Tag: broken back

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.

 

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.

Chasing the Pain

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Helicopter Accident2 Comments

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“Even in times of trauma, we try to maintain a sense of normality until we no longer can. That, my friends, is called surviving. Not healing. We never become whole again … we are survivors. If you are here today… you are a survivor. But those of us who have made it through hell and are still standing? We bare a different name: warriors.” — Lori Goodwin

There is an expiration date on struggle after trauma. I am sure ours passed months ago. How long are we allowed to be affected by something of this magnitude? I do not have the answer to that question, but if I did, I suppose I would say, as long as you need to be. It has been hard to accept the cards we have been dealt and so many times, I have wanted to scream into the wind. I feel like I should not be allowed to complain though. He is still with us. So many others have not been so lucky. Our lives have changed so dramatically thought and it is hard to always be positive. We had so many plans. We knew where we were going. Now our plans are tentative, and our future uncertain. But, he is here. That really is what matters. The rest. Just details.

Late in the morning some family finally arrived. His mother. I have children, and I cannot imagine seeing one of them in that much pain. Their bodies that broken. We waited as they prepared to move Chris from the ER to the Observation Room in the Neurological Unit. How did we find ourselves here, I wanted to ask her. I didn’t. It wasn’t the right time.

We waited in the small waiting room across the hall from the OR, as they once again attached him to the machines. The machines that would tell us how his body was handling the immense stress it was under. It was struggling. It must have been attempting to figure out what had happened and how to best react. How to heal. It must have been as confused as we were. The nurses worked to create as much comfort for him as possible. Pain management was of utmost importance. They did not want his pain level to get away from them. “Chasing the pain.” This was something they did not want to do. They had to keep ahead of it. I did not know pain management was such an art. A new catchphrase had been added to my vocabulary.

The Observation Room is a special room. I do not know how many rooms there are like this in the hospital. Perhaps this is the only one. Maybe it is the Neurological Unit’s ICU? It felt like that. A temperature controlled room; a room that is set to a specific temperature for certain injuries. In the room, there are beds for only four patients. For these four patients, there are always two nurses on duty. Twenty four hours a day. There is one nurse in the room at all times. This is precious space. These are precious beds. Another indicator of how serious his injuries were.

In the late afternoon, the hard plastic neck collar that had been torturing him, was finally replaced with a softer one, giving me some relief. The hiccups still plagued him. He was still thirsty. I stood beside his bed, as they switched collars. I held his head in my hands. “Keep your head still. Do not move. Focus on me. Focus on me.” We did not want to cause anymore injuries. It was a tense moment. It scared me. Throughout the rest of the day, as we waited for his surgery, the nurses looked after his needs. I could tell they were remarkable nurses. They took such good care of him. They took such good care of every patient in that room. They monitored him. They watched over him. They made me feel he was safe in their capable hands. Morphine kept some of the pain at bay. I was thankful to be in that room. It was a sad room though. It was a room full of pain and uncertainty.

The patient beside Chris had a head injury. A very bad one. I knew, but for the grace of God, it could have been Chris. This other patient was somebody’s person. I could see from the pictures beside him, he was a father. He had been there for a while. You can feel the familiarity from the nurses. They used his name often. Beside him, lay a young man who jumped off a dock into a too shallow lake, while celebrating his sister’s upcoming nuptials. His neck was broken. The last bed, a very friendly, but confused older man who had judge had brain surgery. My heart went out to all of them. It still does. They were my husband’s roommates. Trauma had brought them there together.

In the afternoon, some visitors arrived. His boss came. I had met him the night before in the ER. He had stood beside me and offered support. He had let me know that I would be taken care of. A hotel room had been booked close by. It helped. I did not know him, but it made me feel a little bit less alone. Some of the guys he had been working with arrived as well. It gave me strength to see their concern. They held their bodies in the way that people do when they are worried. When they have been touched by trauma. While it was the same accident, they were dealing with something different than me. My husband was one of their crew. They had almost lost one of their own. Mortality had shown them its face.

Chris was happy to see them. I could see it meant the world to him they were there. He seemed surprised they had come. He seemed more lucid when they were visiting. Like he was able to focus on them and why they were there. His heart rate was already high, due to the amount of stress his body was under. His nurse watched with a protective eye. When the alarms would start to go off, she would shoot them a look and shoo them out of the room. They did not mean to stress him out, it was just that he had been through so much, and their visit brought the reality of the accident home.

Impact

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation AccidentLeave a comment

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“Too often we underestimate the power of a touch, a smile, a kind word, a listening ear, an honest compliment, or the smallest act of caring, all of which have the potential to turn a life around.” — Leo Buscaglia

I have always paid attention to when there is an aviation accident. I think most people do. Maybe because it is one of our worst fears. We can imagine ourselves in the aircraft as it falls, nothing to catch us but the ground or water far below. I can picture myself and my terror. Am I the only one?

I would read the news articles, and be happy to see if there were survivors. I would see the list: deceased, critical condition, hospitalized, uninjured. That is where it always ended. It was never personal. I did not think about what those categories meant. I did not really wonder how their lives would be, beyond the immediate terror of the days that followed the accident. I did not stop to think of the fundamental ways each of those passengers, survivors and loved ones would be changed. I did not wonder how they would deal with the days and months and years that followed. I did not understand what critical condition after falling from the sky meant. I had no idea what that kind of impact could do to a body. I did not wonder how the psyche of those involved and those that loved them would be affected. That was before. Before the accident.

The nurses in the emergency room were kind, caring and considerate. Every one of them took the time to make sure I understood, to the best of my ability, what was going on with Chris’ condition. What the course of action was at each moment. They treated me with respect and concern. The outcome for him at that point was uncertain. While his broken back seemed to be the biggest concern, he had so many other injuries that also needed to be managed. It took me days to finally learn what all his injuries were, and it seemed like more kept being added to the list as the days went by. I knew then he had a broken back, a collapsed lung, numerous broken ribs, a kidney injury, a very deep perianal puncture wound, and facial fractures. There was a concern that there might be some air around his oesophagus, caused by the force of the impact. There was a worry the puncture wound may have ruptured his bowels. He was not out of the woods.

The emergency room was busy and understaffed that morning, still the head nurse took the time to sit with me. These little acts of kindness, the taking the time out of their rushed and busy morning, meant so much to me. As a nurse walked passed, she turned and asked if I knew where the was a cafeteria. I had not thought of the existence of a cafeteria. That world did not exist to me until that moment. A protein bar in my purse had been my source of sustenance. It might seem small, but at that time, it meant the world to me. How someone taking the time to tell me the hospital had a place where it served food could seem like a great kindness might seem strange to others. To me, it makes complete sense. I had been thrust into a world I did not understand and did not know how to navigate. They took the time to help me find my bearings, and to this day I am grateful to those in the ER who took the time to worry about how I was holding up as well. Their acts of kindness and consideration have stayed with me to this day.

After a series of very painful moves for him, as they x-rayed and scanned his back to see the full extent of his spinal injuries, I sat by him in the ER. Both of us tired. Neither of us had really slept the night before. Finally, a young doctor stepped into our curtained off area of the room. I swallowed my anxiety as he relayed to me what the images had discovered. What that meant for my husband, and for our family. I do not remember his exact words. It was such a strange conversation to be having, but somehow it already seemed normal in a really horrible way. My husband lay in his bed beside us, in and out of what I would consider consciousness. There, but in so much pain and on so much pain medication. I soon learned that he had a burst fracture on his L2 vertebrae. As his surgeon would later tell us, it was like a cookie that has been stepped on. The cookie still holds its shape, though it has been crushed into many small pieces. This was what his spine looked like at the site of the break. Parts of his spine had burst. The force of the impact had sent energy up his body, and when it could no longer hold itself together, it had burst out, shattering his back along with it.

This is not something that anyone ever wants to hear. This is not a good prognosis. This is bad. This, I said to the doctor, sounds really bad. The surgery, I said, sounds very serious. I waited for him to correct me, though I knew he would not. Instead, he nodded, looked me straight in the eyes, and told me in a very matter of fact way that the surgery they would be performing on him is one of the riskiest surgeries they do. It was scheduled for that night.

Fear. He walked away, leaving me there to process it. To take it into my brain and turn it around until it made some kind of sense to me. It never did. I wanted to break down. I wanted to run but knew neither option would do me any good nor do anything to change the situation. So instead, I sat down beside him and waited. I waited for more support. I was still there alone as I waited for them to transfer him to the Neurological Unit. The place in the hospital that deals with head and spinal injuries. I waited for people I did not know, but had no choice but to trust, to put my broken husband back together again.

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.