PART ONE – Snowboarding
Three days after the World Health Organization announced the coronavirus pandemic, Saturday morning dawned with a layer of fresh powder on the mountain. Justin and I were on the third chair up the lift.
The run was steep and full of moguls. Along the sides, giant mounds of fresh snow had collected against the evergreen trees. Music pounded in my helmet as I jumped into the deep snow. From one snowdrift to the next, I let the mountain take me downwards. Gradually, the steepness grinded away, and a sense of peace and grace covered the mountain.
Justin, on the other hand, was preoccupied with what I would call a cliff that he wanted to jump off, but it had not happened, this time. He raced back to the lift as I drifted down the mountain.
Soon, the other ski runs were merging onto the main runway to the lift. I was on the far edge, eking out a thin line of fresh powder. By now, the steepness had flattened out and I realized that I was slowing down. I would need more speed to stay on top of the snow, so I thought, I should veer toward the groomed part of the run, but my body did not have time to respond.
One moment, I was gliding down the mountain and the next, I had landed full force on my left wrist. There was not a lot of pain. If anything, there was a tingling sensation, but I also felt like I might faint or throw up, or both, so I stayed on the ground as boarders and skiers whooshed past me in a nightmarish fun show. Eventually, I flipped off my brain, stood up, and slowly slithered downward, to the warming hut. A short, but too long of a distance away, Justin was at the lift, so I gave him the “go for another run” signal and he took off.
I was wobbly, but I managed to get unbuckled from my board and went inside the warming hut for a drink of water. After a few bites of my coconut almond bar, I was feeling better, so I sat outside breathing in the cold winter air.
I was starting to think again when a man sat on the bench next to me. He was a talker, and I did my best to act like everything was normal. The way I figured, I had two options. One, call ski patrol. Or two, get back on the lift and make my way down the front side. I went with option two.
I told the nice man next to me to have a good day, got another drink at the fountain, and walked over to the lift. The seconds ticked slowly by before I saw Justin speeding toward me. He kindly buckled me onto my snowboard, and soon, we were back on the lift.
About midway down the front side, feeling began to return to my wrist. It started as fear. Fear of falling. As soon as the idea entered my head, I could think of nothing else. I imagined the pain of falling again. I imagined all the different ways I could fall. I imagined falling and not being able to stand back up.
My breathing was erratic. I was trembling, and suddenly there were people everywhere. The pain in my wrist seeped up my arm and crash landed in the pit of my stomach. It seemed this run would never end, but at last, the mountain gave way to the valley.
As soon as we entered the Emergency Care Clinic, a member of ski patrol asked from another room, “Are you sick or hurt?”
I said hurt and Ski Patrol seemed pleased. We were invited in further. I took off my helmet and as the music faded away the pain in my wrist hit with full force. With help, I took off my coat and second layer to expose my arm. My wrist was red and swollen. Ski Patrol said he was 99% sure it was broken, and they had an x-ray machine right there to know for sure.
“Did I have insurance?”
Yes, but not the kind of insurance that was accepted at an Emergency Care Clinic at the base of a ski mountain. We would have to make the 45-minute drive to the Urgent Care Clinic in Taos. Before my insurance card was returned to me, Ski Patrol had disappeared down the hall.
The walk home was longer than usual, but we made it. I warily got out of my snowboard clothes as Justin put together a few supplies: iPad, dog food, and a plastic bag with ice.
Justin and I live in rural America. (Except during certain times of the year when thousands of tourists arrive). The speed limit in our village is 25 miles per hour and there is one blinking light that connects us to Highway 64. It is a twisted gnarly old road, and Cleo the dog did not understand why she could not sit in her usual spot on my lap. She performed her best dance on the center console, but I was too focused on the pain, so she reluctantly laid as if she were a dog, with the other dog in the backseat. We twisted and turned our way down the mountain as I gave thanks for the frozen bag of ice.
Of course, I was worried about the Coronavirus, but the front door at the Urgent Care Clinic was opened, letting in the fresh air. It appeared to be business as usual in the parking lot as a fat elderly lady with a walker was being helped into her car. Also, on the sidewalk near the front door, there was a sandwich board sign that read: IF YOU HAVE A COUGH OR A FEVER DO NOT ENTER. CALL THIS NUMBER…
The X-ray machine was having a busy day. As I was guided into an exam room, another snowboarder who had also made the crumpled journey through the canyon, with a broken collar bone, was being X-rayed.
The doctor who saw me was wearing a big sturdy mask, but perhaps it did not fit proper, because she was constantly adjusting it. When she returned, the mask was gone, and it was a relief to see her face. The nurse injected ibuprofen into my vein and wrapped my wrist with an ice pack made of thin flat squares that completely wrapped around the contours of my wrist. It was instant relief as my body filled with gratitude for this nurse.
Soon the pain was a fading memory, and my heartrate was slowly returning to normal when the X-ray tech arrived. She promptly removed the ice pack and proceeded with a series of outrageously painful X-rays. My distal radius was fractured, but not so bad that I would need to go to the hospital.
The hip X-ray of the woman behind me did not reveal a broken bone, but advanced arthritis. No, it is not an easy world which is why kindness matters. The kindness of a nurse. The kindness of a friend. The kindness of a dog who curled up in bed with me, even though I thrashed about in an oxycodone haze. When the oxy ran out, I thrashed about some more, reading the news until I was a quivering mess. Schools closing. Ski mountains closing. A lack of protective gear. A lack of ventilators, hospital beds, care givers. It was a desperate, terrifying time and the wealthy people in power were making a royal mess of everything. Again.