“Be the silent watcher of your thoughts and behaviour. You are beneath the thinker. You are the stillness beneath the mental noise. You are the love and joy beneath the pain.”

— Eckhart Tolle

Time. Time affects our lives in so many ways. I think about this a lot more these days. When faced with something that makes us aware of our mortality, time takes on a whole new meaning. I hear a lot about how important it is to make each moment count. To be present in our lives. To become aware of our breath as it fills and leaves our bodies. To be grateful for all the gifts we have been given. Both large and small. I agree. I totally agree with his sentiment. It does not mean that I always understand how to follow through, or that I live each day as I should. I have not quite figured out how to make each and every day count. To see the beauty in all of the things that surround me. I try to be present.

I have become hyper-aware of the minutes that make up the day. Their importance. I feel pressure to live up to that perfection. To know each second is precious. To gain pleasure through the small, often mundane moments that make up one’s life. I have become more aware. Both of myself, and of the world that we live in. I will continue to try to live up to this ideal. I will breathe in the sunsets, and see the beauty in a night sky full of stars. But, life. Life is still life. I feel that I must learn to function in a world where I am grateful for each moment, while at the same time, living my truth. Knowing my truth. Understanding that within every lifetime, there is both dark and light.

While Chris was in the hospital, and I was there beside him. Time stood still. Every minute, every hour and every day held major significance. Everything was so clear. Life made perfect sense in away. I knew exactly what mattered. There were no grey areas. There was black, and there was white. He could have died. Black. He survived. White. I did not have to think about living in the moment. I just was. I did not have to force myself to be grateful for the little things. I just was. I remember saying, “We could lose everything. Our house, all of our things. We could go bankrupt. I do not care. We still have Chris. None of that matters. The rest is just details. Details.”

The clarity that comes in such moments. That kind of clarity is amazing. It is a gift. A most unwelcome gift, but a gift nonetheless. It is pure. In times like that, everything is pure. Pain is pure. Fear is pure. Love is pure. Hope is pure. It is all pure. No filters. It is like drinking the purest water, and breathing the cleanest air. That is life. That is life! That is truth.

When you get caught in a moment, where you come face to face with losing all that matters to you. Your husband. Your family as one. Yourself. In moments like that, we realize that a lot of things we care about in life. Just details. Many of the things we hold onto in our daily lives. Details. They do not matter when it comes right down to it. It does not matter how pretty the package is or how neat and tidy the home. It is the love that lives inside of that package. The love that fills the home. The rest. Truly. Just details.

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It was time to plan. Chris was almost ready to go home. It was just a matter of days. The physiotherapist that was working with him had one request. Before Chris could go home, he had to be able to do a short flight of stairs. That was the requirement. His internal injuries were healing or had healed. He was no longer attached to machines that seemed to beep every few seconds. He had made it. The worse case scenarios had not been realized. The excitement started to set in. To Chris. The stairs. Just another challenge. Of course he would be able to do them. He wanted to go home. The pain did not matter. His children were waiting for him. The comfort of home was calling. So, with the same determination. When the time came, he conquered those stairs. He owned them. We would be soon heading home.

The logistics of getting home, not so simple. When the accident happened, Chris was flying in a city that was just over 800 kilometres from home. We started discussing flights. There would be paperwork to fill out. He would have to be okayed by the doctor, otherwise, the airline would not let him on the flight. We would need documents. I talked to the airline. We were all very excited. Us. The nurses who had gotten to know us in our time living in their world. It was one of those moments in life, when it feels like things are going right. When people are happy for one another. When they are toasting a success. Chris had survived. He could still walk. The scary what-ifs had been checked off the list. Things looked good.

It was not to be so easy. I was standing around the nurses’ station talking travel arrangements. One of the nurses who had taken care of Chris heard our conversation. “A plane. Chris can’t go on a plane. He had a collapsed lung. He can’t fly for six weeks.” We had all gotten caught up in the excitement, and a detail that mattered had been overlooked. He could not fly. I felt upset for the shortest of time. How could I be upset for long? I was taking my husband home. He was going home. The mode of transportation. The how. To me, a challenge. Staying in a hotel room, in a city, away from our kids, for six weeks, not possible. Bringing them to live in a hotel room. Not a great option. An alternative would be necessary. How would we get him home? A train? We actually thought about putting him on a train. Funny, right? A car or a truck? Way too uncomfortable. He would need to be able to lie down. This was very important. He would be in pain. Sitting was not easy. A special foam cushion eased some of the discomfort. Not much though. So, he would have to be able to lie down when the pain got too much. After some brainstorming, a camper van was decided upon. I could drive, and we could stop along the way when he needed a rest.

There is life after trauma and then there is “real life.” The life that we live on a daily basis. Life without trauma. Normal life. Where we struggle, and strive and laugh and cry. Ordinary surrounds us. In this life, we try to grasp onto the pure, and we feel it every now and then, but for the most part, it eludes us. It is a fickle friend. Somehow though, they are both living. They are so different. It is something that I struggle to reconcile. I now know what that pure life feels like. Though I still struggle through some of my days. I am thankful for that. For that kind of knowing, because, as the days go by, and the “real world” begins to slip in again. It is not so easy to see. Details creep in. It is not so clear. The waters, again turn muddy.