Christmas Surprise

Unexpected Christmas surprises are such a treat…sometimes.

My artist neighbor presented me with a hand drawn Christmas Card, hoping to boost my enthusiasm for the upcoming holiday trip to the winter wonderland of Lake Tahoe.

My doubts about this week of skiing had not made it to my ‘must do’ list of Christmas wishes, and I couldn’t explain my hesitancy to participate in this partial family Christmas celebration.

I was 24 years old, working in Dallas, and had quit smoking a week prior to our planned trip. Being in close quarters with my mother, my sister and her husband, and attempting to learn to ski were going to put stress on my already jittery nerves. At the time, being unnerved required the immediate inhalation of nicotine, and selfcontrol isn’t one of my long suits.

His lovely card was titled: “What’s the worst thing that can happen?” and beneath that heading was a drawing of me on a pair of skis heading downhill. The next clever illustration was me hitting a tree. His final message was ‘Break a Leg’.

He accompanied his handiwork with a beautiful pair of snow boots, a smile, and a kiss on the cheek, assuring me it would be a fun week.

The weather on the mountain of our rented condo was beautiful, a perfect day for sitting idly in front of the fireplace reading a book, napping, and being alone. Skiing had not wormed its way into my mind. Afterall, it was Christmas Eve and I was content to be totally, completely and selflessly lazy the entire day.

But Mother dearest was insistent I join my sister and brother-in-law on the slopes above the lake. While I protested, Mother poured on the guilt, and I gave in, bundlied up with my non-skiing attire, and grudgingly headed out to be intimidated by two skinny long pieces of word, plywood, plastic or whatever material makes snow skis work. By 11 a.m. the instructor felt satisfied I could master the beginner’s mini-slope by myself, and I bravely thought this child teacher knew of what he spoke..

I headed downhill, realizing I needed snowshoes on, not skis, when one ski crossed the other and I rolled down the beginner’s mountain ungracefully. Poles, skis, and body tangled together in a heap just below the outdoor patio of the lodge where conversations halted among the smart skiers drinking hot rum drinks instead of taking to the hills.

As I attempted to hide my face and get up, one leg wouldn’t function properly, and when the ski patrol folks mulling around me agreed I was injured, I was helped to our rented car. Without keys and the inability to drive, crying seemed to be an appropriate response to this physical, psychological, and humbling disaster.

After an hour nursing my bruised soul, sitting in the backseat of a nonrunning vehicle, a kind man noticed my despair and offered to drive me the couple of blocks to our condo.

I hobbled into our temporary home, hanging on the good Samaritan holding me us, and gritting my teeth to keep from saying unkind and accusatory statements to my mom, knowing she was not really to blame for my pain. But, deep inside, someone had to be blamed, and I didn’t want it to be my fault.

Several hours passed, my sister and her spouse were still enjoying gliding down the fresh snow, and mother was giving me shots of bourbon since we had no aspirin in the cupboards to alleviate my pain.

When at last the skiers returned in the rented car, someone decided I needed to go to the hospital. I’m not certain if it was my inebriated state or my blubbering sobs that finally triggered this decision, but we headed to the nearest health help which was an hour’s drive away.

The hospital waiting room was filled with children crying, adults moaning, teenagers arguing, and my pain tonic wearing off. By 10 p.m. the doctor was viewing my x-rays, announcing I had a broken bone in my knee…a common break for skiers, especially beginners, and I would need to spend a night or two in the facility. He pointed out I had waited so long before seeking medical attention a cast could not be wrapped around my leg from high thigh to toes until the knee was drained of liquid. The damaged area was now swollen to the size of an overripe watermelon ready to burst.

I shared the hospital room with another beginning would-be skier nursing the same malady, and we spent several hours moaning, groaning, begging for more pain killers, and feeling very sorry for ourselves. At midnight a jolly nurse came in to officially announce us it was Christmas Day, and presented each of us with a present handmade by the hospital volunteers.

This timely gift was a knitted red and green toe protector we could put on around our casts since our toes would be exposed to the winter cold. I was slow in giving a sincere thankful response for this thoughtful offering of kindness.

As I attempted to keep a bag of ice securely attached to my injury throughout a sleepless night, I realized who I could blame for this debacle. My artist, Christmas card making, neighbor. Afterall, he told me to break a leg.

Yes, Christmas surprises offer unexpected treats. Some I didn’t see coming.