Snowboarder Smack Down

I just had a terrible skiing accident…again. 

When I was a junior in high school, one week before my highly anticipated and hopeful college recruiting soccer season was starting, I went to Utah on a youth ski trip, skied down a double black diamond with moguls, and flew off a traversing cat track like Eddie the Eagle.  Only, I didn’t land like Eddie. I landed on my butt, which ultimately broke my femur, three ribs, and cracked my sternum.

I remember the moment I finally stopped sliding down the mountain. I was terrified. I lifted my head to look at my body and thought, “I’m paralyzed.” Then the excruciating pain yelled I wasn’t paralyzed, but I was very, very hurt. I was carefully taken off the top of the mountain by ski patrol, then airlifted from halfway down the mountain to the nearest hospital.

I was young. I was in that place of thinking I was so old and mature, but nowhere near mature enough to handle my raw emotions and the situations my young life was facing. My broken body quietly reminded me that I had a lot to learn and needed my parents and my family. I spent a month in Utah recovering and humbly dropped my teenage attitude like a hot coal.

Despite that accident, I love skiing. I love being outdoors, adrenaline-filled talks on the chairlifts, and gliding down the snow with the wind blowing on my face. Being on a mountain is where I breathe deeply and connect with my soul. It’s where I remember and feel grateful for my health and my life. It fills my cup.

When my sons were young, I made it my mission to get them on the mountain and share in the beauty of the outdoors.  Season after season, I’d pack them up and drive to Big Bear. They picked it up fast and enjoyed it immensely. I never cared about lugging everything we might need like a Sherpa on Everest, I liked being prepared.

This season, the boys pressed me to learn snowboarding. I finally obliged.  Their whole generation was snowboarding (and looking quite cool) so they wanted in. I signed them up for a lesson and being skateboarders and surfers, they picked it up quickly.

For my older son’s birthday, he wanted to try out his new snowboarding skills so we switched our normal mountain, Snow Summit for Bear Mountain and off we went, at 5 am so we could be the first on the runs. We got there in record time, got on our gear, rented our equipment and said our goodbyes. They’re 13 and 15 so snowboarding with mom isn’t really cool anymore, especially when all she wants to do is say, “Try not to inhale,” as the snowboarders on the lift chair ahead of them are smoking weed. 

Off the boys went with their buddy for a birthday of snowboarding and off I went as a “single”, ready to hit the slopes alone. As I rode the chairlift, I looked over the rail and saw the three of them laughing and having a ball as they glided down the run. Then I sat back and sighed heavily. I love skiing, but I love it even more when I’m sharing it with someone. I quietly longed for the times I had a son on each side of me, screaming “Watch me!” as we skied our runs. This was the first time I would ski solo all day.

How weird!?! But cool? I wasn’t sure.

I got to the bottom of the run and looked around. The boys were nowhere in sight. They probably had a contact high and were attempting the jumps already. Dear God!

I got in the lift line and the line began to move quickly, quicker than any line I have ever been in. Then I felt the back of my right ski being tugged forward as it kept twisting over my left ski and contorting both knees inward awkwardly until I felt a “Pop! Pop! Pop!” Down I crumbled, as the ligaments that held my knee together properly snapped and strained.

The snowboarder didn’t hear me scream, “Stop, stop, stop!” as he dragged my right ski into an inverted pie shape. “Can someone please help me?” I asked as everyone backed away. No one really knew what to do. I’m sure it didn’t help that I was making an ugly cry face under my goggles. And the snowboarder, well, he was too stoned to realize what happened. “Can I go?” he asked. “Sure,” I said. After all, what could he do, he was just a kid.

I got taken off the mountain once again by ski patrol. This time, I knew what lay ahead. Instability, weakness, vulnerability, and growth. I knew my injuries were bad. I stayed in the ski patrol room all day icing my knees. I didn’t tell anyone what happened.  For those six hours of my son’s 15th birthday, I just wanted it to be about him.

I tried not to cry when I called my husband later that afternoon. I knew that I would most likely never ski again. I knew it was time to pack it in.

Turns out, within my left knee, I tore my ACL and my MCL and fractured the bone heads of my tibia and fibula; my right knee, a strained MCL.

What the hell? I didn’t even get a good story to tell.

I think God was trying to tell me something…again.  Perhaps, to slow down, rethink the direction I am going in life, to be grateful, spend time with family, work hard, have patience, listen, breathe, start over, check in with Him, look around, believe, remember, think, see…I don’t know for certain, but I think it is a combination of all of them.  

Accidents sure do have a way of changing your perspective.