“Be the change that you wish to see in the world.” — Ghandi

I sat in the ER, having met an ambulance half way to the hospital. Chris driving to meet it, as I urged him to go faster. I thought I was dying. I could not breath. My lungs felt like they filled my torso. Pushed against my ribs. They felt enlarged. Too big for my body. Yet some how, I could not catch my breath. I could not remember how to breathe. My feet felt like they were cramping. Pulling into themselves. My hands felt tight. I could not bend my fingers without enormous effort. I thought of my children. Their faces. I focused on them. I felt like I was going to pass out. I was convinced if I did, I would never see those faces again. I fought against it with all of my will. But, as much as it felt like I was dying. I was not. I was hyperventilating. I was having my first full blown panic attack.

The ambulance driver was kind. As we sat on the side of the road. I leaned out of the passenger side door in the dark, with a gadget on my finger that tested the amount of oxygen in my blood. It became obvious to me, as it became obvious to him, that physically I was just fine. Still, they loaded me into the ambulance and headed to the hospital. Chris followed. I barely talked as I lay on the stretcher. I did not tell them that just over a year ago my husband had almost died in a helicopter accident. I did not tell him he had just gone back to flying. I did not tell him I felt alone. That I was scared. Out of my element. Shame crept into my body. I felt foolish.

Waiting to see the doctor. It started to sink in. I felt betrayed by my body. Chris sat beside me. Supportive, but likely as confused as I. Less than an hour ago, we had been driving toward the hospital. Both convinced I was in mortal danger. I thought that was rock bottom. It wasn’t. It was the first time I felt out of control. I did not know it was just the beginning. The first step in a downward spiral. The first sign of what I would later look back on as a form of PTSI. I was never diagnosed. But in the two plus years following that night, anxiety was my constant companion. For every second of every day. I had not listened to my body’s whispers. I had not heard it request politely that I start to care for myself. So, my body had screamed. And it would keep it up for a very long time.

At first, it did not really cross my mind to seek out professional help. Maybe in passing. I might have even Googled counsellors in my area. It took me awhile though. To realize what was going on with me. It took months for me to even consider something like PTSI. The accident did not happen to me. I was not the survivor. Chris was. It is the weirdest thing, when one looks back. I knew my thinking was skewed, but I did not realize how serious my situation was. I thought I could deal with it myself. I would kind of reach out. Sort of seek help. But mostly I was just afraid. Afraid of another panic attack. Afraid of the ordinary days that felt impossible. Afraid of telling even Chris how much I was struggling. I kept it to myself. Except when I had a panic attack and I couldn’t. But mostly, I kept in inside.

What we have gone through since the accident. The highs and the lows. Have changed how we both see the world. Before, we had no idea. Of the struggles and the challenges one faces after a traumatic experience, such as the accident. In the first days, we did not know what we were up against. We thought we could just carry on. Business as usual. If we focused on the future, and Chris got back into the air, everything would in a sense move back into the spectrum of normal. Through this journey we have learned so much. We have struggled and we have overcome. We now understand that such an event changes lives in such a fundamental way. Even if we fight against it. Even if we don’t want it to. It still does. It changes relationships. How we view life and our purpose upon this planet. It changes everything. Imagine if there had been a roadmap for us to follow. A community who could help us find our way. People around us who understand. What a different journey it could have been. We still would have learned. It would still have been painful at times. But maybe, it would not have been so damaging.

A while after the accident I started talking about a support system not only for the survivors, but also for their families and loved ones. I was aware enough to know that what we were going through was not ideal. That had there been something in place, our journey would have been less catastrophic. Less all consuming. Shorter. It boggles my mind, that in this day and age, and with all the knowledge we have, that we are still here. From my research, there is nothing resembling a support network here in Canada. Absolutely nothing. When I was frantically searching the world, over three years ago, I found very little. In the States there is more available. Way more. Still. It is not enough.

Survivors need to be supported. From the beginning for as long as is necessary. There needs to be a safe place for their families to find one another. So they can support each other. For partners and loved ones to get the support they need as the care givers of the survivors. We need a place to tell our stories. To share our both fears and our struggles, but also the knowledge we gain through it all. So we can pass on our hard earned wisdom. To those who will follow in our footsteps. Hopefully decreasing the likelihood they will find themselves in such a place. Sitting in an Emergency Room wondering what the heck just happened.