3 Weeks After Engagement, Tragedy Left Him Paralyzed and She Became His Caregiver: ‘It Brought Us Closer’ (Exclusive)

• Massachusetts couple Vaughn Pfeffer and Ariadne Carvalhais were engaged on Christmas Eve 2020 after dating for six years
• Three weeks later, Vaughn suffered an aortic dissection that left him paralyzed from the waist down
• Ari became his full-time caregiver, one of the more than 53 million Americans caring for loved ones who have long term health needs

On Christmas Eve 2020 while playing a game of rummy with his girlfriend Ariadne Carvalhais, Vaughn Pfeffer hid a message in their deck of cards: “Will You Marry Me?” The answer: an immediate yes. “We imagined our life together, moving in, planning a wedding,” Vaughn tells PEOPLE.

Ahead of them they saw a lifetime of travel, running, hiking and, eventually, a house filled with kids who loved adventure as much as their parents did.

But less than three weeks later on Jan. 12, Ari received a call that changed everything. Without warning, Vaughn, 39, had collapsed on a weight bench at the gym, unable to move his legs. He’d suffered an aortic dissection—a tear in the aorta, which is often fatal (actors John Ritter and Alan Thicke both died from the condition).

Vaughn was rushed to open-heart surgery. “I was shaking,” says Ari, 34. “I couldn’t wrap my head around it.” The tear had cut off the blood supply to his spinal cord and left him paralyzed from the waist down unable to walk or, at first, even to dress himself. “When that hit me, I remember crying,” he says. Adds Ari: “Things were just taken away from us.”

Vaughn, who’d been working as an operations assistant for the nonprofit Good Sports, was facing a future where he, like 14 million other Americans, would need long-term help. And Ari, who’d been laid off during the pandemic from her bartending job, became his full-time caregiver.

That’s a role that “can go in two directions,” says Laurel Wittman, co-president of the Well Spouse Association, a group that advocates for the 6 million people who are caregivers for their partners. “It either brings you closer together or pushes you further apart.”

Ari and Vaughn, who’d been together for six years at the time of his injury, put their wedding on indefinite hold, but “our relationship grew so much,” says Ari. “Our communication got better. We understand what each other needs a lot more. And it highlighted all the things I loved about him.”

In the days after his new reality sunk in, Vaughn had doubts. “Your self-esteem is low,” he says. “Your body has completely changed. Fear creeps in: Am I a burden? Is this worth it for her?”

Ari found ways to show she cared—“It never crossed my mind I wouldn’t be with him,” she says—once arranging a Valentine’s dinner at the hospital, despite COVID restrictions. She sent a meal to his room and set up a table where she ate outside in the snow, six floors below his window as they talked by phone: “Vaughn has a way of making everyone feel special. I wanted him to feel how he made me feel.”

But the day-to-day of caring for someone with a spinal injury—helping them dress or clean up after accidents (“I used to be really shy, but now it’s like, ‘Go ahead, pull the shorts down,’ ” jokes Vaughn), rotating your partner in bed to avoid bedsores—is far less romantic.

Shortly after they returned home, Ari was helping Vaughn down a hill in his wheelchair and they hit a pothole. Suddenly “he was on all fours on the pavement,” she says. “He was still weak and new to wheelchair skills, so he didn’t know how to help himself. And I didn’t have the physical strength to pick him up.” (He’s 6´2˝and she’s 5´1˝.) A passerby lent a hand. “I felt completely helpless,” says Ari. “There’s a constant feeling of anxiety, as I’m his first line of defense.”

And that responsibility can be a heavy weight. Rates of depression among family caregivers are estimated to be more than twice the general population. “It’s hard to care for one person, much less two,” Wittman says. “We don’t take as good care of ourselves, because time spent on ourselves feels selfish. But it’s of benefit to you and your partner.” 

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While Vaughn (whose sister is Stephanie Pfeffer, People’s senior news editor for health) was in rehab, Ari received training to become his personal care attendant, which allows her to earn minimum wage for caregiving through the insurance system in Massachusetts, where they live. But that would end if she became his wife, since most states don’t pay spouses for caregiving. “It’s scary to think that by signing a contract to be married, we can lose the chance of me being able to help him,” she says.

In the months after Vaughn’s injury, he and Ari moved in with his father, who converted his home to make it wheelchair-accessible, but just as the couple was beginning to adjust to their new normal, another tragedy struck: a car accident left Vaughn’s dad paralyzed and in a wheelchair himself. “That was really tough because of all that my dad did when I got injured,” Vaughn says. “I would’ve gone through my injury another time, two more times, however many times to take it away from him.”

Ari felt the loss of his support as well. “He helped us tremendously, and he’s somebody who inspires me so much,” she says. “His accident took the wind out of me.”

Finding support as a caregiver is a challenge. “Caregiving as a partner is a 24/7 duty with no start and no end time,” says Ari. “My friends, I can’t connect with them over this. Even though they might have good intentions, I don’t think they have the tools or the experience to offer me much advice on what I’m going through.”

But despite the strain, their situation has created a new type of intimacy for the couple.

“The number one question people ask — even strangers, someone I just met — can we have sex?” says Ari. “I understand the question but it shows how priorities are skewed. No one asks, ‘How is it checking into a hotel? What happens when you get there and they say they’re accessible and they’re not? What happens when you’re in the grocery store — how do you push a cart?’ When you think of what it’s like to have a partner who’s disabled, there’s so many other things that take front and center.”

And the fact is, says Vaughn, “this injury sucks, but it actually brought us closer. There have been some silver linings.” Adds Ari, “We show affection to each other constantly—more now than before. It’s kind of icky if you’re around us!”

They have, however, paused their own plans to have a family, although doctors told them it’s possible to do so naturally. “Before this injury, I saw us having three kids,” Ari says. “But it would be a big undertaking for me. Being in this caretaker role, I know it’s a lifelong commitment.”

For now they’re focusing on living their best lives.

Ari started teaching yoga and Pilates and has gone back to school to become a nurse. Vaughn’s company, which provides sports gear to kids in communities in need, rehired him as a business development specialist, a position he can do in a wheelchair, and he’s rekindled his passion for sports by joining a wheelchair football team sponsored by the New England Patriots; he plays quarterback. “I don’t feel so alone in my injury, and it keeps me in shape,” he says.

Whatever their future holds, they’re in it together. “We are soulmates,” Ari says. “When you get married, you say, ‘in sickness and in health,’ but until you’re in that situation, you don’t know if you mean it. We live those words, even though we haven’t said them to each other yet.” •