“Survival mode is supposed to be a phase that helps save your life. Its not meant to be how you live.” –Michele Rosenthal

The first year after Chris’ accident was all about survival. We were working on getting Chris better. His body was healing. In the first initial weeks of him being home, he walked every day. Each day he would work on increasing the distance. Bit by bit he got stronger. He could walk further. Eventually, he could take the kids with him, pushing them in the stroller. Going on little adventures.

He stayed away from alcohol, as it is a neurotoxin (we learned this from the nerve specialist), and we focused on a healthy diet and supplements. Fish oils for the brain and other supplements for his bones and inflammation. Still, he was in considerable pain. His double vision stayed with him for months, and it was not until 5 or 6 months later that he could finally see properly again. Our whole focus in that year was his body healing, getting off the pain medication, and Chris being able to fly again.

Looking back, I can see that in the first year we pushed. A lot. We pushed ourselves forward with sheer will and stubbornness. We would not be defeated by the accident. We would prove that we were strong. We were told we were inspirational. We tried to  take it in, but in those days we had no idea what being inspirational even meant. We were merely surviving. We were doing what needed to be done in order to remain. To stay intact. To stay sane. We focused on the future and our goals. We used up all of our reserves. All that had been stored in our tanks in the years prior to the accident. We used up every ounce of faith we had built into our relationship. Fighting our way forward. Refusing to give in to the massiveness of the situation we found ourselves in. Refusing to surrender. Becoming less and less inspirational as the days passed us by.

We were fighting for our lives, for our very existence, and in that first year, I don’t think we really knew it. I mean, we did. We knew it was huge. But we did not know the toll it would take on us. We did not know what it would bring into our lives. Both the good and the bad. Because, looking back, I can see that through all of the struggles, there has also been amazing beauty. But in that first year, we were novices. We were learning. At a pace so rapid, it was difficult to keep up.

We focused on remaining positive and on working on the goals we set. In some ways Chris wanting to get back to work was a blessing. It gave us something to work towards. A future accomplishment we could each day add a brick to. I do not know what we would have done if that goal had not been there. If being a pilot had not meant so much to Chris. If I had not been able to support him and his need to get back into a helicopter. To get back up in the air. Maybe we would have truly broken. Gotten lost in a black hole. Who knows. I just know that in the first year after the accident, Chris got up every day and went for a walk. When his body was ready for physiotherapy, he stretched diligently, every single day. By the end of the first year, he was the fittest he had ever been in our time together. I worked to help him get better, and I supported him in this goal. I took care of him and the kids the best I could.

In some ways, I do not really know why the wheels fell off that bus. Why the panic attacks started. Why the fear set in. Why we stalled out. Because in the first year, it did not feel like we would. I heard a woman on a radio interview, just over a year after the accident. She had lost her husband in a fishing accident a few years prior. She said something very wise that has always stuck with me. I will paraphrase, “the second year was harder for me. I think it is because the first year, I was in shock. The second year, I had to actually process what had happened.” Maybe that is what our first year was. Our shock year. When our bodies were still trying to protect us. Maybe in some ways, numbing us. Because, I can tell you, in that first year, I believed I could be inspirational. That I would remain completely sane and reasonable through it all. If we pushed forward, up that mountain, we would conquer it. No problem. We could laugh and enjoy, as we rode our toboggans down the other side. I had no idea, that once we reached the peak of the first mountain, that there would be a whole range of mountains we would have to conquer on the other side. Our journey was just beginning.

 

 

“Owning your story is the bravest thing you will ever do.”

— Brene Brown

Looking back, I can say I was very naive pre-accident. I had no idea how trauma rips a world and a person apart. I had heard things like, stress kills. I did not know what this meant. Not in the slightest. If you had asked pre-accident Shani, if she was naive, she would have said no. My life has not always been smooth and easy. I have had challenges. I thought I knew a thing or two. Still, I had no idea what it meant to live through a trauma of such magnitude. I was not prepared.

Time is in many ways no longer linear. Days and years blurred together after the accident. They blurred together and then circled back upon themselves. There are people who are surprised it has taken us so long to “pull ourselves together.” There is often a belief that one should move on quickly. That we should pull ourselves from the quicksand with ease. That we should not allow the accident to define us. That we should not become our trauma.

But, here is the thing. Trauma changes a person. Fundamentally. Even if we put our blinders on and try to deny this truth, it does not alter the fact that trauma changes each and every one it touches. It might take hindsight to see it. To look back in the years that follow to understand this. But, I truly believe that trauma changes every single one of us. It changes our cells. How our brain processes the world. How our heart beats. How our stomach digests the world in which we live.

Maybe this is why many people who have not lived through trauma want us to move on so quickly. Perhaps it scares them. One day it could be them. So, it is terrifying to see someone they love change so drastically. To see someone they have known become someone else. To see us struggle in ways that make them uncomfortable. To not be as strong as they think we should be. To break under the pressure that trauma lays upon our backs, refusing to move as it sits upon our shoulders. Only lessening the load if we deal with it. Process it. Allow it to change us. Accept that growth is happening whether we like it or not. And in a certain way, yes, I suppose define us.

Should I carry shame because of this? Because in all honesty, for a number of years the accident has defined us. It has taken part in all of our decisions. Both the good and the bad ones. It has carried with it the name fear, yet somehow it has also helped us to become stronger in ways we would have never known without it. It has taught us that if we do not take care of ourselves, we will become sick. We will falter. We will fall. We have learned to protect our family with a ferociousness we might never have discovered. We have tasted the bitterness of anger, as well as taken steps along the road to forgiveness. We have discovered new lands, and enjoyed adventures we likely would never have taken. We have learned to accept ourselves and one another. We have learned what really matters.

We are a different family today because of the accident. We will never know who we would have become without it. This comes up in my mind every now and then. It is important in some ways, but in others, matters not at all. We are this us now. We will alway be this us. This post-accident us. Touched by trauma. Changed by trauma. And yes, in many ways defined by trauma.

We are getting to the point where we do not feel like we should apologize for the times we have stumbled. The times we have fallen. The times when we were less than perfect. For who we have become. Grown into. Because my friends, that is life in the vast shadow of trauma. No one gets through it unscathed. No one reacts perfectly and one hundred percent “sanely” to their perfect storm. And I truly believe, that in some ways, when we live through a trauma, it will define us. At least a little, but probably a lot. But, it is not something to be ashamed of. Instead, it is something to be proud of. A badge of honour. We are still here. Altered, but still here.

“To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people just exist.”

— Oscar Wilde

After the accident, I came to the realization that life, truly, is short. It can be snatched away in an instant. The world we choose to live in and the way we move through the world. Altered without warning. One day we are here, the next day we are there. No choice. The only choice is to deal. To survive. To learn to live again.

In those first few days and months. I knew. I knew the meaning to life. I knew the little things did not matter. That many of the things we cling to are not real. Most of our life. Our choices. Our decisions. Illusions.

Life. There was a pureness to it. In those first days in the hospital, I knew the meaning of it. I knew, when I saw Chris in the ER. When he was wheeled into recovery after the surgery. When he stood for the first time. When we stood on the patio, accepting the warmth the sun offered us. As Chris walked, using only a cane, two weeks later, out of the hospital. While I drove the motorhome down that lonely highway. When I held my kids in my arms after being away from them for too long. I knew it. I knew exactly how life was to be lived and how to live it.

But as the days wore on, and the human world worked its way back in. The knowing slowly slipped away. I made decisions. Choices. To not live life in a pure way. I let the fear creep back in. The bills started to worry me. The closed doors chipped at my confidence. The turned backs made me feel angry. Bitter. And slowly. A day at a time. With each decision I made, I allowed the world back in.

It is different now, though. Because I was shown. In those first few days. When I sat beside my broken husband, who was still somehow alive. When I held my children, knowing their health and happiness was all that truly mattered in the world. I knew it. If you have never been in that space, you will not understand. Not really. Not in that way. When you know that you would give up everything. Money. Status. The illusions. You would let it all slip away. Slip away without a second thought. If it only meant your loved ones were allowed to stay with you. Even just a little bit longer.

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“Tell your heart that the fear of suffering is worse than the suffering itself. And that no heart has ever suffered when it goes in search of its dream, because every second of the search is an encounter with God and with eternity” — Paulo Coelho, The Alchemist

Yet, I find myself here. Caught up in the ridiculousness of living. Caring what people think. Worrying about money. Not living the life I want to live. Somehow, we have found ourselves on a bit of a wheel. We run and we run and we run, yet it feels as though we are getting nowhere.

This summer, on a bit of a whim, Chris and I decided to pack up our family and take a month long vacation in the Yukon. It was the best and the worst thing we have done in a long time. The best in the way it reminded me this is the way to live. In the moment. Enjoying one another’s company. Remembering life is an adventure. We should live it. The worst in the way that it brought that feeling back. Even if just for a moment. And now I don’t want to go back to living life half alive.

Last year, I could not have taken this journey. My fears were too great back then. This year, I made a choice to choose life. For three weeks of the vacation, Chris was away in camp. Working hard. The kids and I, well, we had an adventure. Some days were tough. Some days I asked myself what the heck I was doing. Hauling the kids around. Living in the space of others. Friends who welcomed us into their homes without even a week’s notice. Facing the fears I had spent the past four years building up. Conquering them one day at a time.

The things I learned this summer. They go well with those I learned after the accident: sometimes, the best thing in the world is to be stuck in a vehicle for hours on end with the people we love. Sometimes the scariest fears are the easiest ones to conquer, if we can just look them in the face and deal with them head on. We are breakable, but we don’t usually break. If we look for adventure, adventure will find us. Sometimes compassion and caring comes from places we least expect. Don’t give up on humanity, there truly are amazing people out there. We just have to find them. Living life is the only way to live.

So, tell me. How do I fit myself back into the box? The box we have been told to live in our whole lives. The one we know we don’t belong in, but we stay in because we don’t know any other way. The box we teach our children will bring them peace and happiness, though it has never meant that for us.

The accident. The moment I learned the box is nothing but an illusion. It is not real. It is self imposed and it is not necessary. Money. It does not make us happy. It might afford us certain freedoms, but happiness is not one of those freedoms. Status. Feeding our ego. The approval of others. Fickle. True happiness. Well, it comes from the heart. It lives there. We all know, with each beat, what will fulfill us. Yet somehow we continue on. In that way. The way we have been taught. I have to admit, though. With everything I have learned. I am still figuring out how to live outside of the box.

 

 

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

— Maya Angelou

Today is the fourth anniversary of Chris’ accident. I always find the days leading up to it difficult, and of course today is always a pretty strange day. We cannot always pinpoint the moment our lives change. Most of the time change is gradual. Every now and then though, we know the exact moment that everything changed. Today is one of those days.

One of the reasons I write this blog is because when I started the search for support I was able to find very little. Thankfully I found one site and through this site, I found Krista. The number of lives Krista and the co-creators of the Survivor’s Network for the Air Medical Community has touched must number in the thousands. I am one of those lives. We are not a part of the Air Medical community, but Krista welcomed us. We are a part of a community affected by the trauma caused by a helicopter accident. We are a part of a community that knows what a trauma can do to a life. I am very thankful for the support Krista has given us. I am thankful the Survivor’s Network for the Air Medical Community exists. They saw the massive hole that needed to be filled, and stepped in to fill it. This is commendable.

They have given us a space in which we can share our story. I often wonder about the other stories. Of those who have gone through what we have gone through. Those who will go through it in the future. Those who have survived worse than we have. Much worse. I think about them often. I wonder how everyone is doing.  Do they have support? Are people standing behind them? Have they found people they feel safe with? Or do they feel as alone as we did and sometimes still do?

Another reason I started writing this blog is to speak out. Living through such a trauma has not been easy. As a loved one. As a survivor. I wanted to talk about what has happened to us both as a family, and as individuals. I was searching for people who would understand us. I was also searching for understanding from people who will likely never understand us. To educate those who do not want to be educated. We found it difficult to find people who would listen. So I started to write. To speak our truth. Finding a way to validate our experiences. To validate us. To acknowledge out loud that the road we are on is often difficult. I think I thought if I wrote, with honesty, about our struggles, that the turned backs might change their minds.

It did not take me very long to realize this would not happen. Still, I wrote. And as time passed, I started writing for another reason. I started writing for myself, and for this family. If I wrote about the hardest days, and the darkest feelings. About refusing to give up though there were days when we felt we could go no further. Then, well the judgement felt less heavy. Each word I wrote and then posted empowered me. Empowered us. If we admit our deepest fears and our deepest failures somehow it seems to lessen their hold on us. As the months have passed and the blogs have grown in number, I have also grown. There is power in a story. There is power in the truth.

I also write for the survivors like us. Those who have been forced to live with trauma. Those whose lives have been forever altered. Those who have struggled. In the second year after the accident the full magnitude of trauma hit me full force. I had no choice but to deal with it. My body would not allow me to live in denial. To say one more time, “we are doing just fine.” An ambulance ride to the ER. Panic attacks that came when they felt like it. Fear like I have never known. Led me to the true understanding of trauma. Through my own eyes. I know I am not the only one out there living this. At that point though, I did not know. I thought I was losing my mind. I felt like I was losing control. I wish there had been someone there to tell me that this was normal.

So maybe, just maybe, if I tell our story. The gory details of it. As I validate us, I might also help validate the experience of another. That when someone who does not understand, questions how they are dealing with their trauma, maybe it won’t hurt quite so much. When someone judges or walks away, they can think of us, and know that struggling after trauma is common. As is judgement. When anxiety threatens to steal away all they love they will know there are others fighting the same battle. Others who have made it to the other side. In truth, the blog came out of a selfish need. Not finding someone like me for far too long. From not knowing our journey is normal. Through this journey I have come to realize there is far too little support for people like us. We need more voices. We need more support.

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Today, July 5th. Four years later, I am making the choice to truly start looking forward. The past four years have not been easy, and they will continue to influence the lives we live going forward. But now, today, there are so many things we have to let go off. We cannot change the past. It has been written. So, instead, we choose to focus on the present, and on building a future we can be proud of. Our kids grow bigger as each day passes, and they need a mother and father who are present each day. And to be honest, through all of this, we have found there to be incredible beauty in the world. We have found strength we did not know we had, and our love has grown stronger and deeper.

I know in the years to come, we will look back at these days. And though our house was torn down and torched, we are rebuilding. Rebuilding with a foundation that is so much stronger, with walls that are not so easy to destroy. It has taken us awhile to get used to the new neighbourhood, but slowly it has grown more familiar.

It is a new day, and I am happy to be here. In the present. Looking forward to what the future holds. Finally.

 

“Bitterness is like cancer. It eats upon the host. But anger is like fire. It burns it all clean.”

–Maya Angelou

I am not an inspiration. Four years later, still living in the shadow of that day. How can one wallow for so long, you might ask? What is wrong with them that they continue cling to the accident in such a way? If it were me……

People who do not know, would never know. To strangers, I seem pretty normal. Raising a family. Living a life. They cannot tell our lives have been touched by trauma. If they were to look closely though, they might see. There are little clues. Little cracks. Maybe it does not matter. They will never know who we used to be. They do not know that a smile used to light up my face with ease. I used to laugh from the belly every now and then. My eyes were bright. I was not so serious. Tense. They do not know why I watch my children so closely. I do not tell them I am terrified a lot of the time. They do not know me. They do not know us.

I now understand that a trauma, what ever trauma that may be, is just the initial hit. The reverberation of the first trauma sets off unexploded land mines, creating more chaos. Loved ones often are not. Loved ones. Those we care for, may not care for us. Those we would be there for, might not be there for us. Peers do not always reach our their hands. Getting back on your feet after a catastrophic fall is not easy. I have learned the aftermath of trauma is a lonely place to live. We now know who chose to support us and who chose to walk away. This is not an easy thing to know. Nobody really ever wants that  much clarity.

It takes years to “bounce back” from a helicopter accident. It takes a toll on the body. We knew this early on but we did not really know it. We knew there would be forever wounds. Scars that would stay. Hurts that would not heal. Four years later, we have no choice but to come to terms with this. To accept things as they are. We can look back now. We can see how things are settling out. How the waters look now that they are clearing. We are starting to understand the injuries that will try to limit Chris. We talk about the future. When his back or the nerve damage may make flying no longer possible. We know that his injuries make things uncertain. That is not always easy to deal with.

The stress did damage to my body as well. I did not know I had to take care of myself, too. I do now, but that is in hindsight. Still, I work to become healthy again. For my stomach, the place I have always held my stress, to heal. We have come through what in many ways feels like a battle. The adrenalin and the shock are really just starting to wear off now. Four years later. We are beginning to see the damage that has been done. The scars we will carry.

Trauma affects every single aspect of a life. It changes its course and sets it spinning. We are a different family now. Perhaps we are better for it. That, I still do not know. Maybe next year or the year after, I will. I miss us sometimes, though. The ease in which we lived; laughed. The tension that did not sit in my shoulders, the butterflies that did not live in my stomach. The belief that if we fell, someone or something would catch us. I no longer have that faith. I understand how people fall, and then keep falling. Hitting bottom only to find themselves alone. For many, there is no safety net. No warm arms to catch them. No hands to pick them up. I now know we have to take care of ourselves and that being vulnerable is scary.

Today. We are still adapting. We are still growing. We are wiser. I used to be one to live in the clouds. In the place where dreams dwell. Now, my feet are planted firmly on the ground. This is something I have to get used to. At least I am no longer in the water, swimming for the shore, hoping we will not drown. The four of us. We are still here. Every now and then I get the feeling I might fly again. That the wind blowing on my face won’t scare me. Sometimes I swear my shoulders have released just a little, and my face is softening as the days pass us by. That old familiar feeling of freedom touches me every now and then.

But, I cannot unsee the things I have seen. I cannot unknow the things I now know. With wisdom comes sacrifice. With growth comes pain. I am no longer the Shani that lived on this day four years ago. Chris is no longer that Chris. Our children, well their world has been altered in a way that will change the course of their lives. Sometimes this breaks my heart, but mostly I pray it will be a good thing. That they will be kinder, and more aware of the world and those around them. That we have taught them to fight when you have to, and walk away when necessary. Maybe we hold them closer. Maybe we love them in a deeper way. Maybe this world is better than the one we were living in four years ago. Maybe…..

So no. I am not an inspiration. I am not the tale people want to hear. We are not surrounded by supporters who praise us. We have not yet triumphed over adversity. We still struggle with the demons that taunt us. I have not gotten to the point where I am thankful for the lessons we have been taught. I have not quite figured out how to live every day with gratitude. I am still angry. The losses still hurt. Four years later, I am still crying about something I should have gotten over ages ago. Still, I would not wish this journey upon my worst enemy. Being inspirational is not as easy as you think.

 

 

“If I could define enlightenment briefly I would say it is the quiet acceptance of what is.”

–Wayne Dyer

I think I was grieving for a long time. A very long time. I think I still am. In so many ways. I did not realize this. Sadness and anger have followed joy and gratitude for life, along this long and winding pathway to healing. At times I have felt confused by the conflicting emotions. I have learned about the fragility of life and I have lived through the blessing of a miracle. For this, in so many ways, I am thankful. However, I have also become closely acquainted with what we humans call grief. Sadly, in so many ways, I believe myself undeserving of grief. That grieving means I am not grateful for the gift of my husband’s life. The father of our two young children, who love him beyond limits. The energy that fills our home when he is here with us. The hole that would have been left had he been taken from us that day.

I have struggled against the feelings of anger and despair. The sadness, due to other holes that have opened along the way. Some we know we will fill again. Others are uncertain. We have tried our best to allow ourselves to feel. To not numb ourselves against the pain caused by the losses. To not allow the anger and sadness to settle in our bones, but instead to allow it flow through and release. To not get stuck in the places one can get stuck after a trauma. To keep moving forward toward our future. Enjoying as much of the present as we can. Not getting caught in the entanglements of the past. A past we cannot change. A past that has been lived. The choices have been made. But I wonder, if we do not allow ourselves the right to grieve can we release all we need to release?

I think I am only able to look back at this now because I am starting to come to terms with the cards we have been dealt. The life we are now living. Both the triumphs and the struggles. The successes and the failures. The losses and the gains. The dark and the light. I think I am moving through grief and starting to move into acceptance. Allowing. Peace. Would I have gotten here more quickly though had I been more compassionate with myself and allowed myself to grieve? Instead of small, incremental steps could we have arrived here in a more timely manner? Would the journey have been less painful?

I can look back now and see that I held Chris away from me. I built a wall up around myself. I was having such a difficult time allowing myself to grieve so I held on to the anger I unconsciously felt toward him for almost leaving us. For not being a perfect husband as he also struggles to deal with his losses. I love him better for it now. I am starting to see him again. Not just myself and my grief. Not just him and his grief. A grief I would not allow myself to fully feel or even to really acknowledge.

I have held myself back from life in so many ways. Getting caught up in my need to control the world around me. Afraid if I was not on guard every single moment, something horrible would happen. To the kids. To Chris. To me. To someone I love. I am learning though that life is fundamentally beyond my control. I can guide it. I can give it direction. I can move toward the things that bring me joy and fulfill me. I cannot however, control every aspect of it. Truly, why would I want to. Because if I am so busy trying to control life into bringing nothing bad into our sphere, I am missing out on all of the beauty sitting on the periphery. The good that wants to enter our lives. The life waiting for us just beyond the next corner might be more beautiful and joyful than we could ever imagine. I will not see its light though if I am always focussed on the darkness.

Trauma has changed us. Somehow, trauma always breeds more trauma. This knowledge has also changed us. Grief has brought us to places we would not have willingly visited, given the choice. I feel like we are beginning to live again though. To feel again. Allowing ourselves to lean towards feelings of joy and hope. Learning it is okay to allow space for feelings such as sadness and anger. If not, numbness starts to become a way of life. Not even numbness though. More like a dull ache. A lingering sadness felt only in the deepest of bones. Though I have felt a soft happiness at times, joy has not spent much time in our home as of late. This needs to change. So, Chris and I are starting to dream again. To live more fully. To live with passion. To laugh with our children. To adventure with them. To show them that though life may at times bring darkness, light is always there with us. Growth is a part of life. Oftentimes, seeds are planted in the dark. It is only with reaching for the light, that we can truly become who we are meant to be. Humans beings each on our own unique journeys. Each journey allowed to be. Learning to accept the mountains and valleys for what they are. A little bit of life lived with each step.

“Everything you need to know you have learned through your journey.”

— Paulo Coelho

Every day. Every single day my body is still processing. Still adapting. Still learning. Still becoming. July moves ever closer. Another anniversary. Another milestone. Another reason to “get over it.” Another day.

Chris and I used to talk about a field. We envisioned ourselves walking out of the dense darkness of the forest in which we had found ourselves. Awaiting us would be a field of lush grasses and wildflowers. The bright sun would warm our bodies as we walked into the sunlight we had missed so deeply. The heavens would sing to us through the voices of the birds as they serenaded us. All of our fears and worries would fall away. In that moment we would know we were safe. That we had survived. We had arrived in the place we were meant to be. Safe from the forest in which we had wandered, for so very long, lost.

I now know that field does exist, but we cannot live there forever. In eternal sunlight. The promise of safety. That is not how it works. We do not magically wake up one day healed. Forever safe. The clouds do not just open up, revealing a sun that will save us. Instead it is a journey made up of a continuation of days. Some days we open our eyes to a welcoming sun. Other days, the clouds hang low until we close our eyes again at night. Some days, the sun and clouds do battle. We can only watch to see which will prevail. We cannot chose the weather. The only choice. What to do in it. Dance in the rain, or seek shelter until it passes.

I still struggle with the forest. All of the trails. Not knowing which one to follow. Using instinct and intuition to find the way. Sometimes this pays off. Other times, not so much. I am growing used to the forest though. It is no longer foreign to me. I have grown more confident in my explorations. Every now and then, I see another wandering soul, following paths that intersect with mine. Sometimes we talk. Other times, we nod in recognition as we pass. Understanding each other’s journey, though many of our paths lead to different places.

I realize that at times in life we have to make choices in the dark, hoping they will lead us into the light. And sometimes there is purpose in the darkness. Perhaps even some meaning. I have searched for clues on each path we have taken. My mind wanting to create reasons. An answer to my why.

I have spent time in the field that Chris and I envisioned. Sometimes by myself. Sometimes with Chris. Sometimes with others. The sun has shone. Warming me. Sustaining me. I have lain down in its welcoming embrace, a warm breeze reminds me I am alive. I am surviving. There are days when I feel that I will not have to enter that forest again. Though I know in my heart this is not true. We all have to enter it at some point in our lives. We do not get to always live our lives in the warmth of the sun. The sun cannot shine everyday. And even if it did, we would tire of its intensity. Eventually, we would seek the coolness of the forest. The excitement of a new unknown path.

I do not know if this will make sense to those who read this. I am not even sure it makes sense to me. I just know I have come to learn that life is made up of fields and forests. Sunny days and cloudy days. Some things are in our control. This is not. I do not know why life is like this. I ponder this question often. Why? Still, I cannot answer this. I feel like I would need another lifetime or two. So, as far as I can tell, the only thing I can do is try to find comfort in both the fields and the forests. Knowing that in life, I have no choice but to live in both.

 

“Hope and fear cannot occupy the same space at the same time. Invite one to stay”

— Maya Angelou

We drove too far the first day. The first leg of the journey took us from Vancouver to Kamloops. A four hour drive. We should have spent the night there. Should have. Did not. We stopped to visit some friends in Kamloops. It was a nice break. The kids ran through their big yard. Checking out their fish ponds, and the statues that lived in the trees at the edge of the yard. They loved it. The freedom. They played like they had not a care in the world. It was nice for us to stop and stretch our legs as well. Especially for Chris. It was a good visit.

They invited us to stay the night with them. We did not want to put them out though. We had planned on staying at a hotel in town. We did not anticipate this being a problem. So, we said our farewells and loaded back into the truck. As I drove toward town my sister called around to book a hotel. A place to rest our heads for the night. Four hours was a long enough drive. We were ready to relax. Let the kids swim in a hotel pool. Eat dinner. Wake up refreshed in the morning, and move on to the next leg. We planned on breaking up the trip into three days. This was not to be. Remember in the earlier blog. I mentioned we were travelling on a long weekend. A long weekend in the middle of summer. August long weekend. We soon found out that meant every hotel in town was booked. We could not find one vacancy.

So at that point, not too worried, we headed on. Moving toward our final destination. We called hotels in each small town we passed through. All, no vacancy. Keep this in mind. This is Canada. Towns are often few and far between. Often small. We were starting to wonder if we would have to drive through the night. To say the least, it became less and less comfortable with every kilometre we drove. We worried about the kids. We worried about Chris. We worried about deer on the road. We worried we would not find a hotel that night.

Finally. Finally, Valemount had a vacancy. A four hour drive from Kamloops. We were lucky to find a suite . The parking lot was crowded as we pulled in. It was dark. It was pretty late. We were all definitely ready to get out of the vehicle. Luckily, we had come prepared with snacks and drinks. At least we would not go hungry. Tired of travelling though. Ready to rest.

The only suite left was on the second floor. No elevator. Chris would have to do the stairs. We were a bit concerned about it. Chris made it up okay. Really, he did not have a choice. Thankfully, it was a big suite. We all had our own bed. It was comfortable. If we had not found a hotel in Valemount, we likely would not have found one until we hit Edmonton. Another 6 hours away.

After eating a snack, and settling the kids in, we all finally lay with our heads on our pillows. Thinking our own thoughts. Our bellies full. Our bodies thankful for a bed. I could feel the stress of the road still moving within me as I closed my eyes, grateful for the darkness and the sounds of those slipping into sleep around me. I tried to relax. We were half way there. Tomorrow we would try to make it the outskirts of Edmonton. Two days instead of three. I was looking forward to the doctors, and the attention Chris would receive. I was hoping for a bit of peace. For someone who knew, to put my mind at ease. To tell me Chris was healing. That he was okay. That I could stop worrying. At least for a moment. A moment or two.

 

 

“I lost my voice and my best friend too,
On swift, fierce winds and wings of blue,
The cold rain fell where beams had shone,
So I wrapped up tight and safe. Alone.

But I missed my friend, I missed my voice,
And my heart still whispered of another choice
To break out of my binding, safe, and warm,
And see what the world looked like after the storm.”

—Elaine Vickers

In the aftermath of the accident, and the resulting trauma, I lost my voice. It did not happen over night. It came about slowly. Day by day. As life became more difficult, I began to feel shame. I could not turn our life as quickly as I thought I should have been able to. I used to believe that sometimes you just have to put your head down and get through things. Brace yourself against the blowing wind and the rain that beats upon your shoulders. Look on the bright side. I now believe there are things in life, that no matter how hard we may try, we can not simply get through. Instead we have to go through them. We have to allow ourselves to feel the pain trauma brings into our lives. We have to allow ourselves to feel the new emotions that travel throughout our bodies at will. We have to give ourselves the time to heal, both our bodies and our minds. We have to fight against the shame that threatens to silence us.

The sad thing, at least for me, and I believe for Chris as well, is that in the aftermath of the accident our voices began to fade. In the early days, I thought that all we had to do was get Chris healthy again. Once he was healthy, we both thought life would return to normal. We would get on with things. I had no idea how the accident would affect our relationships with others. That we would slowly begin to see many of our loved ones differently. That they would slowly begin to see us differently as well. We had no idea that many of Chris’ peers and colleagues would take a passive role. Industry leaders would not reach out their hands in support. We did not know jobs would be dangled before him, and then taken away. Many times. We did not know we would be judged so harshly. We did not know that most of the industry to which we had both sacrificed so much, would turn its back. In the hospital we had been told the industry was behind us. This, we would learn over time, was simply not true. We had no idea in the early days, just how difficult life would become, and how hard we would have to fight to stay on our feet and find our way back into ‘normal’ society.

For a very long time, without even realizing it, I began to internalize the ambivalence with which we were often met. When hands were not extended, I began to believe this was because we must not be important enough to be helped. When people took advantage of us, I started to believe it was because perhaps we were ‘weak’ people. When the industry promised support but gave nothing. When friends and family looked the other way. I started to believe it was because we were not worth the time and effort. When people started looking at us sideways, I began to believe it was our problem, not theirs. Slowly, ever so slowly, my voice started to disappear. I lived in a world of self-doubt. We lived in a world where it felt we had only each other. With the exception of a handful of people, it was just Chris and I. Battling through one of the toughest things we had both ever been through. Alone. Forgotten. Voiceless.

I think differently now. I look back at myself in those dark days, and wish I could cradle her in my arms, and whisper in her ear as I held her sobs for her. Tell her everything is going to be alright. We will get through it. One day we will be survivors. I would tell her though she feels weak, she is the strongest she has ever been. I wish I could have been her voice. I wish I could have spoken up for her. The phone calls I would have made. For Chris, I would have done the same. Because though I tried my best, I could not be everything he needed in those days. I am only one person. He needed more support than I could give. He needed his peers, his colleagues, and his industry behind him. He needed his family and his friends. As did I.

Looking back. To the time when the ripples threatened to drown us on a daily basis. When our life raft was precariously close to sinking. I view us with pride. We are not weak people. We are strong. We are not cowards. We are brave. We are not nothing. We are everything. We are not a cautionary tale. We are the tale. We have been through hell and still we stand. We have held one another’s hand, and the hands of our two small children, knowing that it is this family which holds us together. That has kept us going. That on days when hope was in short supply. When we were both disillusioned and exhausted beyond exhausted. We still had one another. Even when Chris and I felt we could not go on one more day together. Almost losing ourselves in the surrounding darkness. Still we clung to the idea of family. Still we do.

So today, on this International Women’s day, I ponder the idea of voice. How important it is to support one another, and how the loss of one’s voice is nothing short of tragic. I lost mine for a while, and it almost destroyed me. Chris, the same. We must try, when we see someone struggling in the aftermath of something devastating. To reach out a hand. Even the smallest show of support can be fundamental to one’s survival. Showing empathy is the greatest of gifts. Taking the time to listen to what those struggling have to say. Realizing we are not better or stronger just because trauma has not darkened our door. We must support them as they struggle against their inner demons and the fear that they will never feel strong again. In times like this, we owe them our support. We owe them our respect. Sometimes, we even owe them our own voices. This. This may keep them from losing theirs. As human beings, is it not our responsibility?

“One is loved because one is loved. No reason is needed for loving.” — Paulo Coelho

Perspective. I have been thinking a lot lately about perspective. I have been wondering how long it will be before we can look back at the ‘time’ after the accident and see ourselves. How it has truly affected us. We have travelled a long road since that fateful day. We are coming up on four years. Four years. How that happened is beyond me. Time goes by. It passes. It sort of heals. Maybe heal is not the right word. Maybe it is. I guess it feels like healing. But I think it is a bit more like forgetting. The brain packs a little bit more of it away as each day passes. It packs away the extraordinary and the strange, and tries to push us back into normalcy. We begin to feel more normal. A new normal. I am not the same person I was on that sunny, July day. Neither is Chris. I sometimes ponder. Where would we be if the accident had not happened? Who would we be? What would this family look like? How would we have lived these last four years? If we had not been touched by the cool hand of trauma.

I have contemplated this a bit in my earlier blogs. I try not to think about it too often. It does not change anything. Thinking about it. Those two people will never exist. They never did. We only imagined what our future would be. We only imagined who we would become. Those people were not real. They never will be. Those two people were simply constructs of our imaginations.

That Shani and that Chris are not us. They did not know what we know. They did not talk about miracles. Or trauma. Or broken backs. Or panic attacks. They could not see the people who would stand by them. The people who would not. They did not realize how hard they would have to fight. That they would be pushed to their knees more than once. That many of their hopes and dreams would never happen. They did not know they would become us. The people we are now. This Shani. This Chris.

I am looking forward to gaining perspective. In certain aspects, I already have. In some ways, I might even miss this time in our lives. When we are still searching. Forming. Understanding. I do know though, that there will be a day. A day when I stand high upon a new mountain. Looking over the valleys and hills we are passing through now. On that day, I will know who we have become on our travels. How this trauma has changed us. It will be behind us though, and a new adventure will be waiting.

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We packed up the truck with supplies, and headed off in the early morning. The highway felt good. I do not really know why. I guess because on the highway I felt like I was in control again. Tense, but in control. Somehow things felt less uncertain. We were driving toward certainty. The kids were snuggled into their car seats, their favourite teddies cuddled into them. My sister sat in between them, adjusting screens and changing shows as needed. Chris felt not too bad as we drove, windows slightly down, painkillers kicking in. About an hour into the drive, we stopped for coffee at our usual place. We knew this highway well. It was the highway that usually took us home to visit our families. It was the highway that took us on holidays. A highway I loved to drive.

Flying would have made more sense. Chris had collapsed a lung in the accident though. This made flying impossible. No flying for six weeks after a collapsed lung. We knew this from our first road trip. From our cancelled flights. Booked for our trip home from hospital. So this was the next best option. It felt a bit like an adventure. Like that feeling we get when we head out onto the open road. The world rushing past us in a blur. Cars full of people pass by. All headed in a clear direction. Knowing where they are going. Confusion and uncertainty left at the door.

It was August long weekend, so the roads were busy. Not too busy. Just busy enough. I have always loved road trips. They have always made me feel alive. I love leaving and I love arriving. This one was a strange one. But it felt good. A truck packed with the people I love. Children’s shows playing in the background. The radio playing music in the front.

Like the last road trip we had made. Just two weeks prior. Following the same roads. Just in the opposite direction. We did not know how far we could travel each day. This again would be up to Chris and his pain. We would play it by ear. Be spontaneous. Open to what each day would bring. Hoping only for the best. Not really thinking about hotel rooms and where we would stay. Forgetting that long weekends. Especially August long weekends. Create full hotel rooms and no vacancy signs. This we would contend with. Adapt to. Laugh about. Even Chris. Who would have to sit too long. Kids cramped in the back. Taking it in stride. My sister and I. Organizing. Directing. Finding a way through the best we could. Living in the moment. Creating memories of a road trip we will never forget.