“Out of suffering have emerged the strongest souls; the most massive characters are seared with scars.”

— Kahlil Gibran

Twelve days before the accident, I ran my first and only half marathon with my sister. My training partner. My race partner. I would drop off the kids with Uncle Rigo (when Chris was away at work), and my sister and I would run. We talked about life as we ran around Vancouver. My children were one and three at the time. It felt like I was getting a bit of myself back after having two babies. It was also about spending time with my sister. We have spent a lot of our adult lives in different cities. It was an opportunity to spend time together. It was about a lot of things for both of us. It was positive. And though I did not always want to go for those training runs, it was always a good space to be in.

That half marathon was meant to be. It was put in my life so I was grounded when the accident happened. So I was in a positive place before our lives blew up. So my sister and I were closer. So my body could handle what it would need to handle. Especially in the first year. In a strange way without even knowing it, I was preparing myself for what was coming. Training for trauma. In the days leading up to the accident I was strong. Both physically and emotionally. I was healthy. I was happy. I felt good. Chris and I were in a great place. Life was good. This helped in the days following the accident. It helped me to weather the storm. To carry the weight. To not buckle under the pressure in the first days and months that followed.

In spite of all that though, the memory is bitter sweet. The event and the accident were so close together. And because they both meant so much to me. I cannot think about the half marathon without thinking about the accident. They go together now. Forever related to one another. So, this year. The fifth anniversary of the accident. The fifth anniversary of the half marathon. I will be running it again. I will admit as I write this I have not run a single step in the past few months. I have only recently started working with a trainer again. I am in a way a little scared. Almost resistant. Hesitant to start the journey again. To train again. To take that step forward. To do the exact same half marathon I did just days before our lives changed. To live in the good days. It is time to add to the story. To write another chapter. To change the ending. To make a new beginning.

The past five years have been challenging for both my sister and me. She started and completed law school. She dealt with the accident aftermath with us. She faced and overcame obstacles of her own. We have both dealt with a lot of hard truths about life and the world. So, we are going to do this together again. Living in different cities this time. Training on our own. Learning that we can accomplish things both together and apart. Preparing ourselves to meet again on that starting line. In it together. Pushing each other forward. Supporting one another. As we look back on the time that has passed since our last race. Proud of one another for how far we have both come.

In many ways life is a bit like running a race. There are times when every part of our bodies want to give up. When we just want to walk. Or sit down. Stop running. Stop moving forward. When the only thing we have to keep our feet moving is the belief that we can do it. Knowing that giving up is not an option. Quitting is something we just will not do. Believing in ourselves. Knowing we won’t give up on the hills. We will keep pushing ahead. We will be strong. We will focus on what it is we need to focus on to get through. Picking up the pace as we move closer to our goals. Even if our legs are beyond tired and our lungs are burning. Smiling at the people who cheer us on. Rooting for the people who run along side us.

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Through our struggles we learn. We have floundered. But one foot has followed the other. We are proof that there is life after trauma. That there is joy even after our biggest fears are realized. Though some people may not understand our journey. Though some people may judge our survival methods. In the end it does not matter what they think. The only thing that matters is that we are still here. We have proven those who have doubted us wrong. I watch Chris head to the cross-fit gym. I watch him head out the door to work. Doing something he still loves to do. Accomplishing his goals. Checking them off as he moves forward. Never giving up. I see the person he is growing into. How wise and cool he has become. Growing into the best version of himself. He has come to understand and accept both his weaknesses and his strengths. We all have. Tried and tested. Rising above.

As I run the half marathon with my sister, I am sure we will think about some of these things. How far we have all come. How many hills we have conquered. Our lives are just beginning. In some ways we have been reborn. We have all proven ourselves to be strong. To be courageous. To be wise. No one can take this away from us. It is a part of our history. It is our story. And as we cross that finish line we will know this. We will celebrate this. We will celebrate one another. Thankful for those how have supported our journey. Proud of who we are. Proud of the survivors we have become. Standing strong. Knowing we are warriors. Because warriors never give up. Battle scarred, but ready to run another day.

“There comes a time in your life, when you walk away from all the drama and people who create it. You surround yourself with people who make you laugh. Forget the bad and focus on the good. Love the people who treat you right, pray for the ones who do not. Life is too short to be anything but happy. Falling down is a part of life, getting back up is living.”

― José N. Harris

Sometimes we have no choice but to walk away. From something. From someone. There comes a point, when the only healthy choice is to leave situations or people behind. Not looking back to see if they are following. No longer waiting for them to catch up. When we have gotten to the point where we don’t want them to try to get us back. When we don’t want them to plead with us to stay. When their apologies mean nothing. They are just air. Words spoken into the wind. Our ears closed to them. Our minds made up.

After the accident things have become clearer. More pure. There are no spots on the windows through which we see. Nothing to blur the image. We just observe. We see things for how they are. For how they have always been. I believe we know when we are hurting someone. I believe we know when we are being unkind. When we are taking care of ourselves and our needs. Before those of others. Before those of our loved ones. Before those we profess to love who are struggling before us. I believe we know. Always. Every single time. I know when I look back in my life, I can pinpoint the times I made a choice to put my needs in front of someone else. Knowing it would hurt them. Knowing the pain I would cause. I was not confused. I did it deliberately. I made a choice. Upon reflection and with growth, I can look back at those times and acknowledge. I can acknowledge I was wrong. I was unkind. I was selfish.

After a trauma. After an accident. Things become clear. We do not have the time or the energy to deal with other people’s drama. We do not have time to engage in the petty. We do not have the strength to let in any more hurt. So, when surrounded by petty and drama, we isolate. We do not isolate because we are weak. We do not isolate because we are punishing. We isolate because we are smart. Intelligent. We know that toxic relationships cause too much harm. We know we are vulnerable. That we are fragile. So, we curl up into a ball. We create a shield around ourselves. Around our family. We only let in a chosen few. We only let in the ones who will not damage us further.

On this journey. On this path. Through the world of trauma. We have learned. We have learned and we have become stronger. Wiser. Kinder. But, less forgiving. Less allowing of the selfishness of others. We went through a tremendous amount of pain after the accident. Our world was torn apart and our eyes were opened. We have learned to accept that the world is full of imperfect people. And though we try not to carry anger. And though we try not to hate. We do try to allow. To allow ourselves to acknowledge that some people hurt us. Some people. They do damage. Some people, we have no choice but to walk away from. Because, they have not grown enough. They have not reflected enough. They have not stopped. Trying to inflict what it is they need to inflict. So they can feel safe in their world. So they can tell themselves they are right.

So, we walk away. We turn our backs on them. We break up with them. We tell them not to follow. Not to bother. Because they do not deserve us anymore. They have made choices and they have stood by them. They have taken instead of given. They have caused more pain instead of easing it. They have caused hurt instead of healing. They have thought about themselves in a time that was not about them. When we needed them the most. When we were the most vulnerable. They chose to punish. To inflict. To judge.

I think this is common after a trauma. I do not believe it is the exception to the rule. One thing I have heard and read over and over again, when living through trauma, is that people isolate. Traumatized people isolate. They isolate themselves. They often end up alone. It is usually spoken about as though it is a negative. And I suppose in many ways it is negative. But it is not on the traumatized person. They are not the negative. Traumatized people isolate because, in the beginning, they are not strong enough to deal with the people in their lives who do them harm. Whether that person be friend or family. They are not strong enough to protect themselves from the toxins. So they create a barrier around themselves. They isolate.

But then the times comes. The time comes when they are no longer weak. When they have survived the storm. When they have become warriors, not just survivors. When they are stronger than they have ever been. When they see the world clearer than they have ever seen it. When they are wiser than they have ever been. When they do not need to protect themselves as much. The walls start to come down. They finally say, no more. They say, I saw how you treated me when I was vulnerable. I saw how you treated me when you thought I was too weak to protect myself. When you knew I couldn’t fight back. I saw how you treated me when you thought I had no one. When you thought you had all the power. I saw how you treated me. I saw you. And now I am walking away.

“You can dance in a hurricane, but only if you are standing in the eye.”

— Brandi Carlisle

Life does not come down to one moment. One minute in time does not define who we are. We are the sum of minutes. of days. Of months. Of years. We are the sum of a life lived. A life lived up until now. Up until this moment. But sometimes. Sometimes it almost feels like a moment wants to define us. There is the moment. And then. Then there all of the pieces that revolve around it. Like the planets to the sun. Like a rock in a pond. All of the reverberations. The echoes. The ripples. They all become a part of that moment. The life that follows that wants to own us. To be us. To become us. When the helicopter crashed. When the phone rang. When the words were spoken. When the unreal became real. Well, it changed the whole world. It changed everything.

Life is made up of seconds. The seconds in which a child is born. The second a pen is laid down after the last university exam. The second the decision is made to love. The second I stood in front of a boy who wanted to hurt someone I love. The second we decided not to open that door. The second I moved away. The second I walked onto those planes. Took those adventures. Life is made up of moments. It is made up of seconds. Seconds that become minutes, and so on. But some of those seconds. They are selfish. They want to stick into our brains. Into our souls. They want us to hold them with us as we walk along this path we call life. They want to bury into our skin and into our hearts. They want to become our stories.

Should we not get to choose though? Is choice not considered a basic human right? It feels like it should be. But, sometimes it isn’t. We don’t always get to choose the moments that make us who we are. We choose some. Some choose us. They say we are are not what happens to us, but instead how we react to what happens to us. That’s not really fair though is it? I don’t think it is. Because some people. Well, some people are lucky. They do not have a life of moments that want to own them. Some people instead get to choose the moments they own. So, what does that mean in the whole grand scheme of things? How do we judge someone’s story? How do we judge the seconds that make up a life. The choices they make within those moments? Can we allow them to be who they want to be? Can we look passed the moments they did not choose. Can we let them be more than the moments that choose them?

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We rented my Aunt and Uncle’s basement for another eight and a half months after the accident. Victoria was not to be. Will never be. We just did not have the strength to follow through. Not physically, emotionally or financially. We were mid move when the accident happened. In motion, but we had not yet arrived. We did not feel like we could keep going. It felt like the world was pushing us backwards. We could not live in the basement forever. It was supposed to be short term. A half way point. So, after many months of trying to figure out our next step, we headed back “home”. There was no part of me that wanted to move back to the place we had just left. We had a reason for leaving. The reason was still there. Still, it felt like we did not have a choice. We were looking for support. Hoping for hands. We wanted to be comforted. We wanted to feel safe. Somehow going backwards felt safer than moving forward. But feeling it does not make it so. Wanting it. Willing it. Does not make something appear.

The months we spent in the basement after the accident were both calm and tumultuous. The only schedule we had was taking our son to preschool twice a week for three hours. It was a parent participation preschool, so we became involved with the school. We felt good there. Our son loved it. Chris and I would drop him off, and we would settle our daughter into the stroller, and we would walk for a coffee and then walk around the park in which the preschool sat. Nestled. We would walk and we would talk. It was a positive thing most of the time. Except for when it was not. When Chris and I were at odds. When the stress was getting to us. When we couldn’t figure our way through what we needed to. But mostly, it was positive. Perfect. A place we needed to be.

We never should have left. We should have stayed and worked it out. But at the time it felt impossible. The way forward seemed to difficult. And with all the other stuff we were dealing with. It felt like a choice we needed to make. Looking back, I can see other post accident choices we made because they felt necessary. Because we were scared. Struggling. Dealing with trauma and what it brings with it. So many times we were on our way forward, only to convince ourselves to make choices we shouldn’t have.

It broke my heart when we took our son out of the preschool. Maybe it sounds strange. Like, um. Its a preschool. For us though, it was more than that. It was a place that welcomed us. A place where we were just Chris and Shani, and the kids. A place that we didn’t have to think about the accident. A place that felt welcoming. It was our first child’s first experience with school. It was the first place we went to, outside of ourselves. Other than doctors appointments. The first place that belonged to the outside world, that we became a part of post accident. A little school full of little children. Nestled in a park. It was a gift. An oasis.

Somehow it felt like the right choice to leave it. To leave that life. The place we loved. Our children loved. To go back to another less welcoming place. One we had left behind us. In hindsight, it does not feel like it was the right decision. In hindsight I can see the fallout from this decision. In hindsight I can see the other oasis’s we left when we should have stayed. Because leaving Burnaby was not the only safe place we walked away from. Making decisions based of fear. On feeling we just weren’t strong enough. Ignoring red flags because sometimes the known feels so much more comfortable than the unknown. We were still living in the basement. But we could have left and stayed at the same time. Found our own little place in that world. Instead though we made another choice. We took another path. We went “home”.

I’m not really sure why I am sharing this. What the moral of the story is. Maybe its this. Decisions based on fear do not usually take us to safe places. Even if that is the intention, this is not usually the outcome. Ignoring red flags. Ignoring our gut. Not smart. They are there for a reason. They are a part of our navigation system. I wish we had listened to them more on this journey. That we had let them guide us. Because safe choices are rarely that. Safe. We tried to be brave. We tried to live our lives in a better way. But the accident knocked the wind out of our sails. For so many reasons. Making decisions in a storm is not always easy. They are often rushed and ill thought out. Based on adrenalin. On fight or flight. So, too many times we left the places we should have stayed and stayed in places we should have left.

But, here we find ourselves again. In another oasis. In a place of our choosing. Where we are happy. Still setting up. Still finding our comfort zone. But nonetheless, here. We are basing our choices on wants. Hopes and dreams. Creating a space for ourselves in the universe. Following our guts. Heeding the red flags. Looking toward the future. Creating it. Moulding it. Making our lives ours. Remembering all that we are. Forgiving ourselves our stumbles. Living in our strengths. Trusting our choices. Knowing that life is just life. And that living it is all we can really do. But from now on, on our terms. Letting fear advise us, but hope and determination lead the way. Becoming who we are meant to become. Becoming us.

 

 

“Your heart knows the way. Run in that direction.”

— Rumi

When we were in the hospital. During the first days following the accident. I created a bubble. I used all of my energy. Everything at my disposal. To keep the outside world at bay. To help him feel safe. To create positive energy around him. To keep the stresses of the ‘real world’ at bay. I did not allow any of the anxiety I felt, the fear and the uncertainty, to show. He felt none of it. I was always upbeat. I would not let even the smallest hint of how scared I was to come through me. I held it inside. As I stood beside him. I acted confident. Almost carefree. I wanted him to feel that no matter what, he was going to be okay. We were going to be okay.

I guarded his bedside. I told people, no. More than once. Crying in front of him was not allowed. I expected a negative free zone around him. A bubble. He was the only one who mattered. His body needed all of its energy to heal. Our emotions were secondary. I did not care if I offended. My only care was Chris getting better. That he would walk out of the hospital with me. As soon as possible. There were things I wanted to talk to him about. Things I would usually have shared with him. He was my person. My husband. The one I would talk to at the beginning and the ending of each day. I would tell him about the adventures the kids and I had each day. He would tell me about his. Our children got sick when Chris was in the hospital. My son was taken to Emergency more than once. He and my daughter were throwing up constantly. The stress of worrying about the three of them felt like it would break me. I cried in the hallway, not far from his room. But he would never know. I wiped my eyes. Pulled back my shoulders and sat beside his bed. There as much as I could be.

I believe that bubble helped him to heal. Too often, we think of ourselves. I am thankful that in that moment I did not. All of my energy went into him. Into helping him heal in the only way I could. I was not a doctor or a nurse. Instead, I was his protector. His advocate. Leaving him each night was terrifying for me. If I could have, I would have slept each night in his room. But, that was not possible. So I left the nights up to the nurses. And the nurses who cared for him were amazing. Beyond amazing. They were a godsend. My role as his wife. As the woman who loves him. Was to create the best environment I could. In that hospital. In those first few days. In the time that mattered most.

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Without realizing it. I got really good at building bubbles. Big bubbles. Strong bubbles. Ones that would keep our family safe. Ones that would protect us from the evils of the world. I think I must have taken the protective energy I built in the hospital. I took it and wrapped it around the four of us. Creating a place in which we could heal. In which we could grow stronger. A place where we would feel as safe as one can feel. On this planet we call earth. Such a dangerous place to exist. So much danger. So much grief. So much sadness. And anger. And fear. So, without even being really aware of it. I made the bubble bigger and stronger. Trying to protect us. From the harm that seemed to lurk behind every corner.

I cannot say whether this bubble was a good thing or a bad thing. To be honest. I believe it was both. In so many ways it was necessary. And in so many ways it made things more difficult. It takes a tremendous amount of energy to always be watching. Waiting. Protecting. To be on guard. At every moment, ready to react. I suppose it meant living in ‘fight or flight’. Alert became the new normal. Relaxing had a different meaning. Because truly, I don’t think I ever really did. It took a lot to maintain. So much. The pressure was tremendous. I felt I could not falter. Because if I did, I might fail. And failing to me meant danger. It meant letting in the darkness.

So, I became terribly efficient when it came to protecting. Protecting Chris. Protecting me. Protecting the kids. I made them feel safe in the walls behind our fortress. So safe that the outside world does not scare them. I hid panic and fear behind corners. I cried in other rooms. Just like in the hospital, I kept the scary bits to myself as best I could. Creating a safe place to live became my full time job. My reason for being. My energy surrounded us. As I pushed back against the storms that raged outside our doors. I still do. It has become second nature. A piece of who I am.

It is only upon looking back that I can really see. The world I created. The walls I built. The weapons I stored. And the armour I readied. I was ready for battle. A warrior of sorts. It became normal. But, as the days pass, and the years grow. I begin to see things a little differently. The world, though still scary, seems slightly less so. Maybe it is time to ease up just a little. To trust a little more. To let in the nourishment that comes from being open.  I am still a mother. So I will always be there for my children when they need me. I will be ferocious, like mothers can be. When necessary. But not every day. Because children cannot live forever in a bubble. They need to test their own legs. To spread their own wings. I have to give them the freedom to fly. And, Chris. Well, he can take care of himself now. He has grown as I have grown. He has gotten stronger. He is not the same man I sat beside in that hospital almost five years ago. He is not fragile. I do not need to soften the world for him. I do not need to protect him. He can protect himself now. He has been for a long time already anyways. Its time for me to let go. To lower the walls. To lessen the load.

Still, I am thankful for those bubbles. That I know how to build them. There will always be a part of me wrapped around the people I love. And the world we created within our bubbles was cozy and warm. We felt safe, because in many ways we were. We worked to keep out the negativity. We tried to always focus on the positive. Even through all of our struggles. It was hope that mattered. Love that mattered. We watched our children grow into confident, secure little beings. We healed, as we lived on our own little island. Staying there until we were ready. To step out into the world again. Still holding hands. Shoulder to shoulder. Protecting one another. But with room to grow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Vulnerability is the core of shame and fear and our struggle for worthiness, but it appears that it’s also the birthplace of joy, of creating, of belonging, of love.”

— Brene Brown

There was a time after the accident that I felt different. As though my body was dealing with the trauma in an abnormal way. That I was not dealing with it properly. It took me a long time to get to a place where I understood. When I had processed enough. When I had enough hindsight to see it. That I was. I am. Normal. I am not strange. I am not weak. I am not lesser. I am not broken. I am human. For a long time I did not realize this. I thought I was. Strange. Weak. Lesser. When someone judged me. My shock. My processing. My healing. When someone saw me as less than perfect. When they showed me disapproval. There was a part of me that believed them. A part of me that did not fight back. A part of me that felt completely alone. A part of me that felt like “other”.

Where there is trauma, there is always judgement. I am not sure why. Maybe it comes down to fear. The need to believe we would do it differently. But, until we have lived through a trauma, we do not know how it will affect us. How it will change us. How it will break us. How it will build us back up. How we will grow. So, we are afraid. Of the unknown. Where there is fear, there is judgement. So, instead of coming from a place of understanding, we judge. Instead of being kind, we are cruel. Unfeeling. We blame the victim for being a victim in the first place. We blame the victim for how they react to their victimization. We blame them for being normal. Because sometimes normal is scary. Because normal after trauma is not pretty. It is not graceful. It is not inspirational. It is dark and it is dirty. It is life on the bottom. It is going into ourselves and finding where the monsters live. It is finding where the secrets are hidden. It is a place so real it scares the crap out of us. It is looking into ourselves and seeing a mirror.

When I was judged for being a” victim” it hit a nerve. I felt like I should stop. Stop acting like a victim. Because being called a victim is a judgment, right? No one wants to be called a victim. No one wants to “act like a victim”. There is shame attached to that label. Imposed upon it. But what if we are? What if we are in that moment a victim? What if we are struggling? What if life feels too hard? Too much to manage? What if being strong is not always possible? What if people take advantage of our vulnerability? What if we don’t have the power to fight back? What if getting through the day is all we have?

In the beginning. In the early days. I tried to be what everyone wanted me to be. I tried to be inspirational. To always be positive. Optimistic. Grateful. To hide my weaknesses. To project only positivity. To reassure those who asked that we were going to be only okay. It was expected. We took some of the energy we needed to heal. We stole from our reserves. While we worried about how people would judge us. If we were not “strong.” Fighting against the label of “victim.” Projecting the image of what we thought a survivor looked like. What we thought a survivor should be.

It has taken me a very long time. It has taken years on this road to see the truth. To see the world differently. To see ourselves differently. To be proud of who we are. To be proud of what we have accomplished. To not feel shame for reacting in a real way. For being authentic. To not feel shame for allowing ourselves the space we needed. The space to allow the processing. The space to allow the healing. The space to allow the growth. Growing pains and all. The space to be exactly who we needed to be at that time. The space to be normal. The space to be human.

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The first year in some way feels like the clearest of all the years that have followed the accident. It feels pure in a way. Beautiful. Real. Don’t get me wrong. It was full of pain. Chris was literally in pain daily. Moment to moment. For months he could not see properly. Dealing with the reality of double vision. There was uncertainty. So much uncertainty. For most people uncertainty is uncomfortable. That was no different for us. We were deeply uncomfortable. We had no idea what the future held for us. We lived on faith. On the belief that we would be okay.

Pain felt like pain. No buffer. No shields. Just raw and real. Pain. But I would say the same thing for joy. Joy felt like joy. No buffer. No shields. Just raw and real. Joy. We understood the meaning of life. We knew that our children were everything. That most of all, they needed to be protected. To not be buried in the aftermath of trauma, but instead lifted up by it. So we could not let it bury us. We had to learn to be lifted by it. If I was ever inspirational it was for that reason. For my kids. It is the same for Chris. We knew we had to get through it. Go through it. Because on the other side they would be waiting there for us. They were walking with us on this journey. There is nothing we could do to change this. There is still nothing we can do. But we have always known that. That we had to find a way to be positive. That we had to focus on surviving.

Still, we were incredibly naive in so many ways. I don’t like to think of it as naive though. Maybe more like hopeful. We believed in the goodness of the world. We looked at things from the bright side. Through rose coloured glasses. We saw the world as it should be seen. As it really is. Or how we wanted it to be. Underneath all of the stuff that doesn’t really matter. There was a glow to the world. A peace to it. We understood what needed to be understood.

But then slowly. Ever so slowly. It started to sink in. Shock held the world at bay for a little while. But, it could not keep it out forever. Real life seeped in. Little by little. It was not going to be an easy journey. It took us a long time to realize this. Somehow we thought sheer will power could will the world into what we wanted it to be. This was not to be. Because when it came down to it. We were the ones who were changing. We were the ones who would keep changing. More and more as each day passed. But, growth can be painful. Believe me. I know this from first hand experience. Growth can be incredibly painful. And lonely. It stretches us in ways we did not know we could stretch. It presses our buttons. It seeks out our weaknesses. It forces our strength. It shows us who we are. What we are made of.

That first year we grew so much. We grew, but we did not really know we were growing. Like children before they are aware of themselves. Before they know what life is about. That it will be hard in ways they cannot even imagine. Beautiful in ways they can only dream. Shock created a space for us. A space for us to start growing into who we would become. A space to prepare us for what was coming. To gather our strength. To heal enough so that we could start processing what was before us. What was behind us. What we had seen and felt. What we had learned. It helped us to survive, both the accident and the aftermath of it.

What amazing beings humans are. The way our bodies work. The way our minds work. Always protecting. Always there for us. Reminding us. Guiding us. And if we listen. If we accept. We will realize we are in fact normal. The same. Our bodies reacting as they should. As they always do. Showing us we can survive. We can grow. We can overcome. If we give ourselves the space to be. To exist as we are. To feel as we do. To be as human as we need to be.

“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.

 

“We delight in the beauty of the butterfly but rarely admit the changes it has gone through to achieve that beauty.” — Maya Angelou

For a long time anger has been a part of my life. I have felt angry with a lot of people, including many of those I love. I have felt angry with circumstances beyond my control. I have felt angry with myself. My reasons for feeling anger have always felt justified to me. But, I have come to understand that my anger has not always been to my benefit. In some ways, and in some places along this journey, it has driven me forward. Pushed me along the path. Kept me moving. But in other ways it has proven to be a major distraction. It has hampered my healing. It has filled my body with toxins when I needed pureness. It has allowed me to look at others instead of myself.

I believe that anger is an integral part of the healing process. I think it is normal to feel it after going through a traumatic experience. I think in many ways it can be a healthy emotion. It is a part of us, so I suppose that means it is necessary. But, there comes a time when we have to let that anger go. Not even just to release those we hold there with us, in that place. But also to release ourselves. To show understanding and compassion instead of judgement. To accept that not everyone knows how to act perfectly in the face of trauma. That because someone does not reach out a hand, does not mean they do not want to. Maybe they don’t know how. Maybe fear is driving them away from us. Maybe they don’t know what to say. Maybe they think someone else is holding our hands. Maybe they are struggling in their own lives. Maybe we are damaging to them. Or maybe, in the worse case scenario, they simply don’t care.

Of course, judgment is always there. At our disposal. To use against those we feel have caused us pain. Those who we feel have wronged us. It is true. Life after the accident was hard for us. We needed people around us in a very real way. We felt the most alone we had ever felt. The most vulnerable. Fragile. Afraid. Lost in the chaos that often follows in trauma’s wake. And, in all honesty I felt angry that we were there. Stuck. Fighting to survive. I felt angry that those I needed most were not always there. That those I needed most seemed not to care. I have carried this anger with me for a very long time. For years. Sure my anger may have felt valid to me. But it did not help me to heal. It was detrimental to my healing. It kept me stuck. It pushed people who may have otherwise been by my side. Away.

I was talking to Chris the other day, and he asked me, “Did we ask for help? Did we show those who could help us we needed it?” I responded along these lines, “I’m not really sure, but the ironic thing about life after trauma is that it is so scary. We feel if we tell people how afraid we are, they might judge us. They might think we have lost our minds. They might think we are too far gone. So, in the moments we need help most. Well, those are the times we build the highest walls. That is when we build a fortress around us.”

Why? Because being afraid is not the only thing we are battling. We also feel a fragility we are not used to feeling. A vulnerability that feels out of control. So, we hunker down, and we try to weather the storm. We don’t ask for help. Instead we pretend, to the best of our abilities, that we are okay. All the while hoping that someone will see through our facade. That someone won’t believe us when we say we are fine. That someone will see behind the masks we have placed upon our faces. That someone will recognize that we are in danger of drowning. Someone will see. Someone will help.

I am not sure what the answer is. But I have learned, going through what we have gone through, that there is a huge gaping hole when it comes to support after trauma. In this gaping hole toxins grow. Anxiety and fear. Anger and pain. Ambivalence and denial. Isolation. It is not a nice place to live. It is a certain kind of hell. No one deserves that place. It is dark and it is scary, and nobody can survive there forever.

So, for me, it is time to try and let go of the anger and the blaming. I have to come to a place where I understand that humans are imperfect. That does not necessarily make them bad. When we are coming from a place of fear it can be difficult to be kind and empathetic. When every button is being pushed it can be difficult not to blame those we love for not helping. For not providing us with some relief. I do not know what this means moving forwards for me. For us. For this whole family. But I do know we have been alone for far too long. I have come to understand that pushing people away damages us more than it damages them. Though anger is sometimes healthy. As it can help us to build boundaries. Help protect us from further pain when we are already dealing with more than we can handle. It is not a place in which we are meant to dwell forever. Our bodies and our minds cannot sustain it. It will make us ill if we allow it to stay in our bodies for too long. It will destroy us if we cannot learn how to let it go.

We have been through too much to allow that. To be destroyed by this just because we have grown accustomed to it. We have been on this journey too long. We have survived in a world that not everyone makes it through. We have fought our battles. We have faced our fears. In so many ways, we are better people than we were going into the accident. I can no longer allow anger to block out the sun. We cannot live in the shadow of this trauma for the rest of our lives. If we do, it will poison our present. Destroy our future. All of our triumphs and joys will be tainted by that which we cannot let go of. So, it is time to start writing a new story. To change the story line. To retire what needs to be retired. To be thankful for the protection that anger once afforded us. But let go with intention. Learning to bask in the sunlight where a shadow once lay.

 

 

“Optimism is the faith that leads to achievement. Nothing can be done without hope and confidence.” — Helen Keller.

Hindsight. Like one is at the end of an epic journey. Through unfamiliar lands. Unexpected people. Friendships. Experiences. Pictures taken in the mind along the way. Pictures that stay with us. Moments that remain. Always. To be reminisced upon. Remembered. Felt. When we are no longer there. When we can look back, and see how it has changed us. The ups and the downs. The laughter and the tears that are part of such a journey.

I know I have said this before, but this time I think we might actually be in that place. In the place where hindsight lives. Where we can look back on the storms we have weathered. The ways in which we handled the scary bits. The damage that has been done. To us and by us. Who we are, and who we are becoming. The terrain has become familiar. Almost ordinary in a strange way. We have come to know what to expect. And how to roll with the unexpected. Knowing that one day something might hit us again. Too hard. We know we might crumble. Break. And though we can look back, we have come to understand that feeling wise is the most naive of places to live. This is a part of the beauty and the terror of hindsight.

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We spent the rest of that summer sitting in chairs on the lawn, while our children played around us. We talked about the accident and what we thought was coming our way. We planned Chris’ path back to flying, having no real idea what the actual path would look like. We were in a positive space. We were no longer in the hospital. Specialist appointments were put on hold for the moment.

When I think of that time, maybe I would say it was a bit of an oasis. A time to swim in the coolness of the water, enjoying the beauty surrounding us. As we relished living in the land of miracles. Not really realizing we could not stay there forever. At some point, we would have to cross the desert. One day we would have to move forward. But not then. Not in those days.

Chris walked daily. Going further when his body allowed. The pain his constant companion. Sleep, not so much. Life constantly threatened to push in. We would catch glimpses of what was coming. Still, we managed to stay positive. In a weird way, we were the happiest we have ever been. We lived with the knowledge that our family had almost been destroyed. Torn apart. Changed into something even less recognizable than what it is now. Like newlyweds living in the soft, post-wedding light. When life is full of hope and what will be. We knew we were lucky. We thought our luck would hold.

So, we walked and we sat in the sun. We tried to smile through the sad stuff. Deal with the pain. We laughed when we could. Focussed on the good. Held on to the promises. Enjoyed our days. Sipped our coffee. Continued living. Our kids played. Almost as though they did not notice what was going on around them. Though their lives had also changed. Not knowing that one day they may also question how the accident has altered them. Altered their lives. They just knew that they could not wrestle Dad like they used to. He could not jump on the trampoline anymore. He was fragile. They could hurt him if they hugged too hard. And they were amazing. They knew it instinctually. We did not have to remind them.

We lived the first months after the accident differently. In a space that somehow felt safe. We dreamed of a future that was better. We held hope in our hands. It felt tangible. Real. We knew we had an uphill battle ahead of us, but we trusted that support would ease our worries. Lighten our load. We trusted life with the naivety of a toddler. Taking their first steps into a world that is completely foreign and sometimes scary but worth exploring. Trusting that arms will catch them if they stumble. And if they fall those same arms will be there to pick them up and to comfort them. It was a glorious landscape that we saw ahead of us. We believed if we tried hard enough, were brave enough and faced it together, that we would not falter. Not in any real way.

When I think about it, I can bring my mind back to that place. To the place before. Before we knew what living through trauma was really like. The roads we would travel. That would bring us to where we are today. We are used to the landscape now. We have lived here long enough to understand the language. We understand the culture. We are longtime residents. We know most of the streets and the avenues. It is not as easy to get lost, though getting lost is always possible. We still have a lot to learn.

When I hear about another helicopter accident. Because sadly, there will always be another. When more people are touched by such a terrible thing, I worry in a way I could not have before arriving here. In this common space. I think of the journey forced upon them, and I feel for them. I wish I could help them to navigate. In the way that I needed someone to help me. To help us. In those early days. And in the years that would follow.  Because though this place has beauty, fear and pain often run rampant. Support is not easily found, and road maps are almost nonexistence. And the oasis. Perhaps it is just a mirage. An illusion our minds build to help us deal with the shock. Still, I am thankful for that time. Before we truly understood what trauma had to offer us. Living in the soft glow of a miracle.

“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.

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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.

“When you get into a tight place, and everything goes against you, till it seems as though you could not hang on a minute longer, never give up then, for that is just the place and the time that the tide will turn.” — Harriet Beecher Stowe

There are days when getting out of bed in the morning is hard. When I want to give up. Whatever that means. The hard days. Sometimes they are so hard. Sometimes it feels like I cannot keep moving. I am tired. I am ready to be there. In the space where setbacks don’t feel so big. When the stresses of daily life do not feel so stressful.

When I look back at us, since the accident, I know that we have come a long way. We are not quite as fragile as we once were. We are becoming more accepting of this life. Of ourselves. We are starting to make plans for the future. We are moving forward. Though it can be scary. Though our legs are tired.

Sometimes on this journey, all we really have is one foot in front of the other. I am starting to realize how far this can take us. One foot in front of the other can take us across the world. It can take us one step further away from the ripples. It can move us toward joy and away from pain. It can take us to a warm campfire in a damp wilderness. It can take us to the places we were meant to visit, and into the moments we are meant to live.

Life after a helicopter accident is not easy. Life after any trauma sets us upon a road we do not recognize, and it forces us to walk forward one day at a time. Some days we awake to find the sun shinning and a skip in our step. Other days we awake to a downpour, with sore feet and blisters on our toes. Like the weather, day to day we do not know what to expect.

It is only upon looking back, that we can see how far we have come. The distances we have travelled. The mountains we have climbed. The troubles we have met and the adversities we have overcome. The friends we have made, the adventures we have lived and the scenery at which we have marvelled.

Chris and I are starting to get to the point where we have a bit of hindsight. Where we can look back and see how the accident has affected us. Changed us. Morphed us. I now understand, that though the bad days may feel impossible to conquer, I have conquered many already. I know that after the rain, sometimes a rainbow will present me with its beauty in the rapidly clearing skies. I have come to realize that sometimes all we really have is that one step. One step followed by another becomes a lifetime. It becomes our journey. It becomes who we are.