Tag: survivor

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.

Can’t Find the Way

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“You never know how strong you are…until being strong is the only choice you have.” —Bob Marley

It has been more than two years since the accident, yet somehow it often feels as though we are still wandering around lost in the wilderness. Sometimes it appears like we have found our way onto a path that looks vaguely familiar, but then it seems to disappear without a trace. Realizing it is nothing more than a mirage, as we look down to see the sand running through our fingers. My hope is one day we will look back at this time in our lives and it will make sense to us. For the time being though, it feels life is a jumble of words we do not understand. A language foreign to our ears that we must learn to speak if we are to survive. So, we cling to one another, pushing our bodies against the wind that threatens to blow us away. In between the two of us we hold the small hands of two small children.

In a city I did not know, all alone, I walked up the road leading to the Emergency Room. Fear pulsed through my body. I was unsure what state I would find him in. I had been told to be prepared for swelling from his facial injuries. I was afraid of that, and so much more. I didn’t know how I was supposed to prepare myself. I still don’t.

One of his coworkers who had been at the scene picked me up from the airport. He filled in some of the details, but no one had been allowed into Chris’ room. His coworker had not seen him since he was loaded into the ambulance many hours earlier. It had been six hours since he fell from the sky. I wondered what had transpired in those precious hours. I fought to keep it together, sitting beside a stranger who clearly cared about Chris, also in distress over his well being. He attempted to reassure me, as he worked to reassure himself as well. A conversation between two people doing their very best to act normal in a very abnormal situation. Again I will use this word. Surreal.

As I entered the double doors leading into the Emergency Room I tried to act brave. I asked the security guard which room my husband lay in. His eyes told me they had been expecting me. The moment I saw Chris I knew his injuries were not superficial. He lay on the hospital bed not moving, attached to monitors and IVs. Thankfully, except for the dried blood under his nose, his face looked perfect. A doctor sat in the corner typing his information into a computer. He did not turn to face me. He was busy making sure his patient would get the best care he could provide.

Relief filled me when Chris recognized me immediately, clearly grateful someone he loved was finally standing beside him. He had gone through the first six hours alone, surrounded by strangers working to save his life. It must have been unbelievably scary. I was thankful to be beside him, showing my love and support, hoping he felt less afraid because I was there with him.

He was in so much pain. I could see it in his face, and I could see it in the way his chest moved when he breathed. Over and over again he asked for water. He was so thirsty, but I could do very little to quench his thirst. Surgery was imminent. I tried to get my bearings, thrown into the deep end, quickly understanding that the journey before us was going to be a hard one. Among his numerous injuries, the most critical being a burst fracture in his lower back. His future was uncertain. There was hope though. He was still here, and he knew where he was. I think he was stable. He had feeling in both of his legs, though, not fully in his left. Emergency spinal surgery was discussed. He would be thirsty for a while longer. I tried to comfort him, and he was so strong, but his injuries were beyond comforting. Eighty feet does a lot of damage. I sat beside him powerless, in a busy Friday night Emergency Room with sounds of pain all around us, thankful my husband and the father of our two children was still alive. We had almost lost him. I would find out as the days went by, and I talked to those who knew, his accident was not survivable. Neither from a medical nor a professional standpoint. Yet, somehow he had survived. I now believed in miracles.

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

Sucker Punch

On By Shani JanelIn Uncategorized1 Comment
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“Owning our stories and loving ourselves through that process is the bravest thing we’ll ever do.” — Brene Brown

My name is Shani, and I am the wife of a helicopter pilot, and the mother of two young children. In the early days of July 2013, my husband Chris was in a catastrophic helicopter accident that almost took his life. Only by some miracle is he still here with us.

When the accident happened our daughter had just celebrated her first birthday, our son his third. To say that the accident took us by surprise would be an understatement. It was akin to being sucker punched, and life since the accident has often been difficult to navigate.

The trauma of almost losing Chris made us take a long, hard look at our lives. and the path we were on prior to that day. It has made us take stock, look at the path we are on and to think about where we want to go from here. I do not know, as we move forward, if this accident will define us or not. I do know it has fundamentally changed us. Both as individuals and as a family unit. I have decided to share our story, in the hope that no one will feel as alone as we did as we struggled through the aftermath of major trauma.

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“He is ok, but there has been an accident.”

Words I had prayed I would never hear spoke to me through the phone. In the back of my mind, I always knew his job could be dangerous, but I also know Chris. He is a good pilot. He is cautious. He is capable. He knows how much the three of us need him.

It was a beautiful summer day, the sun was shining and the kids and I had just arrived at Kits beach. At the time of the accident we were staying in my uncle’s basement, hoping to find a place of our own in Vancouver. That morning, I had dropped off the deposit money for my son’s first preschool, having recently paid the deposit for a rental home nearby. As I drove to the beach, my phone buzzed repeatedly, receiving text after text. Though I thought it a bit odd, I wasn’t too worried, until I parked and read his sister’s message, “call my mom now.” I quickly suspected something was very wrong, and while I was preparing myself to reply, I got the call. The dreaded phone call every pilot wife prays she will never get.

His boss’ voice was calm as he relayed to me what had happened. He sounded optimistic, giving me hope that Chris’ injuries were superficial. Hanging up, I struggled to process the information, as I bundled my children back into the truck, and headed for my sister’s house, knowing I had to get to Chris. As I drove, one of his coworkers called me to reassure me that Chris was going to be just fine, and that they were in the process of finding me a flight. I could hear it in his voice though, and in the urgency in which they booked my flight so I could fly to be by his side, they were uncertain of his actual condition. They were just trying not to scare me.

The accident was an hours flight away, so I entrusted our two children to my sister and my mother, as I hastily packed my sister’s suitcase and clothes. It was a Friday afternoon, and going to our place would have taken too long due to Vancouver’s infamous commute traffic. It was the first time I had left my kids with someone else, and though it was not an easy choice to make, I knew in my gut in that moment their father needed me more. Our family would not be complete without him, and I needed to do everything I could possibly do to make sure he came home to us. It was all extremely surreal. “Am I acting normal?” I wanted to ask. It kept running through my mind, but I kept it to myself, needing to believe I could handle it. That I was strong enough to live through the days in front of us.

I hugged my babies good-bye and headed to the airport, still struggling to process what was happening. I was definitely in shock, making decisions from a place I could not really understand. I was already in survival mode knowing it was up to me to keep it all together. As I sat with my sister, waiting for my flight, I knew the world we lived in when we woke up that morning was gone. Everything had shifted, and we would all have to shift with it. Our lives would now be lived in the before and in the after. My sister and I did not talk as we sat waiting for my flight. We did not know what to say. It was not a time for small talk, and we had no real idea of how Chris was doing. What does one say in a time like that, anyway? Most words feel empty, and devoid of any real meaning. So we sat in silence, contemplating. I did not know what I would find when I got to the hospital. I did not know if Chris was just fine, or not fine at all. The time it was taking to get to him was paralyzing.

On the airplane, I masked my face, and acted as though it was a routine flight, praying the entire time his injuries were superficial, but the possibilities of internal injuries kept running through my mind. I knew people die from injuries that cannot be seen.