Asa Space

A story about a severe mountain sports injury and an outpouring of support from my community in the aftermath.

BANG! The sharp sound of mechanical failure strikes the mountain air and reverberates through my consciousness. Ohhhh….shit.

Just minutes ago, I’m taking my first lift-access turns of the season. Just minutes ago I’m bailing on my friends to catch the early morning powder before it gets blown out. Just minutes ago, I’m reminding myself to keep things chill. Now, I cut through the powder as I carve down North Bowl. A sharp rock halts my left ski. I’m pushing hard through the turn and momentum carries me forward but my ski does not move. My leg shatters underneath me.

I’m catching myself on my right ski. Already, adrenaline surges though my veins. I feel deja-vu, like I had some premonition of this happening. Maybe I did, or maybe it’s the cocktail of hormones that immediately dominate my psyche, skewing my perception of reality. I sit down against the upslope and triage my situation. Deep down, I know I’m hurt–and badly–but I can’t accept it yet. I’m still questioning if it’s me that’s damaged or my gear. I reach down and place my hand on my left shin and I feel the sharp edge of bone pressing against my palm. There’s no question now. I breathe in deeply and out slowly.

I nearby skier asks if I’m OK. “No,” I calmly reply, “I broke the f**k out of my leg.” He heads to the bottom for help, but not before mentioning something about North Bowl. That’s great because I didn’t actually know the name of the run I was on. I appreciate the heck out of this guy getting me help but I have cell service so I call ski patrol dispatch on my phone to expedite things. As I wait, my mind shifts towards existential thoughts: I think about my guitar at home; I’m not certain I’ll be able to fully recover from this one, and I think that I can find joy in more sedentary hobbies if it comes to that. I wave my arms at people up on a catwalk above me and shout, “I could use some help down here.” They’re probably confused why I’m yelling and they don’t come, but it’s okay because I know ski patrol is coming. And, happily, they’re here in just a few minutes.

I think it’s a patroller named John that gets to me first. We wait for the toboggan and helpful bystanders stamp out a platform to park it on. I chat with everyone and continue to regulate my breath. “How long have you practiced Zen meditation?” John asks me. He catches me off guard and all I can manage is a quick, wry grin. I might be in shock but I’m working hard to manage my situation with intention and a positive attitude, his kind words recognizing my efforts do so much for me. As we take off my ski together, my boot and the foot inside it wiggle freely but my upper leg does not move. There’s no tensile connection between my upper and lower leg: it’s jello.

I raise my thigh up by grabbing a handful of ski bib and pulling up while the patrollers gently guide my knee and lower leg into a temporary splint before they help me scoot into the toboggan. They bundle me up and we head down. An ambulance is already on the way. Part of me really hopes that we’re going to fly down the mountain; I guess I haven’t let go of my pow day dream just yet.

At the base area, they give me this hot air blower that I get to shove down my sweater, and it feels amazing. I ask for hot tea, wouldn’t that be nice? But I’m not allowed to eat or drink. We’re going to get some pain killers going before trying to take my boot off. In the mean time, they heat my boot with a blow dryer, softening the plastic to make it slide off easily. A patroller named Jason seems to be in charge, and he promises to look into a season pass refund since it’s only opening weekend. My barriers are down, and the partollers’ skill in handling my situation with well practiced professionalism but also compassion is forming a lasting impression.

An IV drip of fentanyl courses through my veins, its effect is like I’ve been walking through a shrouded forest and I suddenly step into a clearing, sun striking my face. The patrollers carefully pull my boot off and I utter a growl more to brace myself then out of pain. “Keep going,” I urge them on. I leave in the ambulance and the trip is not too far.

In the ER, A spectrum of healthcare professionals circulates by my gurney. I decide I’d rather talk them through how I want them to move my body and that’s making things a lot better. The X-ray techs snap pictures of my leg. I say that I don’t want to see the images, but I’m lying to myself and I sneak a peak. I chuckle at the sight of my broken tibia and fibula (although I didn’t spot the lower tibial break at that time). The X-rays match my experience: I got totally rocked. Between things, I make necessary phone calls and even get a little bit of work done. Dr. Compton comes in and introduces herself. I’m going to surgery at 4 pm–that’s just a couple hours away. I want my friends Cam and Paige to stop by and say hi. I want their positive vibes before I submit myself to the surgeon’s blade, drill, and hammer.

Cam and Paige make it in time, then I get prepped. The catheter insertion might just be my least favorite part of the day. The anesthesiologist stops by and she’s perfect for the job: a bright and reassuring soul. Then, a nurse comes to take me to the operation, “you know why I’m here,” she says with dry humor. “Why is that so funny,” I wonder, “is it the drugs?” I barely remember helping to move myself onto the operating table and then…I’m regaining consciousness: four hours have passed and the operation is done. A nurse is calling my Dad. It was a nasty break, but the surgeons are pleased with their work. It turns out that Dr. Gelbke, who specializes in complicated breaks, came down from Big Sky to work together with Dr. Compton.

I kid around with everyone that’s there as I return to my senses, I’m in a good mood about the positive assessment and the substantial titanium hardware they’ve installed. I’m a cyborg now. Gratitude washes over me in appreciation for these people that dropped everything on their Sunday to rebuild my body. I’m seeing them in a new light: I’d never thought too much about what motivates high-paid healthcare workers but they clearly care about a lot more than money. In this moment, they’re altering the course of my life by keeping me from becoming disabled, and they’re doing it when most people around here are relaxing at home with their families.

Days later, I return to my condo with the help of my friends and coworkers. I keep thinking about that saying: “you learn who your true friends are by who’s still there when you’re down.” I discover that I have better friends than I ever could have hoped, and their kindness and contributions deserve a much, much longer narrative than I’m giving here.

This is not a blithe take on injury. My leg is severely broken. My body saps my energy to heal itself and everyday tasks challenge my willpower. I wake up at night in pain, often drenched in sweat. Recovery will be long and difficult at best. But that’s just what I’ve got on my hands now and, on the bright side, I’ve come to perceive a heartwarming benevolence in the people forming my community that I hope to never forget.