Tag: family

Blackberries

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Helicopter AccidentLeave a comment

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“Life has many ways of testing a person’s will, either by having nothing happen at all or by having everything happen all at once.” — Paulo Coelho

The first two weeks home from the hospital. Spent on the lawn enjoying the sunshine. Chris lived in his zero gravity chair. A place that lessened his pain. Standing. Sitting. Laying. All painful. The chair helped. My sister thought of it and brought it over. I can still picture him there. Sitting on the deep green lawn in the warm July sun. Our children playing around him. We laughed and we smiled back then. Chris was in pain, but we knew we were lucky. Lucky unlucky, as I used to say. We thought only of the future before us. It seemed limitless in those days. We believed everything was going to be okay. We believed it was going to be amazing. Life was good.

Every morning, Chris would get up from his bed. We could not share a bed. We would not for months. I slept in a bedroom with the kids. Chris slept on his own. Sleep did not come easily to him. The pain made it hard. He could not get comfortable. Not for a moment. So early in the morning, Chris would get up. Start his morning with coffee. Then he would go outside and walk as far as he could. First he started with the back lane behind the house. Then a little ways down the street that met it. Each morning moving a little bit further. A little bit faster. Pushing ahead. Through the pain.

Blackberries. About a half kilometre from our place there stood a wall of wild blackberry bushes. In full bloom. Full of beautiful blackberries. When he was strong enough to make it we would walk there every day. And pick blackberries with our children. A magical place. A magical moment. A beautiful memory. Something we hold in our minds. Beauty. Simplicity. Healing.

Two weeks later. The beginning of August we had to  make a choice. We were feeling concerned because Chris did not have any doctors or specialists following up. We worried about Chris’ healing, and how bad it could be if something was missed. That there might be some danger to his health we did not know about. I did not like that he was not being monitored. Other than his visits to his new family doctor. Specialist appointments take weeks and months to book. We were living in a different province. There was zero follow up. Zero. The systems apparently too far apart to talk to one another.

I spoke with the woman handling his insurance claim. We talked about our concerns. She had a suggestion. Make the 1000+ kilometre trip back to the city we had left two weeks prior. To where the accident had happened. So their doctors and specialists could look over him. Make sure everything was okay. That he would not have a setback just because he was not being watched. He would see a nerve specialist. Have one of their doctors go over him with a find toothed comb. After some thought. We agreed. We would make the trip back.

My sister volunteered to take more time off of work to help us out. We were taking the kids this time. A family affair. There was only a couple of days from when the decision was made to when we headed out. We did not even have time to top up Chris’ painkiller prescription. We believed the doctors he would see in the next province could write him one. He had enough to get him there, and for a couple more days.

We packed up the truck. My sister sat squeezed between the kids and their bulky car seats. I drove. Another stressful journey. Chris sat in the front seat beside me. As uncomfortable as the first journey in the motorhome. Except for the absence of a bed to lie in at rest stops. Thankfully this time he had strong painkillers. Still, he was in pain. It was another tough trip. Tough, but we tried to make the best of it. Enjoying the scenery along the way.

When I think of that trip, I love us. The five of us. We were such troopers. We did not complain. The kids were amazing. It was not an easy journey, but we tried as much as we could to treat it like a vacation. We stopped along the way. Of course we had to. For Chris. And for the kids. For my sister to stretch her legs. For me to relax for a moment or two. The dvd monitors played from the backseat. My sister kept the kids snacked up and as comfortable as possible. We tried to choose picturesque pit stops. And so, my hands gripped the wheel, as we headed back to the place where it all started.

Steps

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident1 Comment

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“You must face annihilation over and over again to find what is indestructible about yourself.” — Pema Chodron

I do not regret the way I have handled life since the accident. I would not change most of it. I do, however, still have a hard time with some of the things we lost along the way. Part of the cost. There were things that mattered to me that were dropped by the wayside. On the side of the road. In the very field that caught a helicopter in its embrace. I would not change being there to support my husband. I would not change being the glue that helped hold our family together. I would not change that we have fought this fight together. That we are surviving.

To survive sometimes we had to drop stuff along the way. When we are drowning, extra baggage does not help us to stay afloat. When we are lost in the desert or in the wilderness carrying things that are not necessary seems frivolous. Sometimes even hopes and dreams can feel heavy. So as we survived, as we found our way through the wilderness, as we learned to navigate, I was forced to let go. I was forced to surrender many things that mattered to me and still do. Many of my dreams and my hopes. I think sometimes I mourned them as we travelled, without even knowing I was mourning. I just felt a bit heavier each time I lightened the load.

It is starting to feel like we are ready to start picking things up again. Like we are close enough to a refuge that we can relax. Again. Just a little. We are starting to dream. I am going back to school. I have been away too long. I have missed it. In the weeks leading up to the accident, Chris and I talked about me going back to university. About me building upon my degree. We were dreaming of Victoria. I was thinking about my next steps. About my career. Our children were young, but we were starting to plan. We were going to work to make it possible. When Chris was home from flying, just days before the accident, we visited Victoria. We drove passed the university. We were excited. The future felt like it was forming. It seemed a bright picture. We could just make out the images through the rays of the sun.

It was such a great holiday. Maybe life gave us the best days because it knew what was coming. A little reprieve. The calm before the storm. We were in a good place. Our son was entering preschool in the fall. Chris had a flying job he loved. Our daughter had just celebrated her first birthday. I was talking about going back to school. I had just done my first half-marathon with my sister. I felt strong. I felt certain. We were looking forward to the future. To our future. If felt promising.

It never happened. So now we are working on new dreams. We are living in a different future. In this future, we are finally starting to dream again. We are looking forward to what is before us. We are making plans. We are not just surviving the days. It is starting to feel like there might just be some promise. The promise of better days. New celebrations and milestones. Ones we can feel. It is time. So here I am. Three years later. Finally now, back at school. I walk through the university grounds, and I feel incredibly lucky to be there. It makes me feel happy. I feel like I belong. Like it is where I am supposed to be. I have not felt that feeling in a very long time. I am taking a first-year creative writing course. Just one course. I am excited though. It feels like a pathway. A step. Something to pull me forward. To pull us forward. A change of direction. A different path. Maybe similar to the one we dreamed of so many years ago. Trauma and its aftermath held us in its grasp for a long time. So very long. It still affects us to this day. It has not completely let us go. I feel like maybe it never will. Not fully. Not completely. We have changed. Trauma has left its scar. A reminder that some days will be hard. I do not feel like I am living in it though. At least not at this moment. It feels like I might be at the edge of the echo. On one of the smaller ripples. Not so close to the rock that smashed us. The one that almost took us down with it, as it sank to the bottom.

 

 

 

 

 

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.

 

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.

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.

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.