Problem #15: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

Problem #15: Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder

No, this essay won’t be about the near-epidemic of PTSD among returning veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars. It’s a rather more personal story.

In 1994, after leaving a night class in genetics at the University of Pennsylvania, I was hit by two cars and killed. Well, not killed- at least, well, not permanently. As a friend of mine put it, I may have been dead, but it didn’t take. The two cars ran a red light at 33rd + Walnut Sts. in West Philadelphia- one was apparently trying to pass the other at the intersection- and hit me as I crossed the street to catch a bus to 30th St. Station. I suffered significant traumatic brain injury, was in a coma for about two weeks, and was hospitalised at the Hospital of the University of Pennsylvania and Bryn Mawr Rehab for about two months, all told.

The medical professionals involved in my care weren’t certain if, after recovery, I’d be myself, or a near-vegetable. It took ten years of hard work, but I’m myself again. Almost twenty years later, I’m a married father of two, a recently-minted Master of Science in Information Systems, a successful information technologies professional, and a member of Mensa. I have also come to accept that, whether I like it or not, I also suffer from post-traumatic stress disorder (PTSD). This is hardly a shock, given what happened. But I’d resisted accepting the diagnosis until very recently. I’ve been seeing a counsellor about my PTSD, and one of the things she suggested was that I write a letter- that I won’t send- to the people who hit me. I know who they are- I could easily find them. But I won’t, largely because I can see very little good coming out of said meeting. I am, however, writing this letter as if it were addressed to them.

Dear XX + XY (one driver was a man, and one a woman),

You may not recognise my name, but I hope you remember how we met. On December 7th, 1994, you both hit me with your cars at 33rd & Walnut Sts. in West Philadelphia and killed me. Fortunately- for me, at least- I didn’t stay dead. When you hit me, I was a post-baccalaureate pre-medical student at Penn- that means that I had a bachelor’s degree in something non-scientific, but wanted to attend medical school, so I was taking a concentrated year of science coursework to prepare me for the Medical College Acceptance Test. And I was doing exceedingly well- in A in all three courses, plus the two labs. Your mutual decision to run a red light and kill yourselves a Penn kid pretty much cut off the possibility of medical school for me.

It took me about ten years of hard work to get back to a point where I felt intellectually ready to go back into a pre-med course again and, by that point, it was too late. I was married, and wanted to start a family. I couldn’t, in good conscience, tell my wife that I wasn’t going to make any money for 10 more years, and that once I did make any, she’d never see me again. But, then again, I’m not sure if either of you are acquainted with your consciences.

Did it really help you to run the light? It seems from the evidence- admittedly sketchy, since I don’t recall anything from between noon on December 7th 1994 until somewhere between January 8th and 15th of 1995- that one of you- probably Mr. XY, since he was driving a Porsche- was passing the other in the intersection when you both hit me (something which is illegal under the Pennsylvania motor code, not that that’s ever enforced unless you’re drunk). Did that help? Were you late! late! for a very important date? Did you really want to kill someone- if so, congrats, but you didn’t finish the blasted job, did you?

I could go on into a revenge rant now, but I won’t. That wouldn’t solve anything, except to perhaps motivate one or both of you to put a restraining order on me (which would be fairly ironic, come to think of it). They say that the best revenge is living well, and I think I’ve done as much as I can do live well. I wasn’t able to get back into the pre-medical route and finish that, but I channeled my longtime interest in computers into a rewarding and lucrative career working with them. I also received my Master’s degree in information systems. Most importantly, I’ve been married for eleven years, and have two beautiful children. So, I’ve done fairly well for myself, all things considered.

But don’t think for a second that “no harm, no foul.” You killed me- and I do not forgive you for that. Maybe, just maybe, if you apologised to me and asked for my forgiveness, I’d grant it. But neither of you even did me the courtesy of calling the hospital after hitting me and asking how I was. Were you afraid of what you’d hear? Were you afraid that I was dead? Were you afraid that I wasn’t dead?

I hope- really hope- that neither of you ever suffers like you made me suffer. I hope that you feel some kind of remorse for what you did to me. But, somehow, I suspect that reading this letter will be the first time you’ve thought about that night since then. I’ve thought about it virtually every hour of every day since then. Nice job. But remember this: there is a G-d, and G-d is Just.