Head to the Ski Slopes? No Thanks.

With all the snowfall these past few weeks, people are talking fondly about heading to the ski slopes. But me? I just shudder with dread.

You see, my last experience on the slopes was memorable, unpleasant, but memorable.

It was Christmas Eve, overlooking beautiful Lake Tahoe, my first trip down the mountain. I felt invincible, with fresh snow under my skis and youth in my bones. To be clear, I wasn’t even attempting a black diamond run. I was on whatever slope comes below “certain death.”

This was some years ago… like sixty years ago. Back then, I was in my twenties, and the differences between 23 and 83 aside from the years are notable: At 23, you fall and laugh.

At 83, you fall and start picking out coffin colors.

At 23, the body feels like an accomplice, eager, forgiving, ready for the next dare.

At 83, it behaves more like a cautious medical consultant, requiring negotiation before every major decision. Confidence still speaks fluently, but the knees have begun arguing alternatives.

I began blazing down the mountain, full of confidence, when suddenly I was down, flat on my back, one leg twisted at an angle no leg should ever explore. People whizzed by my inert body like I was part of the scenery.

My groans (possibly screams) must have caught someone’s attention because before long, I was being carried down the mountain in a slingtype contraption.

My family members take accidents casually, so mymotherdidn’trushmetothehospital.Ofcourse, it could have been because the one rental car was being used by other clan members unaware of my need for something numbing as they took advantage of the fresh snow and those deathtrap slopes. A reminder: those were the no-cell-phone days, so we couldn’t even call an ambulance.

I, on the other hand, do not take pain casually, especially my own. The only medication available was a bottle of Jack Daniels and a large glass.

By the time the crew returned, it was dark, the nearest hospital was across the mountain, we were starved, and I was well-oiled. Medical help could have been in another universe, as far as I could tell. Enough JD and one’s sense of time, place, and personal identity quietly exits the building.

The doctors confirmed I had a broken leg, and I spent Christmas Eve night and Christmas Day in the hospital feeling very sorry for myself.

Itneveroccurredtomethenthatthebodykeeps records. I assumed pain was temporary, something you walked off, laughed about, and folded into future stories. Age teaches otherwise. It keeps score quietly, without consulting you. Several days later I flew home balancing on crutches. It was cold and icy when I arrived, and since crutch-walking was not a talent I had mastered, I slipped, upended, and fell. Another trip to the hospital. This time: a broken arm. Certain functions were now difficult such as washing my hair, keeping one cast encased leg and one cast encased arm out of the water-filled bathtub, along with any other activity involving water and coordination. I took the easiest obstacle to overcome and headed to the beauty shop.

The woman scrubbing my head must have had a bad night, because in her enthusiasm for cleanliness, she stuck a finger in my eye.

By this time, the doctors and I were becoming very good friends. They bandaged my eye, suggested I might lose sight in it, and sent me reeling in a wheelchair: an immobilized leg, an immobilized arm, and a bandage over one eye.

I looked like an accident victim. But wait, I was an accident victim.

Injuries, I learned, do not travel alone. In youth they arrive as solo visitors. Later in life they come in clusters — one inviting the next, until you find yourself hosting a full convention of specialists.

Somewhere around injury number three, it occurred to me: snow covered mountain slopes aren’t ski runs, they’re orthopedic warnings.

Youth reads danger as invitation. Age reads it as fine print. In between those translations, wisdom settles in, not dramatically, but with the quiet authority of experience.

People stared at me with sympathy, curiosity and fear when I came rolling toward them wrapped in gauze. They quickly moved out of my way, as if whatever happened to me might be contagious.

In my early twenties, I wanted to be noticed, preferably in four-inch heels, not orthopedic accessories.

As I said earlier, that was my last attempt at tackling a mountain on skis. I don’t dare risk bodily harm in the name of having fun anymore. At this age, a ski trip isn’t a vacation, it’s a medical insurance plan.

I used to think bravery meant racing downhill without hesitation. Now I think it might mean knowing when to sit one out. There is a quiet courage in choosing warmth over spectacle, steadiness over speed.

But hey, you daredevils, fly down those snowy slopes with no regard for your body. I’ll be waiting safely by the fire, with a bottle of Jack Daniels, my eyes full of sympathy as the ambulance hauls you over the mountain for your appointment with the surgeon.

Little 

Voice