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PTSD turned my husband into a stranger

Reporting from disaster zones left journalist Curt Petrovich with debilitating symptoms. His family has faced a daily struggle.

Clip from a documentary on Curt Petrovich’s journey, Lost on Arrival: Me, the Mounties & PTSD, airs on CBC Firsthand, Feb. 9 at 9 p.m.(CBC/Lost on Arrival: Me, the Mounties & PTSD)

By Yvette BrendSpecial to the Star

Sat., Feb. 4, 2017

For 30 years, journalist Curt Petrovich covered the world for CBC radio and television. But “Curt Petrovich, CBC News” has been silent for two years now, on medical leave while he struggles with post-traumatic stress disorder brought on by his work in disaster zones. An upcoming documentary reveals that his symptoms — which appeared as early as 1997 — intensified in 2013 after his reporting on the devastating impact of Typhoon Haiyan. Petrovich couldn’t even remember coming home from that assignment. And as his wife, journalist Yvette Brend, writes, the man who returned from the Philippines was a stranger, bearing little resemblance to the Curt she first met in 2004.

I turned around at an awards ceremony to lock eyes with an intense-looking reporter who wished me luck. We both said something awkward and I turned away annoyed, oblivious to the electric sparks in the air.

But I remembered him. And that initial meeting led to years of long-distance friendship. We talked about politics and journalism. I came to know this man, to admire his crisp writing, fierce intellect and unrelenting will.

I was startled one day to discover we’d fallen in love.

We married. Had two children. I called him Curty. An odd title for a titan. This man could craft an evocative story, wring facts out of the prime minister in a scrum and cook a perfect turkey.

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He moved with ease from political reporting in Ottawa to Vancouver and a growing number of international assignments.

I’ll always regret how I said goodbye when he left to report on the typhoon in the Philippines in 2013.

I can’t recall exactly what I said, but I know I didn’t stop him. I let him go. And my Curty never came home. A man did return to my house. But he was hollow-eyed, zombie-like. It took years to connect with him again, and we are still working on it.

The Curt who returned was wounded. His ability to feel joy and connect with other humans, stripped away. For months, he was only able to sit, stare, exist in a drugged state. Prescription drugs prevented suicide at best. Then began the arduous journey to try to recover who he was — including five therapists, two marathons, drugs, experimental psychedelic treatments and endless guitar playing.

Watching him battle this beast — these cruel echoes of trauma in his nervous system — I’ve come to know PTSD.

The disorder is not something that pure will can overcome. My husband has an iron will and ran a marathon, never stopping, despite 30 extra pounds and full-on panic attacks: as he ran past the sunlit seashore he was transported back to the Philippines, the smells of rotting death.

He kept running.

He keeps running.

He’s not short on willpower, but you can’t will your brain to fix itself.

Clip from a documentary on Curt Petrovich’s journey, Lost on Arrival: Me, the Mounties & PTSD, airs on CBC Firsthand, Feb. 9 at 9 p.m.(CBC/Lost on Arrival: Me, the Mounties & PTSD)

PTSD rewires your brain, in some measure, forever. You can get help coping and work to build new neural pathways, but it takes time, science, help — and a painful struggle through panic, pain, flashbacks, anger and depression.

It has been three years. I barely recognize the man I married. He’s lost 50 pounds overall and has grown a full beard. His habits, tastes and desires have shifted to the point that, at times, it is akin to living with a stranger.

He has not been able to work for two years.

He’s had to relearn how to communicate, touch and cope with what he’s lost.

We both struggle daily to find marital harmony. I won’t lie. It’s been nightmarish. Like something out of Twilight Zone or a David Byrne song.

There have been screaming fights, tantrums, slamming doors. I feel luckier than many PTSD spouses, as Curt is not violent toward us. But walking on eggshells to avoid his fury has taken a toll on our children and me.

A dropped glass or misplaced item could ruin a day.

“PTSD victimizes the family,” said Dr Nicole Aubé, an expert in the disorder who travels with doctors into war zones to help them cope, and treats frontline emergency workers.

Curt Petrovich, on assignment for CBC in the Philippines in November 2013, covering the devastating Typhoon Haiyan.

I, a well-educated, independent journalist, became a boiled frog: managing relationships to try to protect my husband from his mood swings and inappropriate outbursts. The dynamic became toxic.

During the worst times, Curt’s entrance into a room was like a dark cloud.

I was afraid to invite a guest over, cringing at the risk of Curt flying into full rant. If we found an ant crawling on the floor we’d hurry it outside, as bugs could set off a 24-hour frantic search and tirades. God forbid somebody fed the cats more than a half cup or loaded the dishwasher — nothing was ever done right. A drive down our hill meant enduring the inevitable anger touched off at the four-way intersection where anybody who committed a rolling stop or failed to signal could ruin an afternoon. It triggered a sense of helplessness in Curt, helpless to keep his family safe.

Eventually friends stopped calling. Dinner invites ceased. Extended family found other options for holidays and we were cast adrift.

There were neighbours who stopped waving. Work colleagues who acted as if Curt had simply vanished. There were times I wanted to scream at people I overheard criticizing the man I knew was home teetering on suicidal.

There were no cards, no managerial notes, no outreach. Our family was left on a virtual island. And the few who bothered to paddle over, or send a quiet word of care, I will never forget.

Petrovich, Yvette Brend and their children before PTSD upended their lives.

If I could give one bit of advice to people who love somebody with PTSD, I would say: get help.

You will need it.

And it’s not easy to find. I’m a journalist who loves research and I continue to struggle. Spousal support groups are not common and most focus on the military, although PTSD does not discriminate. There’s also no suicide prevention avenue with PTSD expertise — one trip to emergency with Curt ended with the doctor prescribing a tranquilizer and sending us home.

There are no mental health beds. No respite. No escape from the pain.

I am married to two things: my husband and PTSD. Most marriages do not survive this, and it is no wonder.

I hate PTSD.

But it’s part of who my husband is now. It’s kneaded into him like flour into bread.

Correction – February 6, 2017: This article was edited from a previous version that misstated the overall weight that Curt Petrovich lost.

A documentary on Curt Petrovich’s journey, Lost on Arrival: Me, the Mounties & PTSD, airs on CBC Firsthand, Feb. 9 at 9 p.m.

The road to wellness

What has helped me

Walking away, taking breaks

Getting support

Returning to work

Being with people who love me

Friends, phone rants

A pair of very special therapists who saved my husband’s life

What has helped him

Exercise

Therapy

Guitar

Family pets

MDMA

Ketamine treatment

Hugs

Time

Me, when he can let me in

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