Category: Aviation Accident

Parks

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident1 Comment

“You may encounter many defeats, but you must not be defeated. In fact, it may be necessary to encounter defeats, so you can know who you are, what you can rise from, how you can still come out of it.”

— Maya Angelou

It was such an overwhelming time. I think most would have felt overwhelmed at such a time in their lives. I was. I do not think I realized it at the time. Or at least I did not realize the extent of it. Too many big decisions in a short amount of time. It fries the brain. Makes it fire too quickly. Too often. I was holding it all together, but it was by a fragile piece of thread. I have a new appreciation for what people go through in times of trauma, illness, grief and uncertainty. I hope I am less quick to judge in the future and I can learn to be more empathetic. It is a difficult thing. Navigating life through the filter of shock.

I talked in the last blog about shock. Shock helps in many ways, in other ways it creates a bit of a fog. One we cannot see through. Maybe more like air pollution. You cannot always see it when you are in it. Shock helped me believe that we could make the trip alone. Like I said above though, I was overwhelmed by all that had happened since the accident. From the time of the accident to the trip home was not very long. Chris had been lucky. He had healed quickly. Complications had not plagued him. While this is a good thing. The best thing. It did not give me much time to get my bearings. Life was moving quickly. I had to keep up. I had to maintain control. I could not allow myself to get overwhelmed to the point of paralysis. So I pushed it aside. That avalanche of emotions. Then I pushed forward.

We did not know how far Chris would be able to travel each day. How many breaks he would need. It was almost 1000 kilometres of driving to get us home. We could not book campsites ahead of time. We did not know what our end destinations would be each day. We left the motor home rental place between four and five o’clock in the afternoon. By the time we pulled the rig into its parking place that night it was nine forty-five. The town we spent the night in would normally have been a one and a half-hour drive.

There were times along the journey where simple decisions caused confusion. Here is one example. One that stands out the most. As we travelled along the highway that first afternoon, we came to the entrance of a national park that we would be driving through. In order to spend the night in this park, one has to purchase a ticket for around $18.00. Not much right? Well, we or I really should say I, decided that we would not need to stay in the park and that we would carry on passed the town. Thus we did not need to buy a ticket to spend the night in the park. That was fine until we got to the town in the park and decided that we did could not go any further. Chris was tired. It had been a long day, and he was ready to rest. So was I. My brain was tired.

We drove slowly through the town. We would not be spending the night there. Tourist season was in full swing, and there were people everywhere. Enjoying their summer holidays. I wished we were one of them. They seemed to not have a care in the world. I found a quiet parking lot by the river. Chris climbed from his uncomfortable seat and moved slowly toward the solace of the bed. We were hungry by then. As he lay in the back, I stepped outside for air. To take a breath. To gather my thoughts. A restaurant would not do. He would not be able to sit long enough. It would have been hard to park the motor home in the middle of town, where I could have grabbed something healthy. So, as we were parked by the river and as I was getting swarmed with mosquitoes, I looked down the road to see what I could walk to. A gas station seemed the best option. As Chris lay on the back of the bed, and as the sun started to go down, I made the walk to the gas station. I do not remember what I bought for dinner. Probably the healthiest food I could find. It was a pretty big gas station with a fair amount of food to choose from. It was not a restaurant or a cafe though. It was something quick. Looking back, I wonder why we did not stock up on food before we hit the road into what would mostly be wilderness. I also do not understand why I did not buy a park ticket or think of staying at a hotel that first night.

So, there we were. Sitting in the motor home, eating our gas station dinner, and thinking about options. I was worried we would get in trouble if we tried to stay in the park without a ticket, though if I had of explained our situation to anyone, I am sure they would have understood. It must have been getting close to nine, as we decided we would backtrack and head to the next closest town out of the park. Luckily it was only thirty minutes back. That added an extra hour of travelling for Chris that day. He was so done. So tired. So exhausted. So, so, so. I just wanted to stay there, parked by the river. Today, I probably would have. Or at least found another place to stay in the town in the middle of a park. Instead, we pulled out and back onto the highway. Hoping we would be able to find a campsite to park our rig that late at night. Stress. Understatement. I think at the moment, I felt like a bit of a failure. Like I had let Chris down. Now, I do not feel that way. I feel sadder for me than anything. For us. Alone on the road. Headed backwards. Looking for a place to stop and lay our heads.

 

 

 

Just the Two of Us

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Helicopter AccidentLeave a comment

“No one can tell you what goes on in between the person you were and the person you become. No one can chart that blue and lonely section of hell. There are no maps of that change. You just come out on the other side. Or you don’t”

— Stephen King

I gripped the steering wheel tightly as I drove through Calgarys’ city streets, while looking forward to quieter roads. Chris sat beside me, uncomfortable, but still happy. We were excited to be heading home. We had a long drive ahead of us, but we were finally out of the hospital, thankful for the shining sun and the warm summer air coming in through our open windows. Chris was still in considerable pain from sitting in the passenger seat, leaning awkwardly to ease the discomfort. Tylenol 3s can only numb so much pain. He would shift his position every few minutes, and I felt a sense of stress each time he did. It was my job to get him home in one piece. He was already broken, and comfort was not an option, so it was not an easy task. Though elated to be headed home, the amount of pain Chris was in made the journey uncomfortable for both of us.

I would not let him lay on the bed in the back as I drove. Looking back, I wonder if this was perhaps a cruel decision. I did not mean it to be. He would have been so much more comfortable on the bed. I had visions though. Visions of me having to swerve quickly, and him sliding across the bed and to the floor, not having the strength to keep himself upon it. Doing damage to the parts of his body that were working so hard to heal. I worried I might have an accident, or I might have to stop quickly. I worried so much about him getting hurt again. About something happening to him that would take away the miraculous amount of healing he had already done. I did not want it on my head. I did not want to own something like that. So, I made him sit uncomfortably beside me. We would stop when the pain grew too strong, and he would lay on the bed and rest while I waited to hit the road again. I felt so conflicted. I guess I still do. I did not want him hurt again. He had been hurt too much already. Me keeping him safe though, caused him more pain.

This was a worry I would carry with me for a long time. That something would happen to him. A blood clot. Something they may have missed among his injuries would make him sick. One of the injuries was not healing properly. There was something we were missing. That I was missing that would cause him harm. His care fell upon me, and I would never have forgiven myself if he relapsed because of something I missed. He could not take care of himself, there, in the place where he was. So, it was up to me. It was up to me to make sure our family stayed together. When we were in the hospital it was up to the doctors and the nurses. There, on that road. It was up to me. There was nobody else. It had become my job. A job I had no idea how to handle if anything went wrong. So, I would look at him nervously; stressed, as he shifted in his seat yet again. Knowing he would be so much more comfortable in the bed in the back, but also knowing it was up to me to get him home safely.

To this day, I do not know how it is we ended up on the road alone. Just the two of us. Side by side. Thinking we were okay. That we could handle it. Another vision I have. What if the worse case scenario had happened? What if sitting in the seat beside me had contributed to a blood clot. What would I have done? Alone on that lonely highway home? To this day it gives me the shivers. I do not like to think about it. What a horrible thought. There we were though. Alone. The road stretched out in front of us, with fields, mountains and forests meeting us for most of the journey.

Later on. When the anxiety hit me, many months later, I had a hard time going on road trips into unpopulated areas. Far from a hospital. Far from an ambulance. What if something happened to one of us? I wonder, was it the fear I had suppressed on our long journey finally surfacing that tortured me so many months later? Driving down the highway with a man who had barely survived a helicopter accident by my side. Remembering the nurse’s final words of caution to us were the signs of a blood clot. To be honest, I do not know why I had the fear so much later. When driving down a different road, I found myself so uncomfortable in the wilderness I thought I might have a panic attack. I have never been like that. I have never found the middle of nowhere uncomfortable. Is there a connection? I think, yes. The brain is a wonderful, amazing, yet complicated world. It makes links we do not know it is making. Shock held the fear at bay. I would deal with it instead many months later.

Back to the above thought. How did we end upon that road alone? It was not because there were not offers. There were. I did not want to put anyone out. To cause any complications to the lives of others. I think it was the shock as well. I thought we could make it without any worse case scenarios. Thankfully, I was right. When I look back though, I am more aware there could have been some. I have also had time to think about how devastating those complications could have been. I thought I was okay to make a decision of that magnitude. To drive that highway alone. I thought I was strong enough to carry the burden that came with the stress and the worry. In many ways I guess I was. I paid for it later though. I now know I took on too much. I should have let others help lessen the load. I should have asked instead of feeling I would be putting people out. Perhaps not everyone would have stepped up. Perhaps many would have surprised me and pulled their sleeves up. We will never know this now. Instead we ended upon that road on our own. Hoping all would be okay. Living on faith the motorhome in which we drove would take us home.

I have talked to loved ones and some of those close to us also wonder how it was they let us go it alone. I believe they also were in shock. Chris’ accident. It was a huge shock. So unexpected. And we seemed just fine. Well, I am not sure if I can include Chris in that category. Major injuries. Pain killers. He seemed so certain though. I think I held onto some of his faith. His excitement on going home. Looking back. I was not fine. I believe now you can only be a certain level of fine after an incident of such magnitude enters a life. We humans are survivors. Adaptors. We meet odds that should make us crumble, but somehow we do not. Shock often helps. Shielding us from the full weight and seriousness of the experience. We were in such shock. The world was surreal still. So, there we were. Like I said above, just the two of us. Two shocked human beings. One injured to a inch of his life, and one believing she was strong enough to take on the world. A world she knew had changed, and had not yet come into focus. When I see us though, cruising down the highway, listening to music like there was not a care in the world. Like we had not just left the hospital. Like Chris had not almost died. I think in some ways it makes me love us even more. How brave we were. The courage we found to believe in those moments. How sure we were everything was going to be A okay. It led us to the scenario we found ourselves in. So sure. Still. I don’t think we should have gone it alone. Hindsight. Twenty twenty.

Enjoy the Ride

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Helicopter Accident, Pilot3 Comments

“The point of the journey is not just healing. It is also recovering the truest, most spontaneous, joyful and creative core of ourselves.” — Gloria Steinem

Sometimes we have to take a break. The secret is to know when. Our bodies will start to tell us. First in a whisper. Then in a speaking voice. Then it will start to shout. Stop. Listen. The secret is to take a break before our bodies start to shout. I did not always know this. I believed I could push through. I could continue forward, though I knew deep down inside it was doing me harm. When we are injured or sick. Whether it be our bodies, our minds, or our souls that have taken the blow, we need to take the time to heal. To allow ourselves to be knitted back together. For the scabs to form, heal and fall off. A tender spot may be left behind. Sometimes it will stay with us for the rest of our lives. Other times the hurt part will be much stronger than it was before. For a while though, it will remain sore. We must remember, it cannot heal if we do not allow it to heal. If we do not give ourselves over to the process and if we do not acknowledge we have been hurt in the first place.

I have been through a lot of things in my life. I think most of us have. I realize this as I get older. We will all have to survive something. Some harder to overcome than others. Some cut deeper. Some to our very core. At the beginning, in the early days after the accident, I did not understand the importance of taking care of myself. I put myself aside and took care of those around me. An injured husband. Two very young children. At that point, I did not believe it was about me. I did not understand it was also about me. I have learned, through this experience, through this accident, we do not need to sacrifice ourselves to someone else’s healing. We must realize we too have been affected, and though our bodies may not be broken, our bodies have also taken a hit. Chris would never have asked me to sacrifice myself to his healing. I think it just kind of happens. It is not a sacrifice that needs to be made though. It is not necessary. Within every experience. Within every crisis. There is room for everyone to be taken care of. Nobody needs to be sacrificed. Everyone needs to heal.

It was time to head home. To leave the hospital behind us. To begin the journey. A journey I feel we are on still on in many ways, today. It has been quite an epic adventure. With good times we will never forget, and be forever thankful for and hard times we felt we might not make it through. We have both met challenges. We are wiser now. We know so much more. We also now know that we know so little. Life is funny that way.

That day though, when we walked out of that hospital, it was a good day. It was one of the best. I took pictures as Chris walked toward me, one eye covered with a patch, cane in hand. He was happy. He was exuberant. He was alive. He was walking. He was leaving the hospital that had saved his life and helped put him back together. It was a moment of celebration. A day to be remembered.

We arrived at the rental lot in the early afternoon. As we drove in, I thought we were picking up a camper van. I had not booked it. It was a two hour drive to pick it up. It was summer and there were no other options. Most people were out enjoying their summer holidays. We didn’t care that we weren’t. Not for a second. We were both looking forward to the road trip ahead of us. We were looking forward to going home. To seeing our children. To holding them in our arms. To telling them that it was going to be okay.

It was early afternoon, and we had driven for two hours. There was no turning back, even though when I saw what I would be driving was not, in fact, a camper van. It was a motor home. To some, no big deal. For me, it was the first time in days I thought to myself, “I can’t do this.” I swear I must have looked terrified as we walked into the lot and saw it sitting there, waiting for us. It was huge, and I would have to drive it out of a city I did not know very well, keep it on the road for two days, and then into another city.

I don’t know if Chris noticed how scared I was. I tried to hide it the best I could. I did stammer something about it being a motor home, not a camper van. I think we laughed about it. I know we laugh about it today. I knew I did not have a choice but to drive it. I would try not to hit anything. I would try to keep it on the road. In the end, it turned out just fine. It did not take that long to get the hang of it. I did not take anything or anyone out. It was the perfect way to get home. The other option would have been six weeks in a hotel room. Our children would have had to be flown to be with us. They would have lost their minds in a hotel room. I think we all would have. So we laughed and joked, as my heart beat quickly, hoping I would not doing something ironic, like kill us both on the way home from the hospital. As I got behind the wheel, Chris sitting uncomfortably beside me, I told myself the only thing I could. “I’ve got this.”

Chris and I have learned so much since the accident. They say during times of adversity we grow the most. I think this must be so. We definitely changed. We have learned about the things that make us feel weak, and those that make us feel strong. We have learned our strengths and weaknesses. We have learned that the only thing we really know with any certainty in this world, is almost absolutely nothing. It has been quite the journey. A journey that truly started on that day, as the motorhome pulled out of the gates of the rental place. We were embarking on a grand adventure, in many ways with an unknown route and destination. This has been both a blessing and a curse. Humans by nature like to feel safe. We like to believe we know the direction in which we are heading. That we have some control in this world in which we live. Chris and I now believe we can head in a direction, and we can make choices and hope they will become what we would like them to be, however, they are just that, choices. We can make them, but we can not control the outcome. That. Well, I guess that is up to fate. It is up to forces much bigger than us. What can we do? I guess we can try to enjoy the ride.

Time

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation AccidentLeave a comment

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

— Eckhart Tolle

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Learning to Fly

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident1 Comment

DSC07132“Believe in yourself and all that you are. Know that there is something inside you that is greater than any obstacle.”— Christian D. Larson

Somewhere along the way I got lost in the healing process. There have been so many ups and downs. I have often felt disoriented. Confused. I lost faith in myself, and began looking to others for answers. Sometimes for even the most simple of questions. One day I looked around me and I realized I had arrived somewhere. I did not really know how I got there. I looked in the mirror and saw someone I did not really know. It is in moments like these that we realize that we have to start taking care of ourselves. We have to start trusting our instincts again. We have to believe we know what is best for us. That we know what we need to heal. After falling apart, and putting myself back together, I am learning to believe in myself again. To trust me.

The healers. The doctors, the nurses and all those who care for us along the way. The supporters who support. They can only help carry the load for so long. Then. Then it becomes up to us. The path before us has been decided without consultation. It no longer matters. The path we are on is the path we are. There have been people who have walked with me. I have been supported by them. They would continue to help. At some point though. Our supporters. They have to let us go. They have to release us. We have to learn to trust our own shaky legs again. We must carry on without them always beside us. We are used to them being there. We have grown accustomed to asking for help. We wish they would stay with us. That they would help us make our choices. That they would walk with us longer. If they do though. They become a crutch. Something that we get used to leaning on in order to support ourselves. Something to keep us from falling. But this begins to hold us back instead of propelling us forward. We learn to trust them to tell us the right way to go. Instead of trusting our own sense of direction. We trust their gut instead of our own. This becomes unhealthy. It starts to make us sick again.

The true healers. They know when it is time to heal us. They know when it is time to let go. They know when it is time to let us stand on our own feet. They know when it is time for us to fly again. To feel the beauty of the wind beneath our wings. Though we may at first falter, we will find our stride. We will learn to trust that we will not let ourselves fall. We have found our strength again. It is time to soar like we used to. To remember our own power. To touch the sun, and remember its warmth upon our faces. To trust our own wings. To know that they are our own. To understand that we can really only learn to fly when we do it on our own steam. When we trust in a power that has never left us. It has remained with us always. Through it all. Watching. Waiting. Ready. We just needed to heal enough to see it. To see ourselves.

We fell into a bit of a routine in the hospital. In those last days. It did not take very long really. It is crazy how quickly the abnormal can become almost normal. We adapt. As humans, we are so adaptable, that in even the strangest of circumstances, we can often find our way. I would leave Chris every night at around ten or ten-thirty. When all was done for the day and it was time for him to sleep. I would go back to the work crew house and crawl into bed. My mind would be on Chris, and our two children who I was missing so badly. Toward the end of Chris’ time in the hospital, the two of them had gotten the sickest they had ever been and have been up to now. They caught the most terrible flu, and could not keep much down for days. Throwing up all during the day and into the night. My son had to be taken to the walk-in clinic twice and to the ER once. He was given medicine that would help his body to take in sustenance. They almost called the ambulance. It almost broke me. Chris in the hospital, my children sick, and me so far from home. I wished I could hold them in my arms and make them better. My sister and Mom had to do this for me.

I wonder if it was the stress. Did it make them sicker? They would have been surrounded by worry. I had left them so abruptly. I wondered if they felt I had abandoned them. I knew that my sister and mother were caring for them in every way that was possible. That they loved them and would keep them safe for us. For the time being. It would have to be their arms that cradled my babies.

When the mornings came, I would wake up from a black, dreamless sleep, have a shower and head back to the hospital. Chris was getting better at caring for himself. I would come in and find that he had made his own way to the shower, and he had begrudgingly had his first coffee of the day before I had arrived with the good stuff. We would lie in his hospital bed and watch movies together. He was healing. I started to believe it. Though I still worried about infection from the puncture wound, and the risk of blood clots, I started to breathe just a little bit easier. And then, the doctors and the nurses started talking about home. Home. Such a beautiful word when one has been away too long. It would still be a long road. There was still a lot of healing left to do. It could be done at home though. He could heal from there. Our days at the hospital were coming to an end. We would have to depend on one another now. He would have to depend on me. The doctors and nurses who had so diligently and gently cared for him would no longer be there. A new patient would be laying in his bed. I had to trust that I was capable. He had to trust that he was capable as well. It would be up to us.

Sometimes we do not know what we can do. We do not always know the strength we have. There are days we feel we are at our weakest, but really, it is our strength that is carrying us through. We have to have faith in ourselves. Though it is in losing faith and trust in ourselves that we somehow, on the other side, find our true faith and our true trust in all that we are. We have seen ourselves on the battlefield. We have watched ourselves fight. Fall and pick ourselves up. We do somehow make it through the toughest of times when all of our fears come together and knock upon our doors. We may hide from them for a while. We may shiver in fear for what seems an eternity. Then, one day something changes. We no longer hide from our fears. We do not live in that place any more. Instead, we remember that we are worthy. That we do have faith in our abilities. We remember we are strong, and with that, we pull our shoulders back and we lift our heads high. We throw open the door and embrace that fear that held us frozen for so long, with open hearts. At that moment, we learn what true strength truly means. Having the courage to trust in ourselves again. To trust our wings. To fly.

Heart

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Helicopter, Helicopter Accident, Pilot1 Comment

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA“Determination means to use every challenge you meet as an opportunity to open your heart and soften, determined to not withdraw.” — Pema Chodron

Somehow, without even noticing, I closed off my heart. I tucked it safely behind layers of protection. Put a wall around it and locked it up for good measure. It is just now I am starting to realize this. A Qigong master once told me when we have a massive shock to the body, a trauma, it is the heart that feels it first. It takes the hit full force. I cannot imagine what my heart must have felt in those first few moments. When those words were spoken. The words that held consequence. When life cannot be changed. When life cannot be protected. When things cannot be undone. I know how I felt. Maybe that was my heart, trying to catch its beat. Almost dizzy, like the world was spinning quickly around me, and I could not find an object to focus on that would keep me from falling. I was not ready. I did not protect myself. I did not steel myself. I did not know that it was coming. My heart took a direct hit.

The door to my heart did not slam shut. It was of a more gradual process. A piling on of layers. As I sat beside Chris in the Emergency Room and in the hospital my heart was open in a way that it has never been. Maybe that is why everything felt so pure. Perhaps that is what it feels like when the heart is not hiding. When it is not hiding behind all we protect it with. When it knows it has to be there. Out in the open. Present. Somewhere along the way though, on this long journey, my battered heart pulled back into my body. It grew tired. It had felt too much. It had left itself vulnerable in a way that I had not realized was possible. As I sat beside my husband, hoping beyond all hope that he would be okay, my heart sat with me. Open. Waiting to see when it was needed. I lived those first days and weeks, maybe even months with heart. Then, without me noticing, it receded back into my body to rest.

I have always lived with my heart. My heart is what makes me, me. I am sensitive. I feel. Maybe too much sometimes. Maybe we all do. I am not sure. Perhaps some are just better at hiding it. Have more layers of protection. Have built higher walls. It is a funny thing. Not haha funny. More like a peculiar funny. When one realizes that their heart has been hiding for too long or that it has been hiding at all. It still beats, deep down inside my chest, I can feel it. Its strength is still there. Perhaps, it is time to pull down those walls and to take off those layers one by one, and to reassure my heart it is safe. At least for a while. At least in this moment. At least for now.

To feel is the most beautiful thing, though it is something we fear the most. It takes courage. Our heart gives us that courage, if we let it. The heart, if we trust it, is the strongest of our organs. It is brave. It has to be. It is the one that loves. It is the one that tells us when it is time to move forward. When we are ready to open ourselves up again. It holds the roadmap that helps us to find our direction. If we stop to listen, it tells us which way to go. When we live and make choices based on desperation and fear, we usually stumble. When we stop, pull away the layers and listen to our heart. We find ourselves right in the place that we are meant to be. We find our way home.

After going outside, Chris became more desperate to get out of the hospital. To continue his healing at home. With his children playing around him. Going outside gave him strength. So, we started to go everyday. It was healing. It was good for his soul. One day we walked together, toward the garden patio.  For me it was a short walk, but for Chris, it must have seemed like miles. It took twenty determined minutes. He walked slowly, pushing the wheelchair, using it for support. I could see it was painful for him to walk, but he did not complain. Not once did he stop and rest along the way. He did not sit down in that wheelchair, though it would have been so easy. He just kept moving forward, with determination. The same determination that got him out of the hospital so quickly, and that healed his body, got him back into a helicopter and back into the air. Heart. Determination.

I always worried in those first few days, while he was finding his feet again. Finding his balance in a world that had thrown him. I kept it hidden the best I could. My fear that he would fall. That he would get hurt. He had already been through enough. I probably babied him too much. If I did, it did not seem to make a difference. He did not worry about falling for one second. Not from his feet or from the sky. He just pushed to do as much as he could. Determined and sure.

As he walked toward the sun and the warmth that awaited him on the patio, we passed one of the doctors who had been a part of his surgical team. I recognized him from the day of the surgery. He had talked to me after, as Chris lay in the post surgery recovery room. When he was a few feet passed, he stopped and he turned back toward us, standing before Chris.

“I can’t believe it. You are walking so soon. You look great!” He congratulated Chris, and as he turned to leave he added, “you are our walking miracle. It gives us motivation to see things like this.”

Chris is a man who lives with heart. He would not see himself in this way, and before, I did not realize it. I know him better now. If he did not have so much heart and determination, I doubt he would find himself where he is today. The accident still affects him. He still cares for his body daily. He is still searching for his place in the world. But he is thriving and he continues to be brave. He puts himself out there day after day. He is one of the strongest and bravest people I know. I saw this from day one of the accident. From the moment I saw him in that hospital bed, I could see that Chris was fighting. He did not give up for one instant. Not even when things looked bad. Not when a surgery awaited him. Not when he was in pain. Not in the moments that I feel others may have. Somehow through all of it, he has kept his heart open. I have never seen him afraid, though he must have been. Sometimes he still must be. He lives with an open heart. He has courage in abundance, and I saw it there, in that hallway. As a doctor who has had too many patients to count or to remember, stopped. Stopped and paid homage to a man who had not given up. Who would not give up. I could see that the doctor knew that. I know from the moment Chris knew something was wrong, up in that helicopter, up in that sky, that he fought. He fought with all of his might. To make sure, if he could help it, that he would come home to his children, and that he would come home to me. That he would live, and live he would, with an open heart and more courage than most people will ever know.

 

Trauma

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident6 Comments

IMG_1765“Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.” — Mark Twain

I would like to talk about trauma. Before the accident, I did not understand the signifigance of the word. I did not know trauma in the personal way I do now. I had been touched by it before, but this time, this time was different. I do not know why. It just was. While I was in the hospital with Chris, I didn’t know the effect it would have on me. I thought I was strong enough to handle it; the news of the accident, the hospital and the healing, and the aftermath. I believed Chris would heal, and he would go back to work and we would go back to “normal.” I believed I just had to be strong, but I did not realize strength has nothing to do with it. It did not matter how strong I was. That would not protect me. Instead it has to do with how my body reacted to trauma, and how I processed it. If we allow ourselves to feel it. If we push it away. It affects us all differently, but, it affects us all. For some reason, this was not something I understood. Maybe we are taught that living through trauma and grief is only for the strong. The only problem is, I think we often define the word strong in a way that can be damaging. At least I think I did. I thought it meant not feeling it. Not being affected by it. Not complaining. Not asking for help. I didn’t really understand how important support was. I didn’t know how difficult it would be to reach out. I did not know how to tell someone I felt like I was drowning, and that keeping my head above the water was all that I could concentrate on. 

In September 2014, just over one year after Chris’ helicopter fell from the sky, I had my first panic attack. It had been a difficult year of challenges and milestones. Chris had recently gone back to work, and I was on my own and isolated with my two young children. In many ways, it felt like we had successfully survived the first year, but still, my body refused to relax, and the lack of any real support was crippling. We had moved closer to home in the hopes that family and friends would support us, but quickly found out this was not to be our reality. While this made me incredibly sad, I could not focus on it, as I had two young children to love and nurture. Chris had been away at work for over a month in the time leading up to my first panic attack, and the fear and the grief I was dealing with had to be pushed to the side, so I could be the mother my children needed. 

I did not know this way of existing was dangerous, and  when it happened, I had no idea I was having a panic attack. I thought I was literally dying. Apparently, this is a common, to believe we are dying, when really our body is trying to communicate something very important to us. It scared me, so, so much. In the year following the accident, I had never thought to research post-traumatic stress, or how it can manifest in a person. I did not have the capacity or the energy at that point. It had never even occurred to me that I could be affected in this way. I had not been involved in a helicopter accident. Chris had. It was not me who had lived through it, so you can imagine my surprise and my dismay, when my body told me, no more. It was done with holding in all of the stress from the trauma, and from being the support person and the caregiver. I needed support for myself. I had not even considered taking care of me. Not really. I just made it through the days.

At that time, I knew as much about panic attacks as I did about post-traumatic stress, which was essentially, nothing. I had heard about it in passing, but dismissed it because I never imagined it affecting me. It is so easy to do that. Not care because it does not affect us. A sad truth about being human. We look away so easily. I have not told a lot of people about the panic attacks. It feels weird for some reason.  I don’t know, maybe I feel ashamed. Maybe I think it make me look weak. I try not to think that. We have been through a lot, and I do know it is a normal reaction. I am normal, but the situation, not so much. I try to be more open and the more I talk about it, the more I realize I am not alone. Having panic attacks does not make one weak, it is simply an exhausted body reacting to trauma.

Today, I frequently think about post-traumatic stress and how it can affect a person. Trauma has such a profound and far reaching affect on so many lives, and misunderstanding, minimization and lack of support can exacerbate it. It appears people are starting to discuss it more openly, but dialogue is not happening fast enough. I have learned through this process, that there is not a lot of support for those struggling with trauma. What can be found has to be pieced together, and is expensive, and this only makes a bad situation worse. It means that people are still falling through the cracks.

While I do not really enjoy talking about the panic attacks, and I often wish it had not happened to me, it has given me a new way of seeing the world. A different perspective. It has given me a window into something I knew very little about, and this is one of the reasons I write this blog. It is my small contribution to the conversation, pushing back against the notion that those who struggle in the aftermath of trauma are weak, or broken. Panic attacks and post-traumatic injury should be given the space to be discussed openly, creating a dialogue on how our bodies and our minds deal with trauma. It does not have to be so isolating, and scary. There needs to be more resources to support those who are struggling. 

I have not had a panic attack in a while now, though I still deal with the anxiety the accident brought in. I try to find ways to breathe or talk myself through it. Panic attacks, or as someone very wise called them, wake up calls, are no longer a part of my daily life, but I know if I do not take care of myself, they might just come calling again. I have been working on lowering my stress levels. This is not always an easy task, but so necessary. Trauma can become trapped in our bodies, and it will always find a way to release itself. Sometimes our bodies get stuck in fight or flight, and we have to find others to help us get out of this state. I am trying to understand this. I am also trying to understand that I must take care of myself and my body. I know that support is so important, though we still struggle to find enough. I have children who depend on me to be a positive role model for them. This can be both a pressure and an inspiration. Mostly, it is an inspiration. I want to be a mother that they can be proud of, so I feel I must start a journey. One that includes learning all there is to know about post-traumatic stress. One that includes finding the paths that will help me to heal. Help us to heal. That will help me release this trauma and move forward. Hopefully into a place where I can help others find the same pathway. The pathway that leads to healing.

Blue Skies

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident2 Comments

“For once you have tasted flight you will forever walk the earth with your eyes turned skyward, for there you have been, and there you will always long to return.”

–Vincent Van Gogh

We do not always see the beauty in the little things. We take so much for granted in our ordinary every day lives. The blueness of the sky, and the sound of rain drops on rooftops. We believe our relationships will always be there and our loved ones will forever be with us. This is not always true, and our lives can change quicker than we think. The hospital is a place where we can no longer take things for granted. It is a place of cherishing and a place in which we come to understand that our loved ones will not always be there beside us. Our bodies may not always work and one day our hearts will stop altogether. A breath of fresh air and seeing the sky above us becomes a craving for those living in hospital beds. There are no promises that they will leave the bed that day, or  that week or month. Maybe not ever. The sky becomes a memory.

A part of me wants to say I hate hospitals. I definitely feel more uncomfortable in one these days. The memories they bring back are difficult. The feelings and the emotions I felt in those days with Chris, wash over me like a wave. They make me feel like I want to panic. Like my body wants to run. A hospital is not an easy place for me to be, but I do not hate them. They are amazing microcosms that exist along side the lives of the healthy. A parallel universe of sorts. As we carry on with our lives in the outside world, people take their last breaths. Loved ones say their goodbyes. Broken people are put back together and sick people are healed. I have not spent much time in hospitals. I have been lucky that way. Until the accident that is. Until that day. I did not know that inside those walls an extraordinary world lives. It is full of people at their worst and at their most amazing. Both the patients and their loved ones. The doctors and nurses.

Family members who lived there longer become allies and guides for those who have just entered. They help the ones struggling to navigate their norms and get their bearings. There is a different language spoken there. It is one that is more pure. More honest. For me, it was like stepping into a foreign country. The culture was different. It was confusing and intimidating. The language was hard to understand. Important decisions were made by the minute. Life and death are constant companions. I happened into this world by accident. I think this is how it is for most people. Except for the nurses, doctors and all those who work there. They are there by choice. They have made it their life mission to take care of those who are hurting. I have nothing but good things to say about anyone who works in that world. To me, they are the real heroes. They are the ones who make it bearable. They are the ones who keep us in this world or watch us enter the next.

As Chris lay there in his new hospital room, struggling to heal so many parts of his body at once, a new landscape opened up in front of me. My husband lay there healing, working on getting better and I did my best to take care of him. To get him water. To help him drink it. When he was ready, I brought him coffee, because for Chris, well, coffee is not to be taken lightly. I made sure that he was eating healthy food and not drinking the horrible meal replacement shakes provided by the hospital. I did everything I could to make sure he was as comfortable as possible.

A hospital is a busy place. Family members or loved ones are a necessity. An absolute necessity. They are the ones who make sure nothing falls through the cracks. They become a part of the system. They support. They become the ones who bring in the outside world. To let the sick and the injured know it is still there. They ensure their loved one knows they are cherished. Without support, the broken, the sick and the healing would be lost. These family members, these loved ones, they support one another as well. Not in a way as to carry another’s weight, but in a supportive look that says, I understand. Directions to a place in the hospital you may not have yet found. A suggestion of where the ever-elusive wheelchair might be. Where to get ice for your loved one’s water. How to score a window bed. The secret code to the hospital WIFI. Little gestures that become big gestures.

It slowly becomes your world. You begin to feel more and more comfortable there, in amongst the discomfort. Though you may not remember names, you will always remember the injuries of the injured, and the faces of the loved ones who tended to their wounded. The love you could see in their faces. The worry. The smiles as their person got better, then released. The devastation when it was known their injured could not be put back together the same or their illness could not be cured. I wish I could describe it in a way that would do it justice. For me, it does not seem possible. There is a feel to it. There is a smell to it. There is an atmosphere that is lived, not created. A sense of urgency, yet patience. Healing can be slow. The changes in the nurses’ and the doctors’ expressions as a loved one gets better. I saw it as Chris started to heal. As all of the scary checkmarks were checked off. They smiled more readily. Joked more quickly, and were genuinely happy when we came to the realization that Chris was going to get better. He was going to be one of the exceptions.

Chris. He craved the sky. He craved the outdoors and the smell of the fresh air that lives there. Thanks to another patient’s suggestion, we were able to get him a window bed. It opened onto an atrium in the middle of the hospital. From his bed, he could not see that sky itself, but he could see the daylight filtering in through it, and that was enough for him for a while. Then, he started talking about going outside. He needed it. When he was well enough, on a  Tuesday, a week and a half after the accident, he was finally allowed to go outside. It was a beautiful day. I searched high and low for that ever-elusive wheelchair. It was not easy to find, but I do not give up easily. Not at times like that, so I hunted high and low until I found one.

In my numerous walks around the hospital, I had discovered a peaceful patio, complete with benches, flowers and little water ponds. It was across from the chapel. My favourite place in that hospital, with the exception of beside Chris’ bed. It was never very busy, and this was where he would experience the outside world for the first time since his accident. Since he had been loaded into the ambulance. It was a big deal. A very big deal. A place to really start breathing again. We sat out there long as he could handle it. He was not comfortable sitting or standing, but he stretched it out as long as he could. Of course, he did. The fresh air and the sunshine and that ever-important blue sky lifted his mood. It made him that much more determined to get out of his hospital bed and out of the hospital. To get back to his children who were waiting for him at home. To get back to his life, and to start it all over again. To live.

I sometimes forget the importance of the little things. Of the cleansing breath of fresh air, and the beauty of the sky. I do look up a lot more than I used to. I take it in more often. I try to remember to see the beauty surrounding me. The snow on the mountains and the waves on the lake on a windy day. Our children laughing as they wrestle with their dad. A father who was almost taken from them too soon. It is everywhere. That beauty. The pureness of life surrounding us. Sometimes, we just forget to see it. Seeing Chris on that day, when after days of wanting to be there, he finally felt the sun on his face and remembered there is life after an accident and life outside of that hospital room. When he fully understood he was still alive. He was still with us. It is a memory I should recall more often. It is an important time in our story. Laughing and joking. Knowing the moment almost never happened. Happy to be alive, and sitting across from a man who had become some kind of miracle. At least for that moment enjoying the moment just as it was. Knowing that it was just how it should be.

 

Healing

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Helicopter, Helicopter Accident, Pilot7 Comments

“All great changes are preceded by chaos.” — Deepak Chopra

Healing. There is beauty in healing. There is hope. The pain is lessening. The injuries are beginning to mend. It is no only living in the pain. It is still there. There is a ways to go. It will be a long road. But what a road it is. Upon this road, we learn our weaknesses. We learn our strengths. Fear follows us. Courage stands beside us. We go to the bottom of ourselves. The very bottom. The essence of who we are. Who we will become. In recovery, we discover ourselves. The minutes count. So do the hours and the days. As we heal, we grow. I look back at the time that has passed. There are times when I am proud of myself. There are times when I am not. It has been a journey of ups and downs. I can feel the healing. We are taking our power back. We are taking ourselves back.

I have watched Chris on his journey. As he walks beside me. Some days I have understood him, and other days he feels like a stranger; foreign to me. I am sure he sometimes feels the same about me. When we are angry, when we are hurting, it is easy to turn on one another. It is easy to place blame. It is easy to look at someone and to see them as the source of your pain. Sometimes it feels like walking away from one another would be the easiest thing in the world. Like a relief. A breathe of fresh air. We remind one another of our own pain. But then, the pain, it lessens and we begin to see one another as a source of support. A source of inspiration. We see the courage in each other’s journey. We the other fall. I have seen what Chris looks like when he is down. He has seen what I look like when I am down. We have seen one another’s vulnerabilities and weaknesses. Though we tried, it was impossible to hide them. For that, I am thankful. On the other side of this, I love him more. It is not a naive love. I do not love him for his strengths. I do not love him for his pain, and because I feel I must stay. I love him because I love him. I know him better now. He knows me better now. Loving through the good times. Well, that is easy. It is the easiest thing in the world to do. Loving at the bottom. Well. That is a special kind of love. That is an understanding kind of love.

While Chris was still in the Observation Room, I was walking back to the hotel room, and a thought passed my mind. “I can’t wait to call Chris when I get back to the hotel to tell him all about this crazy day.” My mind had, for just a moment, forgotten where we were. Where he was. I cannot describe it. It was the strangest feeling when I remembered. That my husband, who I talked to everyday. Who I told about my days and my dreams, could not have a conversation about himself with me. It was just me. Standing there in a parking lot, I felt so alone. I wanted to be able to tell him how amazing he was doing. I wanted to tell him the kids were okay. They were being taken care of. They were in good hands. I wanted to tell him all about the other patients, and what a strange world the hospital was. I wanted to tell him about the nurses, and how I stalked the doctors, waiting for any news of how he was doing. I wanted to tell him what had gotten checked off the list that day. I wanted to tell him how scared I was. I wanted to tell him everything. There was a hole there though. Thankfully, that hole would almost close up in the days to come. For others who are not so lucky. That hole. That dark hole will stay with them for the rest of their lives. That hole was scary. That hole. That moment has stayed with me.

Chris started to heal. It seemed so slow, but in reality, he was healing at a remarkable rate. He was fighting to come back to us. To come back to himself. He would continue this fight in the coming months and years. It is the strangest thing. We lose a part of ourselves when we go through something like this. I have seen it in Chris. We find a part of ourselves as well. A part of us we do not always know we have. It is there though. Our spirit. It is amazing. That part of us. Though I would not have chosen this road. I am thankful for that. I have seen Chris grow into someone even more beautiful than I could have ever imagined.

The days in the Observation Room were stressful. They held the kind of stress that is hard to process. Hope stands beside fear. We hope for the best, knowing the worst is possible. It already almost happened. Chris fought with all his might to get better. To heal. I know I keep saying this, but I say it because it is the truth. I saw his strength and his courage and his determination. It was always there. It is a part of who he is. It was so much more in those moments. In that hospital. In those days and the days that followed. He did what he could to heal himself, and he stayed positive. He made people smile, though he must have been so very uncomfortable.

Finally after five very tough days, he was ready to move into the next room. The best downgrade possible. The bed he was in was so valuable. There was someone else worse off than him who needed the bed. So, they moved him across the hall. It was a room that was still heavy, but the people there were beginning the healing process. Their bodies were starting to recover. Not fighting to survive, but instead to heal. It was such a big deal.

The surgeon wanted him to stand on the day after the surgery. We had to wait for the right papers to be signed. That took a few days. That is probably one of the reasons he had to wear the special wraps around his legs. Surgery, and then laying in bed for so long. I believe it was Wednesday. Four days after having spinal surgery. Chris sat and then stood for the first time. Sitting was excruciatingly painful for him. His back had been broken, and he had broken three bones around his tailbone, and he had a puncture wound that had just started to knit itself back together. Deep into his body. His ribs were broken in so many places. Standing seemed to be just as painful, if not more.

The body is such an amazing thing. What it can go through. What it can sustain. What it can come back from. I cannot imagine the pain he must have felt. I do not know if I have ever felt a pain so strong. Maybe childbirth. That hurt. His pain must have hurt at least that much. It took everything for him to hold himself up. What that experience must have been like for him. I do not know. I only know the pain and determination I saw on his face. This was a look that I would come to know.

There is power in healing. This is something that I have come to know. As we heal, we grow. We learn about ourselves and the people around us. There are itches and aches as the wounds mend. There is discomfort. Often a lot. But out of this discomfort comes a certain kind of sweetness. A certain kind of strength. There are scars. The cuts and the breaks may no longer be there. The scars though. They are there to stay. They remind of us the journey.  They tell our story. They are like a map of our travels. We carry with us always. Etched into our bodies. Into our souls. Reminding us of who we used to be, and what we have become. Someone more pure. Someone more real. Damaged, but not broken.

Letting Go

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Helicopter, Helicopter Accident, PilotLeave a comment

IMG_7783

“Inner peace begins the moment you choose not to allow another person or event to control your emotions.” — Pema Chodron

I am ready to be me again. I understand I have changed through this process. Life changes us no matter what we do. Even if we cling to the old, and refuse to let go. Life. It still changes us. That is what life is all about. Growth. Grow, or be left behind. To grow, we have to face and overcome challenges. We have to learn to feel, to process, to heal. To laugh. To cry. To be brave. To have courage. To accept. To take responsibility for our own lives. That is life. Change, chaos, growth, peace, joy. Letting go of who we felt we had to be and allowing ourselves to move into where we want to be. This journey has changed me. This journey has changed us. It has fundamentally changed our family. What I now realize is, I did not lose myself on this journey. Instead, I found myself. I can see my husband going through the same process. We are still here. In a new frame of mind with a new perspective. I am me again. I can see I am strong. I am capable. Life will be good again. It will be easy again.

The new year. It is for many a time for letting go of the old and looking forward to the new. We have reflected on the year that has passed. We look toward what the next one will bring. The choices we will make. The lives we will choose to live. It is about letting go of the past and looking forward to the future. The present becomes about letting go. Letting go. Sometimes, we hold on to things so tightly we don’t realize that we are strangling any hope of growth. The best thing to do is to relax our hands. To loosen the grip and fall. Or jump.

I held on to the life I expected, and to the way I thought things were going to be. We both have. This does not magically make it appear. Things have not just fallen into place. It is not meant to be. This is one thing I am beginning to understand. Trying to control the situation or our surrounding does not make it bend to our will. Instead, it distorts it further. We crave things that no longer suit us. When we are constantly looking back. Wishing for days that have already passed to be different. We miss out on our present lives. We stop working to make our lives better. We just keep looking back. We become blocked; stagnant. So, I have made the choice to let go. The present is here and my future is waiting. I cannot change the past. Clinging to it only does me harm. So instead, in this present moment, I stand on the edge of a cliff. Choosing to take a few steps back. Running as fast as I can, and jumping into the empty space that awaits me. Into the unknown. It no longer feels scary. It feels empowering.

In the hospital, I made the decisions that needed to be made. I believed in my ability to help Chris heal. Positivity was key. I did not allow in any negative that I could keep out. I protected him. I protected our family. I kept a list in my mind of all of his injuries. There were so many, I needed a list. I checked them off. As they healed to a point they were no longer a major concern, I checked them off in my mind. A couple of days after the accident, one of the nurses sat me down and gently listed his injuries for me. It had felt like different ones kept coming up. This made me uncomfortable. I asked the nurse for his list.

As Chris lay asleep in his bed, and as darkness crept into the room, she opened up the binder that held his injuries. I stood beside her, as she leaned over it, and began to read. I could feel her empathy. It was not easy to hear. I was so worried about him. I could not imagine the pain he was living in. His whole body must have ached. Sharp aches and dull aches must have filled his every waking moment. The morphine helped. But still, the pain must have been relentless. The list: fractures of the sacrum, coccyx, and left ischial tuberosity, collapsed lung, 8 broken ribs, grade III kidney injury, fractured sternum, facial fractures, a fracture behind his ear, double vision, an injury to his knee, damage to his liver, and of course the burst fracture in his lower back. I knew he needed to heal. I fought to make his stay in the hospital as positive as it could be. This was something I had control over. I did not have control over much. This though. It was under my control. I believe this helped him to heal more quickly.

In the days following the surgery, in the Observation Room, we worked on the list. I did not do the heavy work, but I was there, making sure what could be ticked off was. I helped to keep the world out as he healed. He had a special contraption to breathe into everyday. Throughout the day. To stave off pneumonia. To help his collapsed lung to grow strong again. More blood was given a couple of days later, to replace the blood that continued to leak inside his body. Special pads were wrapped around his legs, to massage them, keeping blood clots at bay. His heart rate was a concern. The surgeon wanted him to stand. There was a worry that his bladder might not empty completely. This would not be good. His body was still in distress. Of course, it was. It had been injured to a point close to death. I worried about his puncture wound. Infection. And then there was the pain. It was something he would have to deal with in the minutes, days and months to come. In the hospital. In those first few days. It must have been overwhelming. One of the reasons pain management is so important. If fully felt, it would add so much more stress to the body. It would take longer to heal.

As Chris lay in that hospital bed he was changing. His body was processing. Labouring to heal itself. It would never be the same though. There would now be scars where before there were none. There is still a list. Many of his injuries have healed. Scars remain. Some still have to be managed. Not by the doctors. Not by the nurses. Not by me. But by Chris. He will be managing these injuries for the rest of his life. He is still looking to find the right methods to help his body find balance. He continues to heal. I think there is sometimes this idea that once out of the hospital, and when the noticeable injuries can no longer be seen, then the healing is done. This is not true. It becomes a life long process.

I continue to heal myself. This accident has changed my perspective of the world. I like to think I am less naive. Though I still believe in the goodness of the world, I have learned what it is like to really to struggle. I have also learned that when we are struggling and when we are hurt, kindness from those around us is not always a given. I have also learned life changes when it wants to and the future cannot always be counted on. People we love get hurt. We get hurt. We are all mortal. This has created some of my own scars. The support I have given Chris while caring for our children has created a situation in which I put myself onto the back burner. My health has also been compromised during this journey. I often think of caregivers. To take care of our loved ones we often put our own health aside in order to help someone else heal. I have to start healing myself now. So, we live our lives together, as we heal side by side. Changing, accepting, letting go. And most importantly, remembering we are strong. We are the strong ones. We are the ones who have gone through this journey.

Our lives have been forever changed. This is something we have to accept. We have let go of the life we thought we were going to have and we are learning to live with this one. To find joy in it. Some will understand this, some won’t. Some will see us as strong and inspirational, and some will see us as weak and confusing, but it is how we see ourselves that matters. It is our letting go, and our acceptance of our lives and of ourselves that matters. Those who have lived through a major trauma, or loved someone who has, they will understand elements of our story. They will understand our journey. I understand more now as well. Trauma can shake life up so much that it is almost unrecognizable. Those who have been put on such a journey, they know what it is like to try and patch it back together trying not to get lost in the process. We know what it is like to feel truly lost, and what it is like to be truly found.