Rewrite the Stars Christina Consolino (classic novels to read TXT) 📖

spent wrapped in each other’s arms. He no longer sat in the recliner, child in lap and book in hand, nor did he sneak up on me while I was cooking, whisper sweet nothings in my ear, and trail his hand down my spine. Instead, we’d become intent on figuring out our individual lives, not our collective one.

“PTSD can manifest differently for each person,” the doctor had said when we’d spoken about what life would be like. “Yes, you’ll feel different, and you’ll be frustrated a lot, and you might have an anger like you’ve never experienced before, but you can’t let this beat you. Not yet. You’ve got a lot of life left to live.”

During the days following the diagnosis, Theo and I did all the things we thought we should. We researched everything about living with PTSD. We hired Brooke to sit with Charlie and Delia, who were eight and five at the time, so we’d be able to head to appointments sans children. We sat through lectures, videos, and chats with counselors, all to understand the intricacies of PTSD. Of course, Theo knew and understood more of the details of it, having been in the military, but it was something he never thought he’d experience.

“It’s all too much!” he said after he’d read yet another statistics-filled report. “Give me something I can work with!” he yelled. “I don’t want data!”

With a vengeance, I set about trying to find something he wanted, something useful. For several days, and with Kate and Jackie’s remote help, I spent time in my office, looking into online information from respected veterans’ clinics and psychiatric journals; culling lists of what the professionals suggested someone with PTSD should do; and comparing lists of what someone living with a person with PTSD should do. Enormous amounts of coffee accompanied me as I scrambled to get work done between journal articles. Jackie covered for me when naps trumped everything else, and I brought more work and journal articles home, hoping I’d find something, anything, Theo found helpful.

The doctor had other ideas.

“You need a personal connection, and I have just the couple. You’ll love them. They have bright personalities and are generous with their time. They’re both busy, but I’d bet my last dollar they’d be willing to speak with you and Theo.”

“I’m not sure,” Theo had said, passing a hand in front of his face, the hand that would cover up the doubt in his eyes.

“We should try. What is your day-to-day life going to be like? How long will you be living like this? Does it kick you in the gut, every day, or is there a way to live happily? And what about the kids?”

“Call them, Sadie, Theo. Call these people.” The look on the doctor’s face urged me to make the right choice. “And if you can’t do that right now, then watch this video,” the doctor said. “Their community has rallied around them, and you’ll get a good sense of who Rick and Laura are. More importantly, you’ll understand the sort of people you and Theo could be.”

Up until that moment, the information I’d gotten regarding Rick and Laura Sullivan didn’t help me much with anything on the PTSD front, so I was hoping the video would paint a picture of who they were. Time seemed to stand still as the opening scenes of the video burst forth. In front of my laptop computer, I sat, mesmerized by the voice of a man living with what my love had.

Rick and Laura had been high school sweethearts who had gotten engaged and married while in college. They both went on to become successful lawyers with three handsome sons and a life to envy. But Rick had served three tours, and when he’d been discharged, Laura knew something had happened. Instead of letting PTSD own him, Rick had taken the diagnosis in stride and sought help. It had taken time and patience—something Theo was short on—but eventually, Rick healed. Part of that healing resulted in a program he’d started for veterans.

The Sullivans were malleable and optimistic, encouraging, and enthusiastic, characteristics I hoped we’d emulate. On the video, Rick said that before his tour of duty, he’d been living the life he wanted. But since the emergence of his PTSD symptoms, everything had changed. He had to adjust, go forward in life while grappling with the condition.

Inspired and frankly, enamored, by these people, a flood of relief hit me when their voices rang out on the other end of the phone one afternoon. After an introduction, I told them why I was calling. Rick had said they would either speak with us over the phone or meet up with the both of us. I chose the latter.

“Of course,” Laura said. “Send us a list of dates and we can figure something out.”

And Laura stood behind her words. Within a day, I had sent them dates and we coordinated a time to make the 200-mile trek to their home. Brooke agreed to take care of the children for the day, and Theo and I hopped into the car and set out for the highway. The miles clicked by, and as we approached their subdivision, a sense of warmth and longing overtook my thoughts. The tree-lined street reminded me of our place in Kettering, and when we pulled up to the colonial style home, complete with a six-panel door and dried flower arrangement adorning the front, I bit back my laughter.

“You have to admit, this is a little odd,” I said to Theo as he peered at their house, so similar to ours. “If they have gold-leaf paisley wallpaper in their powder room, we’re leaving.”

He tipped his head back and laughed as he reached for my hand.

That visit with Rick and Laura kicked off a hopeful time for me. They had welcomed us into their home and shared their coping strategies, describing how to create a safe environment and a safety plan and tips on recognizing triggers.