“For once you have tasted flight you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”

–Vincent Van Gogh

We do not always see the beauty in the little things. We take so much for granted in our ordinary every day lives. The blueness of the sky, and the sound of rain drops on rooftops. We believe our relationships will always be there and our loved ones will forever be with us. This is not always true, and our lives can change quicker than we think. The hospital is a place where we can no longer take things for granted. It is a place of cherishing and a place in which we come to understand that our loved ones will not always be there beside us. Our bodies may not always work and one day our hearts will stop altogether. A breath of fresh air and seeing the sky above us becomes a craving for those living in hospital beds. There are no promises that they will leave the bed that day, or  that week or month. Maybe not ever. The sky becomes a memory.

A part of me wants to say I hate hospitals. I definitely feel more uncomfortable in one these days. The memories they bring back are difficult. The feelings and the emotions I felt in those days with Chris, wash over me like a wave. They make me feel like I want to panic. Like my body wants to run. A hospital is not an easy place for me to be, but I do not hate them. They are amazing microcosms that exist along side the lives of the healthy. A parallel universe of sorts. As we carry on with our lives in the outside world, people take their last breaths. Loved ones say their goodbyes. Broken people are put back together and sick people are healed. I have not spent much time in hospitals. I have been lucky that way. Until the accident that is. Until that day. I did not know that inside those walls an extraordinary world lives. It is full of people at their worst and at their most amazing. Both the patients and their loved ones. The doctors and nurses.

Family members who lived there longer become allies and guides for those who have just entered. They help the ones struggling to navigate their norms and get their bearings. There is a different language spoken there. It is one that is more pure. More honest. For me, it was like stepping into a foreign country. The culture was different. It was confusing and intimidating. The language was hard to understand. Important decisions were made by the minute. Life and death are constant companions. I happened into this world by accident. I think this is how it is for most people. Except for the nurses, doctors and all those who work there. They are there by choice. They have made it their life mission to take care of those who are hurting. I have nothing but good things to say about anyone who works in that world. To me, they are the real heroes. They are the ones who make it bearable. They are the ones who keep us in this world or watch us enter the next.

As Chris lay there in his new hospital room, struggling to heal so many parts of his body at once, a new landscape opened up in front of me. My husband lay there healing, working on getting better and I did my best to take care of him. To get him water. To help him drink it. When he was ready, I brought him coffee, because for Chris, well, coffee is not to be taken lightly. I made sure that he was eating healthy food and not drinking the horrible meal replacement shakes provided by the hospital. I did everything I could to make sure he was as comfortable as possible.

A hospital is a busy place. Family members or loved ones are a necessity. An absolute necessity. They are the ones who make sure nothing falls through the cracks. They become a part of the system. They support. They become the ones who bring in the outside world. To let the sick and the injured know it is still there. They ensure their loved one knows they are cherished. Without support, the broken, the sick and the healing would be lost. These family members, these loved ones, they support one another as well. Not in a way as to carry another’s weight, but in a supportive look that says, I understand. Directions to a place in the hospital you may not have yet found. A suggestion of where the ever-elusive wheelchair might be. Where to get ice for your loved one’s water. How to score a window bed. The secret code to the hospital WIFI. Little gestures that become big gestures.

It slowly becomes your world. You begin to feel more and more comfortable there, in amongst the discomfort. Though you may not remember names, you will always remember the injuries of the injured, and the faces of the loved ones who tended to their wounded. The love you could see in their faces. The worry. The smiles as their person got better, then released. The devastation when it was known their injured could not be put back together the same or their illness could not be cured. I wish I could describe it in a way that would do it justice. For me, it does not seem possible. There is a feel to it. There is a smell to it. There is an atmosphere that is lived, not created. A sense of urgency, yet patience. Healing can be slow. The changes in the nurses’ and the doctors’ expressions as a loved one gets better. I saw it as Chris started to heal. As all of the scary checkmarks were checked off. They smiled more readily. Joked more quickly, and were genuinely happy when we came to the realization that Chris was going to get better. He was going to be one of the exceptions.

Chris. He craved the sky. He craved the outdoors and the smell of the fresh air that lives there. Thanks to another patient’s suggestion, we were able to get him a window bed. It opened onto an atrium in the middle of the hospital. From his bed, he could not see that sky itself, but he could see the daylight filtering in through it, and that was enough for him for a while. Then, he started talking about going outside. He needed it. When he was well enough, on a  Tuesday, a week and a half after the accident, he was finally allowed to go outside. It was a beautiful day. I searched high and low for that ever-elusive wheelchair. It was not easy to find, but I do not give up easily. Not at times like that, so I hunted high and low until I found one.

In my numerous walks around the hospital, I had discovered a peaceful patio, complete with benches, flowers and little water ponds. It was across from the chapel. My favourite place in that hospital, with the exception of beside Chris’ bed. It was never very busy, and this was where he would experience the outside world for the first time since his accident. Since he had been loaded into the ambulance. It was a big deal. A very big deal. A place to really start breathing again. We sat out there long as he could handle it. He was not comfortable sitting or standing, but he stretched it out as long as he could. Of course, he did. The fresh air and the sunshine and that ever-important blue sky lifted his mood. It made him that much more determined to get out of his hospital bed and out of the hospital. To get back to his children who were waiting for him at home. To get back to his life, and to start it all over again. To live.

I sometimes forget the importance of the little things. Of the cleansing breath of fresh air, and the beauty of the sky. I do look up a lot more than I used to. I take it in more often. I try to remember to see the beauty surrounding me. The snow on the mountains and the waves on the lake on a windy day. Our children laughing as they wrestle with their dad. A father who was almost taken from them too soon. It is everywhere. That beauty. The pureness of life surrounding us. Sometimes, we just forget to see it. Seeing Chris on that day, when after days of wanting to be there, he finally felt the sun on his face and remembered there is life after an accident and life outside of that hospital room. When he fully understood he was still alive. He was still with us. It is a memory I should recall more often. It is an important time in our story. Laughing and joking. Knowing the moment almost never happened. Happy to be alive, and sitting across from a man who had become some kind of miracle. At least for that moment enjoying the moment just as it was. Knowing that it was just how it should be.