“There, but for the grace of god, go I.” — John Bradford

Is it okay to say I am angry? Is it okay to express it, instead of hurting myself by keeping it inside? I felt, as I thought about writing a blog this week, that I should write about being grateful. It is the Christmas season. A season of joy. A season of family. A season of giving. A season of love. I am grateful. I am grateful for so many things. I am grateful for my children. I would be empty without them. I am grateful for my husband. A man who walks beside me, though the degree of our difficulties can be so stifling. Trauma often tears people apart. I am so grateful we are still weathering the storm together. I am grateful to my sister, who emotionally, has not left my side through all of this. I am grateful for the doctors and nurses who took care of my husband with such kindness and skill. I am grateful his boss stood beside us during the first difficult days. He treated me with kindness and respect. I am grateful to our friends who have supported us along the way. I am grateful for our Christmas tree, and the gifts for our children surrounding it. I am grateful we are still here together. I am grateful my husband is alive, and I am not a widow. I came so close. As Christmas approaches, I am grateful for so much.

I am also angry. This was not supposed to be my life. In my life the people I love stand beside me. In my life my family holds my hand. In my life, the industry my husband and I have sacrificed so much for, stands behind us. In my life we have so much support we do not know what to do with it. This is not my life, though. That life belongs to someone else. This life belongs to a person whose family for the most part has not supported them. This life belongs to a person whose husband works in an industry that basically throws them away. This life belongs to me. The me I have become. The us we have become. This. This is our life.

I have spoken about the real need for an industry shift when dealing with pilots who have had an accident. I have spoken these words passionately. I know what it feels like to fall, and to expect to find a safety net where there is none. I have watched my husband, an extremely strong and driven man, try to recover in an industry that has a hard time forgiving. An industry that is quick to judge. An industry that seems to feel more comfortable looking away, rather than giving one of their pilots a hand back up. I have strong feelings about this. Should I not? I do not want one other pilot, or one other family to go through what we have gone through. I do not want one other pilot to have to hold his head down, because his industry shames him for surviving. I wish I had the power to change this. I wish I had the ability to show people how wrong this is. How sad this is. Because it is. Sad.

I was told. “Yes. Say it. Just don’t be angry. No one will listen if you are angry.” So, what is the alternative then? To speak softly? From what I can tell, no one really wants to hear it. No one wants to look in the mirror and say, that could have been me. That could be me tomorrow. That could be my wife. That could be my children. That could be my life.

A few steps before the doors opening to the hospital, stood two newspaper stands. The Sunday paper lay locked inside. A picture of a crumpled up helicopter, laying on its side in a field, filled the front page. I could see it clearly through the window. I could almost imagine him in it. Attached by his seatbelt. Hanging upside down. In pain and disoriented. I had not watched the news. I had not picked up a newspaper. I did not want to see it. The pilot in the hospital was not faceless to me. It was my husband lying in that hospital bed, fighting for his life. I did not stop. My gait did not change, as my body registered my reaction. It left me shaken. It reminded me how close we had come to losing him. It reminded me of the fact most pilots do not survive a crash like his. That helicopter was almost his death trap. That helicopter had almost taken his life. Instead, somehow it had saved it. The type of helicopter, as I would learn after, is one of the best to crash in. It absorbs the impact better than others. Maybe this saved his life. I also knew that a miracle happened in that field. The field which had cradled the helicopter just enough. It wasn’t just the helicopter, though. It really is a miracle that he survived. It took the right number of details at exactly the right time for everything to lead up to his survival. The exact right circumstances. The picture of his battered helicopter brought this home to me. I do not like to think about how close we came to a far different reality. A far different phone call. Sliding doors.

I walked into the room to find him sleeping. He would spend much of that day in and out of sleep. His body was struggling. He was still bleeding internally. He had already lost so much blood. As his surgeon would tell me, he lost blood in the surgery. The perianal puncture, caused by a metal part under the seat travelling up into his body, so far and with so much force that it chipped the coccyx bone in his tailbone, would have caused substantial blood loss. One of the doctors from the surgical team later told me. “It would have taken such a tremendous amount of force to chip the tiny bone at the end of tailbone in a healthy 34 year old man. It would have taken an amazing amount of force.” Then, there was the fact his body was still bleeding. He had some major internal injuries. He had bled and was bleeding enough that he was given blood. His hemoglobins were low. The nurse told me the difference from when he was admitted to then. It was a big difference. More stress. More fear. We still had a long way to go.

The calls began. Worried loved ones, and pilots and others in the aviation industry who had worked with my husband. Every phone call I missed, I made sure to return as soon as I could. I did not want anyone to worry one minute longer than they had to. I knew what it felt like. It was uncomfortable. I reassured them. I told them he was a fighter and he would get through it. I put them at ease the best I could. I appreciated those calls. The voices on the line, offering their support. Those voices mattered. Though I did not feel comfortable. Though there was little ease in the hospital those first few days for me. Those who called tried to put me at ease as well. They told me of the support we had waiting. They assured me we would want for nothing. I was told this over and over again. Both by our family, our friends, and the industry. “The industry is behind you, I was told. Whatever you need.” I did not know what I needed or what I would need. I did not know what to ask for. So, I did not ask. It was all new to me. It helped though. It helped to ease my fears. We would be taken care of. I believed them.

I do believe. Still. I believe. Maybe I am naive. I believe in a world where people help those who are wounded. Sometimes we forget that a part of our place in this world is to look to those in need, and to reach out our hands to them. It is something I will try to do more in my life. It is so easy to look away. Averting our eyes sometimes, almost feels more natural. I have met so many pilots. So many of their families. I have been around the industry for ten years. I believe that it is full of good people. Very good people. Pilots and owners who would help their fallen pilots, and the families of fallen pilots if only they knew how. If only there was a mechanism in place. I do not feel bitter. I do feel angry. I feel angry that the next pilot or passenger involved in a crash will likely fall through the same hole we did. I feel angry another husband, wife, or partner and more children will be pulled down this same hole. I often wonder about what happens to the families of the pilots and passengers who are not so lucky. The ones who do not survive. What happens to those families? What happens to those husbands, wives and partners?

I will end with this. It is not a hopeless anger I feel. Instead, it is an anger full of hope. An anger that believes in a better world and a better industry. One in which the next pilot or passenger who is involved in a crash, will be given support through the entirety of their healing. One in which the industry will make sure they get them back into the air, if that is what they still want. One in which a support system is created for every pilot, every passenger and for every family member. One in which, an aviation family, when dealing with an accident, does not have to feel alone and abandoned by an industry they have given so much to. Somehow, I still believe in the goodness of this world. Of this industry. I believe in the power of dialogue. This is something that should be talked about. I would like to help. This would be a perfect Christmas present. The creation of a support system.

Happy Holidays. Especially to those who know what it is like to be a survivor. To the ones who know the struggle first hand. Whether it be survivor or loved one who supports or who has lost, I wish you only the very best during this holiday season.