Tag: healing

Parallels

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation AccidentLeave a comment

“Trauma is not what happens to us, but what we hold inside in the absence of an empathetic witness.” — Dr. Bessel van der Kolk

On the day of the accident, I had paid the deposit on a rental home in Vancouver, and the deposit for an amazing little preschool for our eldest child in an area of the city we loved. We had recently moved away from the Okanagan to focus on our future, as prior to this we had been struggling a bit to find our footing as a family. We were learning what it meant to build a life together. To raise children. To be adults. To be parents. To love one another not only as husband and wife, but also as a mother and as a father.

Leading up to the accident, there was a shift in our lives. I just didn’t know where the shift was going to take us, and that only hours after committing to this new chapter, everything would explode and our world would fall apart completely.

In the first year after the accident, I thought our story could still be planned and controlled. Sure, Chris had been in a helicopter crash, but we just needed to keep our shoulders back, our eyes forward and work on healing. Getting Chris back to work, and moving back into our normal lives seemed completely doable, believing with just enough willpower we could get back to the place we had been on that day. With focus, we could go back to being the family we were meant to be.

When Chris finally got cleared and headed to work just over a year after the accident, we celebrated our success as a family that had overcome the hardships and the challenges put before us. Then, just a couple of weeks after Chris returned home from his first job, I had my first panic attack.

In retrospect, moving away from the city I loved to be closer to the support of friends and family was a mistake. I found myself isolated and alone in a place I thought would shelter me. That was hard to accept. It had been a tough year, with our focus on Chris’ healing as we raised a baby and toddler. I thought being somewhere familiar would help. I also failed to realize that Chris heading back into the skies would trigger a reaction in me that I didn’t see coming. A reaction I wouldn’t understand for a very long time.

I had put all of my plans to the side as well, as I actively ignored the signs my body might be starting to falter. I did not study the effects of trauma on my body. Why would I? The accident hadn’t happened to me. Chris was the inspirational one. He was the one who had miraculously survived. I was there to help him heal. I had no idea that the panic attack was just the beginning for me, and that the years that followed would be about my healing, too.

It has been twelve years since the accident, and I am truly starting to understand the importance of story. I have been rereading my early blogs, reminding myself of just how far we have come. When our world fell apart again, and panic and anxiety invaded my days, I searched for someone with a similar story, but I struggled finding them. I knew I needed support, but I didn’t know where to turn or who to turn to. Finding a counsellor felt like an impossible feat, and admitting I needed one wasn’t really in the cards at that point.

I was busy shaming myself for being, what I perceived, as weak. I worked to suppress the panic attacks and the anxiety that suddenly, without warning or invitation, took over my life. I was so scared, and I felt so alone, but I tasked myself with managing it on my own. It was my job to make sure my babies were being raised as they should be, with a strong mother who didn’t falter. So, I suppressed and suppressed and suppressed, but everyday still feeling panicked and so very alone.

Much of that second year, I spent my days surviving my own battles alongside a man who was surviving the aftermath of the accident. Thankfully, Krista Haugen graciously welcomed me into her world though we are not part of the Air Medical Community. In many ways, finding her fundamentally changed my life.

The relationships with people who have gone through something similar helped me to realize I am, in fact, normal. I was not weak for feeling the way I was feeling. I wasn’t selfish and I wasn’t broken. I was simply reacting to the world I had been thrust into. I was normal. I had finally found others who understood my story. I don’t know what would have become of me had I not found Krista when I did.

Being able to talk to someone without explanation can save a life. When someone just ‘gets it,’ it creates a shift in our bodies from survival to healing. It makes us feel seen and heard. We feel understood and accepted, and in the days when we are barely surviving, this can be what pulls us through. My story is very different from Chris’ story, though we have lived them side by side.

My story is not one of overcoming something unsurvivable through perseverance and willpower. It is not a story of obvious strength or tenacity. My story is much quieter. It is a story that often carries shame — though it shouldn’t. A story that can make one feel weak and alone. A story that is rarely asked about. A story that is rarely told.

It is a story nonetheless, and I know there are many out there just like me. I cherish these survivors, and in their stories of strength, I get to see my own. I do not see weakness in them. I do not think they are broken. I believe they are some of the strongest people I have ever known. I look up to them, and I recognize their grace and quiet perseverance for what it truly is.

These are the women and men who hold everything together as it all falls apart. The ones who ignore their own bodies and needs because they’ve convinced themselves it isn’t about them. The ones who pretend everything is fine, even as the quiet voices of their bodies speak of a different kind of survival.

They are strong, courageous and magnificent beings who continue to live and strive even when everything is difficult. Even when they are holding up a world that is too heavy to carry.

I wish more of these stories were told, because like so many others, I needed them after Chris’ accident. My body tried to warn me of the damage prolonged stress does, but I didn’t understand the language. I didn’t realize the road I had happened on to. I didn’t know the direction I was headed in or the heartbreak that would follow.

I wish I had known so many things earlier, because much of the pain we endured could have been avoided or at the very least lessened. In the early days, I searched for those who had come before me. Though few, the ones I found helped pull me through and out of the darkness.

Twelve years later, though we have mostly moved on from the accident, it still touches me. I am still healing. We are still healing. Not just from the initial trauma of Chris’ accident, but from the traumas that have been added to the pile since.

Trauma builds upon trauma, and if one is not able to off load or process what needs to be processed, the damage that began in the beginning continues to build. Our bodies begin to buckle under the pressure, and we must heal again and again. This is where I am now. Healing once again. Knowing the road ahead of me requires patience and being kind to myself is of the utmost importance. I hope this is the last time, but as I am a human living life, I know this is unlikely.

So, as I sit in the energy of this anniversary, I allow myself some grace as I move into the understanding that stories like mine do matter. Our journey has been imperfect as we have learned to navigate a world where we are forever changed. We do not feel inspirational. We do not feel like role models. We are simply humans who have survived. We are still here.

We get up every morning, and we look for the silver lining, knowing that life is not about being perfect or living in the expectations of others. We all have our stories, and sometimes sharing them is one of the greatest gifts we have to offer. I will forever be thankful to those who were willing to share their stories with me, as we struggled to survive in the early days when we weren’t sure we would.

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.

 

Just the Two of Us

On By Shani JanelIn Aviation Accident, Helicopter AccidentLeave a comment

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

— Stephen King

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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.