Continued from Love It or Hate It, You Just Might Need It: A Case for Exposure Therapy for Treating Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder.
Unintentional Exposure Therapy #2: Hyperbaric Oxygen Treatment
This story begins as every good Veteran story begins: “So there we were, no sh—t…” on a C-17 airplane taking off from Camp Balad near Baghdad, Iraq. It was a night-time aerial evacuation flight for combat wounded being sent to the rear during Operation Iraqi Freedom, and I was on it.
It was a surreal experience, waiting in a dimly lit airplane hanger with 100 other Soldiers. For the first time in my life, I was on military airfield but no one was yelling at me. Everybody was quiet. Nobody was laughing. Nobody was joking. Nobody was telling war stories. Anyone who spoke—mainly the ground crew—did so in hushed tones. The rest of us passengers were either too drugged or too shocked to shoot the breeze.
The C-17 came. I heard it before I saw it because the flight was at night, when aircraft are the least visible and the most survivable. The rear ramp dropped and we lined up to board the plane. The inside of the plane was dark except for green lighting to illuminate where to step. We—the walking wounded—boarded first and sat on seats positioned on the outboard sides of the aircraft facing inward to the belly of the plane. It was set up like an airborne jump with jumpers on the outside and equipment on the inside, but instead of wheeled vehicles and crates full of equipment, there were wheeled hospital beds with half-dead Soldiers in them.
They were missing limbs, their heads were bandaged under tons of white gauze, or they had casts and nerve blocks on their body parts. They were passed out, moaning, or trying to be upbeat about being blown up. I tried not to stare, but it was so overwhelming. I smelled burnt flesh in the air; it smelled like pork chops rubbed in motor oil and dirt.
When I looked into the faces of the walking wounded, I tried to guess which ones were being MEDEVAC’d for mental health problems like mine, and which ones had “acceptable” combat injuries. The easiest way to tell was which Soldiers looked ashamed and which ones didn’t. I tried not to look as ashamed as the others—the 40 or so Soldiers who seemed to be physically fit but were still being MEDEVAC’d—because I was still an Army Officer, and I still had to lead by example. At the same time, I wondered if I could even consider myself an Officer when I had fallen out of the fight.
The C-17 took us to Landstuhl, and I was eventually flown to Walter Reed Army Medical Center. After six or so sessions of outpatient therapy, I returned to duty, completed my active duty service obligation, and transferred into the National Guard.
Seventeen Years Later
I stepped onto a civilian airplane to fly from Portland, Oregon through Denver, Colorado to San Antonio, Texas. As soon as I turned into the aisle, my body began shaking. By the time I got to my seat, tears were running down my face. I asked God what in the world was going on?!
“I’m getting some documentation of your condition,” God replied. “When you get to Texas, go to the Army hospital’s Emergency Room.”
I called my husband. “My body is freaking out! I can’t suppress the shaking, and I’m crying like I’m having an anxiety attack, but I don’t know why. God says they’re getting documentation of my condition. What do you think that means?” I asked.
“I don’t know, it could mean several things,” my husband replied. “Do you want me to stay with you on the phone?”
“Yes. I need your help trying to ground my body. I need to hide what’s happening to me so that I don’t get escorted off the airplane. I need to make it to Texas,” I said.
He stayed with me until my phone lost the cellular signal. I clamped down my body anytime a hostess passed by so that they wouldn’t be concerned about my health. I faced the window and tried to let my body shake it out like it had done many times before. But this time, the shaking wouldn’t stop.
When I got to the Army ER, the psychiatrist asked me what started the shaking. “I stepped onto an airplane,” I replied.
“Ok, so the airplane triggered a flashback,” he said.
“No, why would it? I have flown in airplanes at least a hundred times in my life. Why would this time be any different?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he replied.
One Year Later
I lied down on the bed of the hyperbaric oxygen chamber at Rocky Mountain Hyperbaric Institute. I was looking forward to the 20 free treatments they were giving me because I’m a disabled Veteran. I expected to see my cognitive abilities drastically improve the way they did ten years ago, when I first got free treatment here—see picture of me in the tank back then.
The attendant pushed my bed into the chamber. My body started freaking out. My limbs felt like they were drugged. I felt like I couldn’t breathe. I tapped on the glass to let me out!
After three days and three failed attempts, I canceled the rest of my appointments to take a break and diagnose the issue.
I rested over the weekend and on Monday, I got a call from Eddie Gomez, one of the clinic leaders. “What’s going on, Tenay? I heard you’ve had some trouble getting into the tank,” he said.
“Yeah, I can’t figure it out!” I replied. “You know me. You remember how I got in the tank for 40 treatments without any issues ten years ago. But today, it’s like I’m… claustrophobic or something. The thoughts in my head go wild every time I’m inside, and my grounding techniques aren’t working.”
“Let’s do this,” he replied. “Schedule your appointments this week with me. I’m a known quantity for you, and that should reduce some of your PTSD symptoms. We’ll take it slowly, give you more time to acclimate to the tank, whatever you need to get you the treatment you want.”
I agreed.
The next day, I was back on the bed, lying down. I asked my attendant to push me in just to my knees. When he did, I felt my feet start going numb; they were dissociating. I wiggled my toes and told them they were safe. When some of the numbness went away, I asked my attendant to push me in up to my waist, and repeated the process. Then, to my neck. Then, all the way in but keep the hatch open. Then, close the hatch and run the oxygen with no pressure. Then, add pressure. I used a cold gel pack on my feet to help them stay grounded to the present reality by keeping them busy with a strong sensation. I tapped. I hummed. I did deep breathing. I ran my fingers on my arms and belly. I watched my favorite show, “The Repair Shop.” I did listening prayer. I did prayers of faith. I did deliverance. I did EMDR on myself. I visualized success. I made declarations that I was fully healed. I pulled out every tool in my toolkit to get through that session.
On the first day of the second week, I was able to get 40 of the 60 minutes of treatment for which I was scheduled. Success!
On the second day, I repeated the process to get into the tank. This time, however, mere bodily dissociation was not enough. My body fought back hard with round after round of anxiety attacks. When I asked God what to do, they said, “You need to atrophy these circuits by refusing to let them be empowered by action. When your body sees you ignore them, it will give them up.” I realized I had to separate the trigger (getting into the tank) from my body’s response (emotional biochemicals flooding my tissues) from my response (flight—getting out of the tank).
I tapped on the glass for my attendant, who picked up the phone. “Talk to me,” I said. “About anything. Just talk.” He started telling me about his family, his kids, his wife, his antiquing habit, his garden, and so on. He stayed with me on the phone for 40 minutes until my treatment was done.
During those 40 minutes, my body went through at least ten anxiety attacks, but I refused to let them drive a response. I didn’t stuff the anxiety, I allowed myself to fully feel it, but I didn’t let my mouth react with panicked words, or my limbs react with flailing gestures. I told my body it might as well give up because this is not going to work for me.
It was one of the worst feelings I have ever had in my life.
When my treatment was done and they opened the hatch to pull my bed out, I told them why I’ve been having these attacks. “I was doing EMDR in there on myself and the picture I was saw Yeshu (Jesus) sitting next to me on an airplane one year ago, holding my hand and saying, ‘You are not here anymore’,” I told Eddie and my attendant. “That’s when I realized that the pressure in the tank—it’s like going up in an airplane! I haven’t been on an airplane in a year, ever since I had a PTSD episode when flying to Texas for Army Reserve drill. That episode was a delayed-onset PTSD response pointing back to when I was AIREVAC’d out of Baghdad during OIF. I must’ve flown fifty times between my AIREVAC and that episode last year, but on that day, my brain decided it was time to heal something new. It opened up a new pocket of its circuitry to reveal this hidden PTSD trigger—airplanes—and that experience made my body afraid of airplanes!” I explained.
The next day, I went through all my steps faster than before. When I entered the tank, my body still felt very uncomfortable, but I was not having the rollercoaster feeling of anxiety attacks anymore. “You already had your breakthrough yesterday,” said God, “so all that’s left to do is to tell your body to release its habits.” I worked all my tools again, but I needed fewer tools, and I didn’t need anyone to talk to me on the phone.
By the fourth day, I got into the tank, had my treatment, and came out with little discomfort. My thoughts still needed a lot of sorting and capturing (like refusing to let an image of the tank catching fire or of me banging on the glass but they won’t let me out finish playing in my mind) but I made it!
I now have hope that I will be able to fly on an airplane again, because—well—this unintentional round of exposure therapy worked!
I still hated it, but I loved the results, and I can’t deny that sometimes—when you’re ready—you just gotta face your fears.
Leave a Reply