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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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