Category: Pilot

Epiphany

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Pilot2 Comments

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“You can defeat fear through humour, through pain, through honesty, bravery, intuition and through love in the truest sense.”

— John Cassavetes

I had an epiphany today. A light bulb moment. A how did it take me so long to see what was right before my eyes moment. I was thinking of Chris, and how strong he was after the accident. How strong he is now. How he did not complain about the pain of the traumatic event that he somehow lived through. I thought it was a good thing that he did not complain. I thought of his strength and his courage. I chose to believe that. That strength was enough. Then. Well then, I had that epiphany. It hit me with a wave of sadness. Like a brick wall. I felt that though I was there for him in so many ways, I had in this way let him down. I did not always ask him how he was doing. I did not always ask him how strong the pain was each day. I did not ask him what it felt like to be a pilot who might never fly again. I did not ask him if he was afraid that the pain might not go away. I just chose to believe him when he did not complain. Maybe I was busy. I was taking care of two babies by myself as well. Maybe I was dealing with my own sense of trauma. My own questions. I did not know that I should have been checking in more. I did not realize that he was going through it alone. That he was being strong for me. That he was being strong for our kids. That he was hiding his vulnerability because I did not make him feel safe enough to share it with me. That my belief in his strength, and the pride I took in it, meant that he kept so much of his pain from me. This kind of moving through a relationship creates distance. It makes empathy so much more difficult to achieve. It means the forging of separate paths. It fosters loneliness. It makes healing hard.

My epiphany went further. I started to think about myself. About the pain that I have gone through. About the dark moments that I have had since the accident. Recently, I have started to share some with Chris. I told him about the summer that I spent without him when he went back to flying. When he was gone for almost two months straight. It was just over a year after the accident. I did not yet know how I would be affected by the trauma. I did not yet know the acronym PTSD. I thought I was fine. I thought I was making it through the days, so that made me okay. The nights though. The nights were hard. That should have told me something. It is sometimes hard to realize we are not coping when we are not coping.  The nights seemed so dark and the neighbours so far away. I worried that someone was going to break into the house. I was so scared of waking up in the morning to find an empty room. That, someone, had taken my kids in the night. I was living in a world of worst-case scenarios. I knew that it was highly unlikely. My fear was so strong though. I slept every night that Chris was away in my babies’ room. Afraid to fall asleep. Thankful to wake up each morning safe and sound. I told no one though. I kept my fears and the demons that haunted me to myself. I told no one. Not even my husband. Not even the man who would maybe know what I was going through. Not Chris. The person who was also feeling pain. The person who, out of anyone, could probably have understood what I was going through.

I did not tell him when he was heading to work again after five months off, a year and a half after the accident, that I was fighting a panic attack as we headed to the airport to drop him off. I did not tell him how afraid of the nights I was. I did not tell him a few days later, as I waited for the ferry that would take me to the refuge of a friend, that I almost did not get on that ferry. That I was so afraid of having a panic attack on the ferry that would take me to what felt like the only safe place available to me. It was me and my two kids. I was frightened. I don’t know if I have ever felt so alone. It was one of my darkest moments. I held it together though. We made it across. I guess in the end I was strong enough. I did not share it with Chris. I just told him I wanted to visit a friend. When I look back on moments such as these. And believe me, there have been many more. Times when fear held me frozen in place. When it dominated almost every thought. I wonder why I did not tell him. I mean I know the reasons I had then. I wanted to be strong for him. I wanted to be like him. He had been through so much and he wasn’t complaining. He was already dealing with so much. It made sense then. In many ways, it still makes sense to me today. I am starting to realize though. That the fear of being vulnerable. The fear of being judged as weak or unworthy of care did not help me in my healing. It did not in anyway quell the fear that I was feeling. It helped it to grow. It gave it strength, while mine drained away.

The epiphany went further. It leads to our children. I think about how we want them to share their feelings with us. To tell us of the fears they have and to come to us when they are afraid. We want them to know that showing vulnerability is a strength, not a weakness. Does this not make us hypocrites? I think it just might. We have not shared ours. They say that children learn through modelling. We can tell them every day that we want them to share their hopes and their dreams with us. We can tell them that they are safe to share with us when they are feeling weak or less than perfect. We can tell them. They will model us though. They will do as we do. And we do not share. We do not share our pain. We do not share our fears. We hide inside ourselves when we are in pain and when we are vulnerable. We try to always appear strong and capable. Even when we are struggling. I am not saying that we need to share our adult problems with our children. But if we never show those soft sides of ourselves, how can we ask the same thing of our children.

Somedays if feels like I will never stop learning. I am thankful for this epiphany though. I did not realize until tonight that I was not only letting myself down but also my husband, my children and any other survivor who is surviving. Any other person who is struggling. I have not been honest in so many ways. I have pretended to be strong when I wasn’t. I have pretended to be brave when fear held me almost paralyzed. I did not realize that asking for help did not make me weak. I have often not known on this journey that what I am feeling is normal. That panic attacks are more common than not, and that there are so many others out in the world struggling just as I do. Reaching out is not easy. For some reason, it often seems scarier than going it alone. I am learning that this is an illusion that I have held in my mind. Alone is lonely. It is ensuring that the dark will stay dark for so much longer. Sometimes we need a hand to pull us back into the light. To remind us that there are brighter tomorrows. That if we ask, someone will sit with us through the night. So I will try. I will try to learn to be more authentic. Honest.

When I am frightened and pulling into myself feels like the natural thing to do, I will instead try to reach out. I will say the words. I am scared. I feel like I might lose control. Fear is telling me the strangest things, and I am starting to believe them. The world feels like a nightmare, and the darkness is closing in on me. I have never felt so alone in my life, though I am sitting right next to you. My attempt at strength and bravery is making me feel weak. So, I will try to say the words out loud. Because sometimes the only one who can save us is ourselves. The only one who can let others know they need help are the ones who need help. While it may not be right, I have learned this. If I do not reach out of the darkness, there will be no one there to help me see the light. If I do not share my truth, no one will see that I am spending my days pretending. And if I do not share my feelings, no one will know I have feelings to share.

 

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.

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.

 

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

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“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.

Gratitude

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Helicopter, Helicopter Accident, Pilot2 Comments

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“There, but for the grace of god, go I.” — John Bradford

Is it okay to say I am angry? Is it okay to express it, instead of hurting myself by keeping it inside? I felt, as I thought about writing a blog this week, that I should write about being grateful. It is the Christmas season. A season of joy. A season of family. A season of giving. A season of love. I am grateful. I am grateful for so many things. I am grateful for my children. I would be empty without them. I am grateful for my husband. A man who walks beside me, though the degree of our difficulties can be so stifling. Trauma often tears people apart. I am so grateful we are still weathering the storm together. I am grateful to my sister, who emotionally, has not left my side through all of this. I am grateful for the doctors and nurses who took care of my husband with such kindness and skill. I am grateful his boss stood beside us during the first difficult days. He treated me with kindness and respect. I am grateful to our friends who have supported us along the way. I am grateful for our Christmas tree, and the gifts for our children surrounding it. I am grateful we are still here together. I am grateful my husband is alive, and I am not a widow. I came so close. As Christmas approaches, I am grateful for so much.

I am also angry. This was not supposed to be my life. In my life the people I love stand beside me. In my life my family holds my hand. In my life, the industry my husband and I have sacrificed so much for, stands behind us. In my life we have so much support we do not know what to do with it. This is not my life, though. That life belongs to someone else. This life belongs to a person whose family for the most part has not supported them. This life belongs to a person whose husband works in an industry that basically throws them away. This life belongs to me. The me I have become. The us we have become. This. This is our life.

I have spoken about the real need for an industry shift when dealing with pilots who have had an accident. I have spoken these words passionately. I know what it feels like to fall, and to expect to find a safety net where there is none. I have watched my husband, an extremely strong and driven man, try to recover in an industry that has a hard time forgiving. An industry that is quick to judge. An industry that seems to feel more comfortable looking away, rather than giving one of their pilots a hand back up. I have strong feelings about this. Should I not? I do not want one other pilot, or one other family to go through what we have gone through. I do not want one other pilot to have to hold his head down, because his industry shames him for surviving. I wish I had the power to change this. I wish I had the ability to show people how wrong this is. How sad this is. Because it is. Sad.

I was told. “Yes. Say it. Just don’t be angry. No one will listen if you are angry.” So, what is the alternative then? To speak softly? From what I can tell, no one really wants to hear it. No one wants to look in the mirror and say, that could have been me. That could be me tomorrow. That could be my wife. That could be my children. That could be my life.

A few steps before the doors opening to the hospital, stood two newspaper stands. The Sunday paper lay locked inside. A picture of a crumpled up helicopter, laying on its side in a field, filled the front page. I could see it clearly through the window. I could almost imagine him in it. Attached by his seatbelt. Hanging upside down. In pain and disoriented. I had not watched the news. I had not picked up a newspaper. I did not want to see it. The pilot in the hospital was not faceless to me. It was my husband lying in that hospital bed, fighting for his life. I did not stop. My gait did not change, as my body registered my reaction. It left me shaken. It reminded me how close we had come to losing him. It reminded me of the fact most pilots do not survive a crash like his. That helicopter was almost his death trap. That helicopter had almost taken his life. Instead, somehow it had saved it. The type of helicopter, as I would learn after, is one of the best to crash in. It absorbs the impact better than others. Maybe this saved his life. I also knew that a miracle happened in that field. The field which had cradled the helicopter just enough. It wasn’t just the helicopter, though. It really is a miracle that he survived. It took the right number of details at exactly the right time for everything to lead up to his survival. The exact right circumstances. The picture of his battered helicopter brought this home to me. I do not like to think about how close we came to a far different reality. A far different phone call. Sliding doors.

I walked into the room to find him sleeping. He would spend much of that day in and out of sleep. His body was struggling. He was still bleeding internally. He had already lost so much blood. As his surgeon would tell me, he lost blood in the surgery. The perianal puncture, caused by a metal part under the seat travelling up into his body, so far and with so much force that it chipped the coccyx bone in his tailbone, would have caused substantial blood loss. One of the doctors from the surgical team later told me. “It would have taken such a tremendous amount of force to chip the tiny bone at the end of tailbone in a healthy 34 year old man. It would have taken an amazing amount of force.” Then, there was the fact his body was still bleeding. He had some major internal injuries. He had bled and was bleeding enough that he was given blood. His hemoglobins were low. The nurse told me the difference from when he was admitted to then. It was a big difference. More stress. More fear. We still had a long way to go.

The calls began. Worried loved ones, and pilots and others in the aviation industry who had worked with my husband. Every phone call I missed, I made sure to return as soon as I could. I did not want anyone to worry one minute longer than they had to. I knew what it felt like. It was uncomfortable. I reassured them. I told them he was a fighter and he would get through it. I put them at ease the best I could. I appreciated those calls. The voices on the line, offering their support. Those voices mattered. Though I did not feel comfortable. Though there was little ease in the hospital those first few days for me. Those who called tried to put me at ease as well. They told me of the support we had waiting. They assured me we would want for nothing. I was told this over and over again. Both by our family, our friends, and the industry. “The industry is behind you, I was told. Whatever you need.” I did not know what I needed or what I would need. I did not know what to ask for. So, I did not ask. It was all new to me. It helped though. It helped to ease my fears. We would be taken care of. I believed them.

I do believe. Still. I believe. Maybe I am naive. I believe in a world where people help those who are wounded. Sometimes we forget that a part of our place in this world is to look to those in need, and to reach out our hands to them. It is something I will try to do more in my life. It is so easy to look away. Averting our eyes sometimes, almost feels more natural. I have met so many pilots. So many of their families. I have been around the industry for ten years. I believe that it is full of good people. Very good people. Pilots and owners who would help their fallen pilots, and the families of fallen pilots if only they knew how. If only there was a mechanism in place. I do not feel bitter. I do feel angry. I feel angry that the next pilot or passenger involved in a crash will likely fall through the same hole we did. I feel angry another husband, wife, or partner and more children will be pulled down this same hole. I often wonder about what happens to the families of the pilots and passengers who are not so lucky. The ones who do not survive. What happens to those families? What happens to those husbands, wives and partners?

I will end with this. It is not a hopeless anger I feel. Instead, it is an anger full of hope. An anger that believes in a better world and a better industry. One in which the next pilot or passenger who is involved in a crash, will be given support through the entirety of their healing. One in which the industry will make sure they get them back into the air, if that is what they still want. One in which a support system is created for every pilot, every passenger and for every family member. One in which, an aviation family, when dealing with an accident, does not have to feel alone and abandoned by an industry they have given so much to. Somehow, I still believe in the goodness of this world. Of this industry. I believe in the power of dialogue. This is something that should be talked about. I would like to help. This would be a perfect Christmas present. The creation of a support system.

Happy Holidays. Especially to those who know what it is like to be a survivor. To the ones who know the struggle first hand. Whether it be survivor or loved one who supports or who has lost, I wish you only the very best during this holiday season.

 

Waves

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

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“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what the storm is all about.” — Haruki Murakami

The days following an accident, these days are tangible. They can be put in a timeline. They can be boxed and analyzed. It is the time when people call. The days when support is so graciously offered. It is the time when everyone cares, and promises are made. During this time, we felt supported, and we felt loved. We could feel the prayers that were sent, and we prayed along with them, hoping they would help. I will always feel grateful for those prayers and the positive thoughts sent our way. I believe those prayers helped. I believe in the power of positive energy.

After the initial hit, we believed if we could make it through the shock and when Chris had healed it would be over. We did not yet realize we had happened into a storm. A storm that would rage on and off for the foreseeable future. We did not know it was not just one initial wave, but that this wave would be followed by another and then another. When the seas would calm for a while, we would wonder if it was the last storm. We did not know. We do not know. We cannot see over the horizon. Is it a clear blue sky, or are more waves coming, waiting to rock our boat once again? We did not know the days leading up to the accident were the calm before the storm. We believed if we were strong enough to make it through those initial first days, everything would be okay. We had not yet seen the storm clouds that now hang above us.

After those first few days. Along the way. Our loved ones and our support must have felt we did not need them anymore. Maybe they thought the storm had passed. They could look away. Their part was over, and their normal life was waiting. After all, it did not happen to them. Slowly, we started to realize we were not in a ship full of strong and able hands, but instead in a small life raft that holds just a few. Taking stock does not just include those first few days. It is also in the days, months and years that follow.

It still sometimes feels like we are here in our own little life raft. The waves are usually smaller and don’t come as often. I swear we are close to land, and I glimpse it every now and then, over the horizon, as we crest yet another wave. It feels like we are almost there. But, almost where? A question I constantly ask myself. I think of the bigger boat sometimes, and what could have been. Maybe the waves would have been less scary, and would not have hit us so hard.

A suggestion. Please do not offer support to a survivor unless you plan on following through and checking in; do not put the onus on them to ask for it again at a later date. Most won’t. I wish more of those who care about us would have taken the time to be sure we were okay. I wish they had watched us a little bit more closely. All of the signs were there. We were struggling. We needed support. If someone you love has been through something huge. Something that has torn their lives apart. Reach out to them. It might feel uncomfortable to you, and you might not know what to say. I promise you though. They are much more uncomfortable than you. Everything they have held onto, their whole life has been wrenched from their hands. It feels out of their control. Reach out. Do it yourself. Do not choose to believe someone else will do it. That might not be the case. The worst thing you can do as a loved one. Much worse than saying the wrong thing. The worst thing you can do is to not reach out. To leave them alone. That. That does damage. Offer your support honestly and wholeheartedly. Please do not make declarations unless you can back them up. Do not lead them to believe there is a big boat to hold them when what they will end up in is a small life raft with a handful of other souls, and you are not planning on being one of them. Do not be part of the accident when it is exciting and it feeds some need in you. Because if you make promises and declarations, we depend on that support. We believe we have it, and if you do not follow through, you become one of the waves.

Though it has been a difficult journey for us, we remain strong. One thing we have both struggled with is the lack of support from people we assumed would be there for us. The fundamental support we believed we had. The support that in the beginning we were told was waiting for us. For the most part, it was not there. We have gone through a large portion of this storm alone. Not very many people have put out their hands in a real way. Others have added to our burden. Perhaps this has made us stronger. At this point, I do not know. I am starting to suspect that it has. We are okay. We are doing well. We have learned to live without the support of those not ready or willing to reach out. Though it has added a certain sadness to our travels, we both know that it will be better on the other side. The storm has changed us, and I believe that we have both grown immensely. This is a good thing.

Thank you to those who have remained with us through this, and to the new supporters, we have met along the way. When it has been hard to have faith, you have given us the strength to believe that one day it will get easier and that our storm will pass and once again we will find ourselves on calm seas.

Laughter

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

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“Courage doesn’t always roar. Sometimes courage is the quiet voice at the end of the day saying, ‘I will try again tomorrow.” — Mary Anne Radmacher

I walked into the Recovery Room. He was smiling. He was joking with the nurse. I could see right away he had charmed her. He must have felt as relieved as I did. Laughter was a kind of relief. He had survived. I cannot imagine what it must have felt like for him, heading into surgery. So many possible outcomes. I am sure he was afraid. Still he went without complaint. I consider that bravery. Courage. I am a total chicken. I feel like if it had been me, I may have made a different choice. Maybe not. It’s hard to say. Until you are put into the situation you can’t really know. One thing I have learned about my husband. He is an incredibly brave man. Strong. I have yet to hear him complain about his injuries. To this day, he does not complain about the pain he lives with every day. I complain when I get a cold. Chris, in the recovery room making the nurse smile. It made me smile. He really is hilarious. I used to bug him about not being able to be serious. Ever. He used to bug me about how serious I can be. One of the things that drew me to him. He had a sense of humour that made me laugh. He teased me. He helped me to take myself a little bit less seriously.

Today, we are getting back there. The atmosphere is lightening. There has been a lot of serious in our lives the last few years. Way too much, if you ask me. The complications that come out of an accident of this magnitude. They are huge. There are so  many. Close your eyes. Imagine it is you. Imagine it is your husband or your wife. What would those complications look like? Now add so many more. That is what happens to a life. To a family. When trauma comes calling.

I think that deep down we are both eternal optimists. We try as hard as we can to see the positive underneath all of the stressors. Maintaining that way of being has been challenging. The laughter, sometimes that is what I miss the most. The laughter. I know one day it will return to our lives. We will feel light again. Laughter will come more quickly. Soon. I feel like it is just around the corner. We are coming to terms with the things that cause us stress. We can recognize them more easily now. We are learning to break them down. Deal with them separately. They do not affect us as much. Like in the early days. In the Recovery Room. I saw that. I saw us. Still there. Underneath all of the pain. Underneath all of the stress. The laughter. It was still there.

The pain medication helped his mood. That, and the fact he had made it through major surgery. From the beginning paralysis had been a real fear. This no longer weighed on us. There would be other complications. Paralysis would not be one of them. Though he had been in a horrible accident, he was still himself. He was still Chris. He was still making jokes at the most inappropriate of times. He still saw humour in the serious. The morphine helped. As we would learn over the next few days, he was a lightweight. It helped to bring out the lighter side of his personality. This was not the only time he would make us laugh. He joked he was going to quit flying to groom dogs. He had it all planned out. After too many very stressful and painful hours, he was back. Back to himself. At least for that moment. It was so great to see him smiling. I think the surgery may have lessened the pain as well. His back was no longer in pieces. That must have eased the burden. At least a little. For that moment, I forgot all of the hurdles. All the injuries that would be managed in the days to come. I could think about them later. I did not feel afraid.

They moved him from Recovery and settled him into a bed in the Observation Room. It was close to 3 am. I had to leave his side. I had barely left him since arriving at the hospital around 10pm on Friday night. It was now Sunday morning. We had made it through the hard part. There was still some uncertainty, and a lot of healing, but the really scary part was over. I was exhausted. It is amazing what the body can deal with when it has to. I had been running on adrenaline. When I got to the hotel, I took off the clothes I had been wearing for two days, and crawled under the covers. I pulled them tightly around my neck. Stopping the shivers. The warmth of the blankets hugged me, enveloped me. It made me feel safe, lying there as the darkness surrounded me. A moment to myself. The time where the parts of a day sink in. When we are by ourselves, and our minds work to comprehend all that has happened before we drift off to sleep. When I closed my eyes, there was nothing. Just black. I guess my mind was not quite ready to process the new world I now lived in. What strange days had led to that night. The night where I lay in a hotel bed, in a city that I did not know. My husband lay in a different bed, just a short drive away.

My alarm woke me at 6:30 a.m. The room was still dark as I stumbled to the shower. Chris. The first thought to enter my mind. Through his stay at the hospital, I never felt comfortable when I would leave him at night. There alone and vulnerable. I needed rest though. Staying the night by his side would not have been helpful. I don’t think I would have been allowed even if I had wanted to. Every night before I left, while he was still in the Observation Room, I would give the nurses my phone number, just in case. I had to make sure they had it every  night before I could leave him. I needed them to know it was so important they call me if anything went wrong. If he took a turn for the worst. Even a small one.

After the shower, I feel a little more human. I am not a morning person and lack of sleep is not my friend. I usually press snooze too many times, and get up at the last possible minute. The morning after the surgery though, as soon as my eyes opened in the darkness, I dragged myself from the bed into the shower. I wanted to get to the hospital as soon as I could. The ever important night had ended, and I needed to see how it had gone. I grabbed a large coffee and headed to the hospital. Another day in a different world.

 

 

 

 

Faith

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

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“Now faith is the substance of things hoped for, the evidence of things not seen.” — Hebrews 11:1

Faith. Something I have struggled with throughout my entire life. We all have ups and downs. Through the low times, our ability to trust in the universe and to have faith we will be okay are tested. Somedays, it feels like I have no faith. Just fear. Others, it is all I am going on. Faith is my fuel. There are also days in between. When faith and fear come and go throughout. If we lose our ability to believe in the future, what do we do? What happens when we lose hope? For me, this is a fundamental question. Something I struggle with. I know having faith is necessary. I have to believe. But, this is not always easy. To steadfastly hold onto our hopes for the future. To be grateful for today. When we are surrounded by uncertainty and fear. It is one of the most difficult things I have faced. We have been tested again and again. We have fallen and picked ourselves up over and over. Sometimes it is my hand that reaches down. Sometimes it is his. Sometimes a loved one’s. A lot of the time we have had to pick up our own bodies from the ground and dust ourselves off only to be knocked down again. Our faith tested, as we struggle through.

Leading up to the surgery, I did not have a choice in the matter. I had to have faith. It was all I had. Our lives were in the hands of others. We had to trust they would make the right decisions and do the right things. We had to trust in their training and their expertise. The only thing we could do was breath and go with it. But really, is that not essentially life? Aren’t we all just breathing and trusting as time goes by? Isn’t our every moment based on faith and trust? If it is not, how do we get through the day without being terrified of the future?

The surgery was booked for 8:00 in the evening. Just 24 hours after the accident. It felt like time was somehow moving both quickly and slowly. At seven-thirty, they came to get him. I had watched the minutes ticking past. Wishing there was another option. I would have been nervous if it was routine surgery. It wasn’t routine. Nothing about that night was routine. It was spinal surgery. It was spinal surgery on a burst fracture. Scary words. Spinal surgery. Burst fracture. They still give me shivers. I walked behind his bed as they wheeled him toward the Operating Room. Walk slower, I wanted to say. I was so scared. I think of myself, walking along those hospital floors. It must have taken incredible courage to let them keep on moving towards those doors. I did not feel brave though. I was afraid. I felt powerless.

The Observation Room was a short distance from the Surgical Unit. Two large doors opened to reveal the place where my husband would leave me behind. It was a world I could not enter. I could not go with him. He would have to continue on his own. It was his journey. I could not protect him from it. In my gut, I knew he was strong. He was a fighter. He had already come this far. He was awake and lucid. He was not nervous. He was ready. The surgical doctor and his team walked up to the bed, surrounding it with their bodies. It was a big team. They exuded confidence. They were not worried. This was a normal day for them. This is what they do.

For us it was not a normal day. It felt like I had accidentally walked onto a movie set. It all was so unreal. It did not feel like us, but it was us. As I stood beside the head of his bed, the surgeon told us about the surgery and the risks. He talked mostly to Chris. I appreciated that. It was his life that would be in his hands. Eye contact. He leaned in. His team leaned in with him. Chris does not remember much of that day beyond vague memories. He does, however, remember this. For him, this exact moment could be a game-changer. It was a game-changer. It is one of the most important decisions he will ever make.

After explaining the surgery, the surgeon ended with this. The words that stuck in my head, as I waited for them to put Chris back together. I played it over and over. They went something like this, “I could leave you like this, and in three months your back would heal. We are not sure how it will heal though. It would likely heal incorrectly. We would likely end up having to do surgery after those three months of bed rest. If I do the surgery now the outcome will most likely be good. But, I could really hurt you. You could end up with permanent paralysis, with a colostomy bag, or loss of penile function. Do you still want to go ahead with the surgery?”

My heartbeat quickly as he spoke. We had been told by the nurses and the doctors he was one of the best neurosurgeons. They told us how lucky we were this surgeon would be doing the surgery. He was so professional and sure. His team stood behind him. My husband consented to the surgery without pause. The thought of three months on bed rest was out of the question for him. Especially with the risk of an operation down the road. There was no doubt in his mind. To me though, the surgeon was a stranger. A man who I had just met. A man I must put my trust in to keep my husband alive. To heal him. To not hurt him more.

In the few seconds that followed, his words ran through my head. “I could really hurt you…” I knew if I wanted to, I could say no. I could say wait. While Chris had given his consent, I knew I could protest. Apart of me wanted to. But, I know Chris. I knew if we had talked about a scenario like this before his accident, his choice would be the same. Faced with this, he would always say yes. For me, it was harder though. Would he forgive me if one of the worse case scenarios played out? I was scared, but I knew it was what he wanted. So I did not protest. Instead, I watched silently as they wheeled him away.

It’s Not About Me

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

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“If we lived in a world without tears, how would bruises find the face to lie upon? How would scars find the skin to etch themselves into? How would broken find the bone?” — Lucinda Williams

I write this blog from memory. I had thought about writing a journal as the days went by, but except for a few sporadic attempts, I seemed unable. Writing it down as it was happening somehow made it more painful. Maybe because the process of writing it makes it more real. So, as I write, I try to recollect the feelings and the memories. It’s funny though when I let my mind go back to those early days, I cannot recall all of the small details or the exact words of the conversations, but the feelings and the emotions come flooding back so easily. Its like they are still locked in my body, looking for somewhere to go. I think in the early days, I was in such shock, that my body tried to protect me from the gravity of the situation, and my fear and panic were filtered through my body’s protective mechanism. It was filtered, but not processed.

The doctor had a very serious face as he relayed to me the reality of the situation. There were no hints of a soft interior, though there must have been one. False hope is not something they would give me. Just a lot of serious eyes, and closed off faces. I would look into those faces, of the doctors and the nurses, for any hint of either discouragement or hope. I tried to make a connections with them. I wanted them to take care of him as though he was one of theirs. This was a no turning back time in our lives. The consequences were real, but at that point, we did not know what they would be. That first night, as he lay on a bed in the Emergency Room, the doctor contemplated whether his condition was severe enough to call in the MRI team who had already gone home for the day. It was after ten-thirty at night, and without asking, I came to the conclusion that he must be in real danger for the hospital to call a team in specifically for him. I imagined behind the scenes that important surgeons were being called and hospital beds and spaces were being considered. Paralysis. A very real concern. A collar bound his neck as an extra precaution.

I could feel in the way that they dealt with him, and in the extra kindness, the nurses showed me that they were unsure what his injuries would mean for his future. For our future. Maybe they thought he might die. You have to be brave, I told myself. This is no time for your fear. Again and again, I would tell myself, this is not about you. This is not about you.

In a busy, downtown emergency room on a Friday night, there lay a man whose body was broken. Somehow, this man was my husband. I do not know, to this day, over two years later, how close to death he was as he lay on that bed. How do you ask a doctor such a question? How close is he to dying? How close is he to paralysis? Another question I could not bring myself to ask. I do wonder though, in those first seconds, hours and days as I stood beside him, comforting and fighting for him, was I ever unaware that I had almost lost him? Not just in the soft hardness of a field, but in the safety of his hospital bed.

I stood beside him, then I sat beside him, then I lay my head on his bed and tried to sleep. Hours passed by. A thoughtful nurse replaced my plastic chair with a more comfortable lazy-boy style chair and a blanket. I was grateful. We dozed in and out of sleep together. Around us, the sounds of the Emergency Room continued late into the night. Every fifteen minutes, a nurse would come in and test the feeling in his arms and legs, asking him as they moved up and down his arms and legs, “Do you feel this?” They concentrated on his left leg. In my shock and stupor, I thought they were waking him in case of a head injury, but now it seems obvious to me their concerns were more along the lines of paralysis. A helmet had saved his life, and somehow, in spite of the impact from the fall, the dent in his helmet and broken bones in his face, his brain came out of the accident relatively unscathed. Another lucky break. As the days went by, I would learn that this was one of many.

At six-thirty in the morning, the day after his accident. I woke up alone beside him. Thirst and the hiccups, usually easily cured discomforts, were constant concerns. I felt like his torturer as I worked to quench his unending thirst. I did not know a thin plastic stick with a small piece of sponge on the end existed. A special piece of torture equipment. It could be dipped in water, to give him a suck of water the equivalence of swallowing his saliva. It did not once quench his thirst. I had never been in that place before. There, standing beside someone I love, pretending I know what I am doing and that I am strong enough and smart enough to know what I needed to do. His hiccups were unrelenting and painful. With every hiccup, I could see the amount of pain he was in on his face. No one was sure what was causing them. It might have been the morphine, that ironically was being used to treat his pain. I could not fix him. That part was not up to me. I understood my role was to be his comfort, and to touch his arm and hold his hand, and to talk to him so that he knew he was still here with us. That we would get through this together. I knew at that moment he could not understand it or know it. I just hoped he could feel it. I was fighting for him and would fight for him and with him every step of the way. Until he could focus on my eyes and see I was there standing beside him.