“I feel like a monster. Seeing everything but feeling nothing. Facts not feels. Reality but no weight. Logic but no emotion. I feel numb. I hate myself for it. I care, I really do, but I can’t feel. It all became too much. I remember when it did. I was alone. 3 days I felt everything and then all of a sudden nothing. Weeping the last tears I would weep. Survival. It all became survival. Walls up became the only way I could function. Feeling nothing was bliss. Seeing everything but feeling nothing. I could finally live again. But was I really living? Is it living when you can’t feel?”
Above is an unedited version of a journal entry I made days following a trauma I witnessed my friend and teammate sustain on our first day of ministry in Zambia.
On December 12, four of our five team members were riding in the back of a truck on the way to bible study when the latched gate my friend Amanda was leaning against unlatched and I watched her tumble backwards out of the vehicle while we traveled approximately 50-55mph down the road.
“Amanda,” I screamed as I made eye contact with her as she began her fall. Her arms reached out begging to grasp to anything, nothing. It all happened so fast and yet so slow.
She fell so slow.
My teammates and I beat on the truck to notify our driver to stop. As the vehicle slowed we jumped out the back and ran down the road to meet her. My adrenaline kicked in as I met her at the side of the road. She was alive and had gotten up to gather the chairs that had followed in pursuit when the gate unlatched (this girl is stubborn as they come and was clearly in shock, she’s also a nurse, surprise).
One teammate looked at me and said, “I think I’m going to throw up.”
I proceeded to sit her down and begin assessing her. We then got her back to the vehicle and took her to a private clinic in Livingstone for medical attention.
She was released and proceeded the healing process at our host home.
Saturday, December 15, I woke up next to a very shallow & fast breathing, delusional, weak, pale, clammy, tachycardic, Amanda. “She’s got a small internal bleed,” is all I could hear playing over and over in my head. “Why didn’t you catch this earlier?” followed suit. My stomach was in knots.
I was scared.
I immediately went to my Team Leader and Host and told them we needed to get her to the hospital ASAP.
ASAP in Africa is nearly impossible and there was nothing I could do about any of this. I felt helpless and frustrated, irritated that the healthcare here is nonexistent. If we were at home this wouldn’t be an issue, a CT takes minutes, results can be immediate. Why is this happening. Why can’t I do anything to help.
“She can’t have surgery here, we will have to fly her to South Africa,” were the plans I was making in my head.
We made it to the hospital where we waited and waited and waited some more. I had called the clinic on the way to the hospital to get a referral to speed up the process. The only reason we didn’t wait any longer than we did is because of the connections our host had.
As I walked through the hospital all the scan rooms said “x-ray” on the outside of them. “No, an x-ray is irrelevant, she needs a CT,” played over in my head.
I was sick to my stomach.
When we finally were escorted to the scan room we walked in and I saw the CT machine. It took my breath alway. “Thank you, Jesus,” is all I could say. Over and over and over again. I walked to the corner of the room to compose myself.
“We are scanning her head,” he said.
“No, she needs her head and her abdomen scanned,” I replied.
Back and forth we went. He finally agreed.
“The doctor who reads the scans won’t be in for 5 more hours,” the man told us.
Again, my heart sank. Why is everything so difficult and delayed here?
We transported Amanda back to the private clinic so we could be with more medical professionals while we awaited the result. They treated her how they could until the scan came back clear. Her symptoms subsided as the day progressed and we transported her back home. (Amanda is now doing really well and is healing nicely)
Over the course of the next week I didn’t process anything. I didn’t feel anything. I knew what was happening, what had happened, but I didn’t feel the weight of it.
A year and a half ago I stopped feeling most medical/trauma type situations at all. They don’t make me cry, they don’t really even make me sad. I care because I know in my head they are bad and hurtful but not because my heart feels the weight of them.
I used to feel everything too much, would carry it home, allow it to affect my relationships outside of the hospital, but now I feel nothing.
At our month one debrief the Lord took me back to when everything shut off. It was over a three day period following the most traumatic clinical I had experience. I was alone for 3 days and didn’t really do anything but lay in the floor and weep. It was too much and I had to switch it off, so I did. It wasn’t a conscious choice, I would never choose to be like this, but it happened.
The reality of that hit hard when walking so closely through this with my friend. Why couldn’t I feel the weight of what she was going through? Why didn’t it bother me that I watched her go through what very easily could have been a fatal trauma? What kind of monster have I become?
Watching my teammates respond in such a different way made me feel so shameful and guilty. Not because of anything they were doing, but because the enemy loves to isolate us with the intent of shame, guilt, & disunity.
I don’t really know why I’m telling you all of this. I felt like I should. I can assure you that I’m working through it. I’ve been given space by leadership and my team to process and begin working through this with the Lord. I’ve asked Him to help me feel again and I’m beginning to.
I wish I could tell you there was some magical speedy processing formula to get me back to a healthy balance. If I’m honest it makes me nervous to enter the medical field again when I get home.
I know the Lord is faithful and that He’s walking beside me in this. I know it won’t always be a perfect balance. I know that sometimes I’ll shut down and sometimes I’ll carry things home, but I also know I have a faithful Jesus who offers grace and mercy through things like this.
Thank you team Eve for loving me so well, seeking understanding, and offering me so much grace as we’ve walked through a hellish first two weeks together. I love each of you dearly.
Amanda, you’re a BA and have handled this with so much humility, strength, & grace. I’m proud to know you.
