“A human being is part of the whole, called by us ‘Universe’; a part limited in time and space. He experiences himself, his thoughts and feelings as something separated from the rest — a kind of optical delusion of his consciousness. This delusion is a kind of prison for us, restricting us to our personal desires and affection for a few persons nearest us.Our task must be to free ourselves from this prison by widening our circle of compassion to embrace all living creatures and the whole of nature in its beauty. Nobody is able to achieve this completely but striving for such achievement is, in itself, a part of the liberation and a foundation for inner security. ”

— Albert Einstein

One month after the accident. Two weeks after returning home. Chris and I, our two children, and my sister, arrived. Back in the city where it all began. As we discovered upon leaving the hospital, if you are in hospital in one province, then return to your home province, there is no continuation of care. Once you are discharged, you are essentially on your own. When we returned to BC, our access to specialists and doctors was limited. We had recently moved to a new city, and did not have a family doctor. We found one after the accident. He did not know us. This was not ideal.

The insurance company suggested we return to Alberta, and meet with their doctors and specialists. Twelve hundred kilometres from home. Chris could not fly because of the collapsed lung he had sustained in the accident. So, we hit the road. Searching for answers. Someone to tell us he would be okay. That he was healing.

In the hotel suite, Chris spent his time in bed. He watched television and slept. Laying down was the most comfortable position for him. My sister and I did the best we could to keep the kids busy. There were no parks close by, and sometimes running through the parking lot (it was safe) was all we really had to keep them occupied. Chris and I went to appointments, while my sister watched the kids. A nerve specialist, a counsellor that dealt with the brain and trauma (apparently he was just fine), and a doctor who went over his body, head to toe. It was stressful, but the appointments helped to alleviate some of our fears. So far, he was healing well. No major complications had crept up. The nerve specialist reminded us how lucky he was. We once again thanked the universe for the miracle of his survival. For the fact that his injuries would, for the most part, heal.

But as we found out many times on this journey. Things would more often than not, not run smoothly. The challenge (beyond the challenge of driving cross country with three adults and two toddlers, one month after a helicopter accident almost took Chris’ life), was pain medication. The pain of dealing with pain medication. When we left Vancouver, Chris had enough medication to get him to Edmonton. Not enough to get him home. We believed the insurance company doctor would refill his prescription. Writing this now, we were incredibly naive. Of course an insurance company doctor would not prescribe opioids to one of their clients. They are all about liability, and that is one liability they would not want to deal with. So, we found out too late. Chris had no easy access to painkillers. We were at a loss. We did not know what to do.

We began calling medical clinics throughout the city. It quickly became clear that getting an opioid prescription was not an easy task. We walked into one clinic. Chris, my sister and I. Our two young kids. Standing at the front desk. Trying to describe the situation. Only to be turned away. They did not write prescriptions for opioids. The woman at the front desk suggested the ER. Return to the hospital Chris left only two weeks prior. Sit in the ER. Wait. At the time, the situation seemed unbelievable. Unfathomable. Wrong.

Chris did not want to go. He didn’t believe the situation serious enough to warrant an ER visit. He felt silly. Embarrassed. Like it wasn’t necessary. A waste of their time. We insisted. For him to live without painkillers would have been unbearable. He would have ended up in the ER anyways. Just at a later time, and in more pain. We persisted. So after much convincing, we walked through those doors again. The last place we wanted to be. Hoping for a prescription to get him home.

The ER doctor was more than sympathetic. She could see from his chart he had been discharged from the exact same hospital only two weeks prior. She could see his injuries. He had been their patient. She understood the severity of his pain. Still, according to the law, she could only dispense 10 pills. No more. It did not matter the situation. It was out of her hands. So, with kindness, and compassion, she sent us on our way, ten pills in hand.

To be honest, I do not remember how we figured it out. How to fill his prescription. The ER doctor maybe. Or maybe simply more research. This part is not clear in my memory. Somehow, we eventually discovered we needed a clinic with a triplicate pad. Once we knew that, it did not take us long. We called around until we found one. Drove to the other side of the city. Filled it.

Luckily, because of the fresh surgery scar on Chris’ back, and the fact that the accident had been in his city. The doctor believed him. We had succeeded. I’m not sure if I have relayed it effectively, but it was a very stressful day for all involved. An unnecessary day, had Chris been taken better care of. Had there not been a gaping hole. We felt a weight lifted. As soon as we saw the full bottle. Crises averted. We headed back to the hotel room. Exhausted on so many levels.

We learned about the benefits and dangers of painkillers quite quickly. We were thrust into another new world, becoming educated as we went along. When Chris first started taking pain medication, we were uneducated about their addictive properties. After numerous warnings, and learning how difficult it could be to get a prescription, we started to understand. Though it was a necessary component to Chris’ recovery, there was a very real danger associated with them. Chris decided pretty early on, that he would stop taking the pain medication as soon as was possible. As soon as he could handle the pain without them.

Since 2013, the opioid crises has grown and we as a population are starting to understand the devastating effects pain medication can have on a person and their families. I now believe we dodged another bullet. Many of those who now struggle with addiction. Their stories started out similar to Chris’. An accident. An injury. A prescription. I will not pretend to be wise in regards to dealing such a complicated issue. I do not know the answers. But, I do know this. Though we received warnings, there was no real dialogue or follow up from medical professionals or the insurance company on this subject. Chris received very little information (if any) about other forms of pain management, or life after a major trauma. We had to find our own way. To search it out ourselves.

In so many ways, we were on our own when dealing with such heavy burdens. Another place. No net. Had we fallen, we would have been alone in dealing with it. Alone, like so many others today. Set aside. Stigmatized. Abandoned. Through this accident, Chris and I have learned again and again. The support for those struggling with trauma and with pain, both emotional and physical, is sorely lacking. Maybe acknowledging the real problem is part of the answer.

Those who are vulnerable in our societies. Those we often regard as broken. They are worthy of our empathy and our compassion. They are not the problem. The lack of any real form of support ensures many of those who should not fall through the cracks, will. Our lack of empathy for those who struggle ensures that they will struggle. I will say this again. As I have said it so many times before. In so many instances around trauma, there is no real support. No real safe place where those who have fallen on difficult times can stop and rest. Catch their breath. Be held and counselled. Guided along the path to recovery. Supported.