“Owning our stories and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing we’ll ever do.” — Brene Brown

My name is Shani, and I am the wife of a helicopter pilot, and the mother of two young children. In the early days of July 2013, my husband Chris was in a catastrophic helicopter accident that almost took his life. Only by some miracle is he still here with us.

When the accident happened our daughter had just celebrated her first birthday, our son his third. To say that the accident took us by surprise would be an understatement. It was akin to being sucker punched, and life since the accident has often been difficult to navigate.

The trauma of almost losing Chris made us take a long, hard look at our lives. and the path we were on prior to that day. It has made us take stock, look at the path we are on and to think about where we want to go from here. I do not know, as we move forward, if this accident will define us or not. I do know it has fundamentally changed us. Both as individuals and as a family unit. I have decided to share our story, in the hope that no one will feel as alone as we did as we struggled through the aftermath of major trauma.

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“He is ok, but there has been an accident.”

Words I had prayed I would never hear spoke to me through the phone. In the back of my mind, I always knew his job could be dangerous, but I also know Chris. He is a good pilot. He is cautious. He is capable. He knows how much the three of us need him.

It was a beautiful summer day, the sun was shining and the kids and I had just arrived at Kits beach. At the time of the accident we were staying in my uncle’s basement, hoping to find a place of our own in Vancouver. That morning, I had dropped off the deposit money for my son’s first preschool, having recently paid the deposit for a rental home nearby. As I drove to the beach, my phone buzzed repeatedly, receiving text after text. Though I thought it a bit odd, I wasn’t too worried, until I parked and read his sister’s message, “call my mom now.” I quickly suspected something was very wrong, and while I was preparing myself to reply, I got the call. The dreaded phone call every pilot wife prays she will never get.

His boss’ voice was calm as he relayed to me what had happened. He sounded optimistic, giving me hope that Chris’ injuries were superficial. Hanging up, I struggled to process the information, as I bundled my children back into the truck, and headed for my sister’s house, knowing I had to get to Chris. As I drove, one of his coworkers called me to reassure me that Chris was going to be just fine, and that they were in the process of finding me a flight. I could hear it in his voice though, and in the urgency in which they booked my flight so I could fly to be by his side, they were uncertain of his actual condition. They were just trying not to scare me.

The accident was an hours flight away, so I entrusted our two children to my sister and my mother, as I hastily packed my sister’s suitcase and clothes. It was a Friday afternoon, and going to our place would have taken too long due to Vancouver’s infamous commute traffic. It was the first time I had left my kids with someone else, and though it was not an easy choice to make, I knew in my gut in that moment their father needed me more. Our family would not be complete without him, and I needed to do everything I could possibly do to make sure he came home to us. It was all extremely surreal. “Am I acting normal?” I wanted to ask. It kept running through my mind, but I kept it to myself, needing to believe I could handle it. That I was strong enough to live through the days in front of us.

I hugged my babies good-bye and headed to the airport, still struggling to process what was happening. I was definitely in shock, making decisions from a place I could not really understand. I was already in survival mode knowing it was up to me to keep it all together. As I sat with my sister, waiting for my flight, I knew the world we lived in when we woke up that morning was gone. Everything had shifted, and we would all have to shift with it. Our lives would now be lived in the before and in the after. My sister and I did not talk as we sat waiting for my flight. We did not know what to say. It was not a time for small talk, and we had no real idea of how Chris was doing. What does one say in a time like that, anyway? Most words feel empty, and devoid of any real meaning. So we sat in silence, contemplating. I did not know what I would find when I got to the hospital. I did not know if Chris was just fine, or not fine at all. The time it was taking to get to him was paralyzing.

On the airplane, I masked my face, and acted as though it was a routine flight, praying the entire time his injuries were superficial, but the possibilities of internal injuries kept running through my mind. I knew people die from injuries that cannot be seen.