Life

From letter to DH:

On Wednesday the 14th, we were training on a run called Powderhorn, for GS.  Before running a course, you “slip” it.  Everyone goes down very slowly, on edge, and scrapes all the extra soft snow off the course.  You want ice.  It’s fast, and your edges will hold.  It’s safe.

When our coaches told me to run the course, it was half slipped.  Still soft.  Dangerous.  The first few gates were no problem—flat.  On the steep face though, with more speed, the softness became a problem.  For one particular turn, I set my edges in, and was finishing the turn, but slipping farther and farther out.  Too far out, and I hit all the snow that had been slipped off the course.  Tumble tumble.  Tumble tumble.  Race bindings are cranked.  They are set so your ski doesn’t come off.  The skis are nearly two meters long.  So I tumbled down the hill with sticks, taller than I am, attached to my legs.

Somewhere in the tumbling, both the bones in my lower leg broke.  It’s a weird pain.  Hot.  Firery.  It’s like a screaming fiery bird.  Tingly.  A tingly, prickly, screaming fiery bird.  My leg was facing the wrong way below the knee, when I looked down.  I almost cried.  I decided to scream instead, right after I slipped my leg around, and gagged a little.

Teammates were there within 30 seconds.  Ski patrol in 2 minutes.  Mike and Ashley.  “I know you from somewhere,” said Ashley, and I smiled, having no idea why her face was familiar.  “Wait.  Halloween. You were wall-e.  I was a washing machine.  We were wearing huge cardboard boxes in a packed bar,” she said.  “Ooooooh, your costume was full of jello shots!” I smiled.  The random ski patroller and I had a back story.  And then, Mike informed me that the splint was coming on, and that it was going to hurt like hell.  “We’ll have something a hell of a lot better than jello shots for you in the patrol lodge,”  he said.

In the toboggan ride down, I started to feel better.  Going to live.  No doubt.  Going to suck, but alive is all I need.  It was bumpy and hurt.  I felt hopeful.  It made me start crying.  Why is everyone so GOOD?  Why do people help each other?  Why so kind?  So calm?  They care?  I was overwhelmed.  I decided to sing.  I don’t know what I sang, on my back, in a sled, strapped in behind the patroller who was guiding me.  It probably sounded awful, but to me, singing—so I wouldn’t cry.

The worst part was 9:25 a.m.  We got to the lodge, they put me on a medical table, and cut the clothes off my body.  But before administering any drugs, they had to check things out, which required getting the boot off.  Conscious the whole time, but not by choice.  “Pardon my French, guys, but that fucking hurt like fucking hell.  Fuck.  I mean. . .Fuck!”

“Oh, it’s ok.  We all speak French.  You’re doing great.”

I laughed.  I think I said thank you about 50 times.

The people in the ambulance were equally nice.  And the hospital staff.  And the surgeon.  And my parents.  And my coaches and the other people who visited me from the team.

This is when I started realizing how much I was learning:
1.  If breaking your leg sucks this much, war is absolutely not acceptable.  How can nations hurt so many people?  It’s miserable.
2.  Helping people is the point of it all.  Make people feel good.  Life is not that easy, but it’s so much easier with other people.  Maybe they visit when you’re weak.  Maybe they give you a ride home, voluntarily.  Maybe they smile at you if you look sad.  Maybe they twirl your hair in the summertime while Sigur Ros dances in your ears.

Life is a festival.  It is learning.  It is non-trivial.  It is so much, and deserves so much respect and so many thanks.  I no longer have the words to describe what I have learned, other than that I’ll be treating chances to help  people much more as opportunities.  I love this life.  I hope other people do too.

From letter to ambulance management:

This letter is to express my gratitude for the service and care I received from _____ on January 14, 2009.  I broke my tibia and fibula while skiing at Eldora, and _____ was the paramedic who accompanied me during my ride down to Boulder Community Hospital.

I think there are two things that can get in the way of optimism after an injury: pain and fear.  Now, I’ll thank biochemists somewhere for inventing valium and morphine, to take care of spasms and pain.  But talking with _____ in the ski patrol lodge and the back of the ambulance made a huge difference in making me feel less scared, and therefore more positive.  We talked most of the way down, during which time he answered all my questions, gave me a rough idea of what would happen once we got to BCH, and even laughed at my (poorly delivered—thanks, narcotics) jokes.  I began to feel better even before I got to the hospital.

I am not sure what type of performance is standard for paramedics, but the quality of care I received, and the genuine way in which it was delivered, both far exceeded my expectations.  In the past three weeks, I have learned a lot about how people treat each other, what it means to graciously give and receive help, and kindness.  In no small part, _____ helped me in this learning process, and made me feel at ease during a time when I was pretty terrified.

For these things, I am very thankful.  It is my hope that this letter may assist _____ in some way, perhaps when it comes time for performance reviews.  In my opinion, his was above and beyond.  Thank you.