived home from our schools. Immediately, I changed into comfy pajamas, flopped down on my bed with a grunt, and cried into my pillow. I was done with the pressure of school and life in general. Québec noticed that I was upset and started to carefully run his hand up and down my back. I swatted it away, and he whimpered quietly.

"America," he said, squeezing my arm. "Come on. We haven't gone out somewhere in a month and a half."

"No, Québec," I responded angrily. "Now is not the time for a date. Today's a bad memory day for me. I can't stop thinking about the time the towers fell."

"America Caldwell," Québec spoke firmly this time, raising his voice. I looked into his flaming blue eyes as he continued, "You know what? You need help, and quick. I really want the old you back, because that's the you that I loved. I am going to be taking you to a doctor to receive PTSD screening at four. It's three o' clock right now, so you have about forty minutes to get yourself ready."

I sighed, deciding not to complain verbally. I knew visiting a doctor was the right thing to do. As soon as Québec had left my room, I took my pajamas off and tugged on some jeans and a vintage Boston Bruins 1970 Stanley Cup Finals t-shirt, both of which I'd bought on a trip to Harvard in Cambridge. To finish, I put my my shoes and a signed Carolina Panthers hat on and walked out of the bedroom.

"スポーツチームの素晴らしい組み合わせ!" Japan exclaimed when she saw my chosen outfit.*

"Ich muss Japan zustimmen!" Germany added, giggling a bit.**

"Thanks, guys, I just threw on the first outfit I could put together," I laughed. "Let's hope the doc that treats me today either a B's or Panthers fan! It would sure make the visit a lot better."

"That's the spirit!" Québec clapped. "Well, I do not like the Boston team very much, since the Canadiens play in one of my cities that loathes Boston, but I suppose I am okay with the Bruins shirt for now. Even though we have nineteen more championships than they do!"

The time that we had to leave to be on time for my four o' clock appointment came before I was ready for it. I trudged along behind Québec for what seemed like an endless journey of a mile and a half until we finally reached the hospital where my testing appointment was set up. It wasn't long before I was called by a doctor to enter the testing area.

The testing area was a small room that looked sort of like my classrooms at school. Inside the room were eight desktop computers set up neatly in two columns. The doctor told me to use the first computer on the right for my test. Finally, before leaving the room, he told me good luck and also to answer honestly.

The questions were all worded like, "Do you have repeated, disturbing memories, thoughts, or images of a stressful experience from the past?" The hospital workers also showed me a video of the September 11 attacks while simultaneously taking an MRI scan of the levels of certain chemicals in my brain. In the end, the team of knowledgeable doctors at the hospital determined that I was suffering from moderate Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.

"So I've got PTSD," I told Québec when I returned with some forms the doctors had printed out for me to take home with me. "I really hope you don't mind. It's a very serious mental disorder, they say."

"Just as I thought," Québec said calmly in his smooth voice. "I was really worried about you, America. You were acting really weird and sensitive after the attacks. It was like you weren't even yourself anymore. It scared me. And I don't mind the disorder at all—in fact, it makes this all better. I know know what afflicts you, and I can research how to make your life with it better."

"I just always keep thinking about what happened on the day of September 11, 2001," I responded. "I dream about it constantly. It creeps into my head during classes and tests, and I never want it to, but it is always there. My pure fear of it takes over my normal world, you see."

"It makes sense," Québec swept his shoulder-length hair behind his ears as we walked out the door. "It really does. That was a horrifying day. Horrifying attacks for everyone. I understand how traumatizing the attacks were."

"Nice shirt," a guy with a Patriots tattoo on his arm and a Boston accent on his tongue signaled at my t-shirt as Québec and I exited. I thanked him, and I was immediately in a better mood after the compliment.

"You were right! Someone liked the shirt!" Québec high-fived me. "Wasn't that doctor, but it was someone!"

I was feeling great, but at the same time, I was very devastated. How could I have Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder? I had been such a lively person before the attacks in September of 2001. The PTSD had transformed me so much that I couldn't even recognize myself anymore. I didn't realize that anyone could get it.

"Before the attacks," I told Québec suddenly. "I think at that football game in '99, I met a guy with PTSD. Remember the old guy that was in the seat next to me? Every time the Steelers would score, he would close his eyes and try so hard not to freak out. I thought he was just crazy about the Rams, like me. When I asked him, though, he said it was because of his PTSD."

"Why were the Steelers his trigger, though?" Québec inquired. "He didn't just hate them, did he? They evoked painful memories for him."

"Mmm. He told me it was because he remembers clearly the time back in the 1940s when the Steelers and their rival combined to form the Steagles, because so many players went to fight in World War II," I informed him. "Then the dude told me a detailed story of how he shot and killed someone in the war, and how he was always haunted by the memory of the dude's body."

"That's what PTSD is," Québec said. "That man had PTSD and...and now you have it too."

* "Great combination of sports teams!" In Japanese. Pronounced Supotsuchimu no subarashi kumiawase!

** "I have to agree with Japan!" In German.