Respect Life
That’s what it says on the Colorado license plate.
After three days of precipitation, we awoke to a bright blue sky and a temperature predicted to be in the fifties. On a day like today, you put a move on it, you get in gear, you want to get out there. And somewhere in the hubbub, Felice left her gloves in the condo. But not wanting to hold up Steve or myself, she purchased a new pair. The old ones had plenty of miles on them, she was due.
But I was concerned they were not the right size.
Felice is an impulse buyer. I’m so busy researching, making sure I get the right thing, that oftentimes I buy nothing at all. What’s worse? I’d say my behavior. Life is about making mistakes. If you always have to get it right, you don’t accomplish much, you’re stuck.
But I need to make sure my girlfriend gets the exact right thing. I want her to be happy, I don’t want her to be disappointed. I told her we could make a run and she could go back into the store and try on a larger size, she could even return the gloves and go back to the condo for her old pair. We’d just make a run on the Vista Bahn, Pepi’s Face was groomed, it looked so good.
But Felice doesn’t like to hold anybody back. She insisted we ride up.
But when we got to Mid-Vail, now concerned she’d bought the wrong size, she went into the shop, also owned by Vail Resorts, but ultimately without exchange privileges. Felice said not to worry about it, we should just ski, the Back Bowls were softening up, we didn’t want to miss them, she wanted me to be happy.
But I wanted Felice to be happy.
We exchanged the gloves, but that’s not the end of the story.
Rather than dropping down the backside, we turned our skis back from whence we came. We blitzed down Ramshorn, which was surprisingly good. And after negotiating the skier control fences, we entered the long catwalk to Chair 2, Avanti, the last signpost on our way to the bottom.
I wanted to make sure Felice got the right size gloves, but I’d be lying if I told you I was willing to burn any excess time. So when I saw Felice approaching at the end of the half-mile path, I started to push off. But something was wrong. In retrospect, I don’t know if Steve saw something or I heard Felice yell, but after stopping I noticed a stricken countenance upon Felice’s face when she finally came into range. She was yelling for me to stop, when she arrived she couldn’t stop crying. What had happened?
To have an incident in this stretch of trail would be like slipping in the school hallway. It happens, but the path is negotiated every day, it’s almost flat. But ridden with amateurs.
Between sobs, the story came out.
A beginner fell. And so frustrated, he threw his ski in anger. And this metal projectile hit Felice with force.
This didn’t compute. What kind of asshole would throw his ski in a fit of anger amongst a slew of people?
A narcissist, Steve said, a person who only cared about himself. Aren’t there too many of those in our society today? Isn’t it all about mine for me, from Wall Street to the playing field? If you can bend a rule, why not? If someone gets screwed, they’re faceless, so it doesn’t really matter.
Faceless. I wanted to accost this spear-throwing individual. I wanted to scream at him at the top of my lungs. I wanted to make him feel bad, to get it through his thick skull that he’d done something wrong.
But it would be like finding the guy who bumped into you in Times Square. The moment had passed, that individual would never be seen again.
So we exchanged the gloves at the bottom of the hill. Felice did need a larger size. I felt good, I’d done the right thing. But Felice was complaining of a pain in her knee.
And two chairlifts later, when we finally got to the backside, it was baked, it was too late, the slush was too heavy. Felice tore her ACL in the slush, in the trees, so she’s trepidatious. Oh, she’s got the ability, the talent to ski ANY condition. But once bitten, twice shy.
But Blue Sky Basin was beckoning. With its forests that Felice wants no part of anymore. How about if we split up for a while?
I was fearful Felice would quit. I called a friend to hook up with her in the interim. But I also wanted to ski, on this last day of Vail’s season.
We split apart.
I called Felice. She said her run down was great, she did it non-stop. But her knee was hurting her on the lift.
Vickie called about partying at Belle’s Camp at the farthest reach of the ski area. We made a run. Felice called. She’d gone to the bottom and gone in. Upon taking off her ski pants, she found blood.
You never know the level of someone else’s pain. There are those who scream and go for MRI’s, but there’s no mark and ultimately nothing found. Then there are those who refuse to go to the doctor, believing it’s better to be tough. Like those who are depressed who’d rather commit suicide than see a psychiatrist.
I told Felice to go to the clinic. I insisted upon it.
I said we’d return.
The only problem was we were so far away, that it would take us forty five minutes to arrive, and she was only two minutes from the clinic. It made no sense for her to wait for us. She said it made no sense for us to return. It was probably nothing. She’d know soon. We should continue to ski.
But I couldn’t. I had that sinking feeling. Of a day gone wrong through no fault of our own. I was now in shock. Could the injury be even more severe?
We had to ski down to ride up to ski down to ride up to ski down again to get back to where we started. But on the ski down, I lost Steve. I thought he made a wrong turn. But his binding pre-released and he took the worst fall of his life, he’s now hobbling, with a sprained knee and ankle.
Thank god for cell phones. Felice and I were in constant contact. She did not have to wait long to see a doctor. Who injected her with a local anesthetic in preparation of stitching her up.
Yes, Felice needed five stitches. The doctor debated x-raying her hand, but ultimately decided it was just bruised and gave her an ice pack to put upon it to reduce the swelling.
And by time the procedure was done, we were there to pick her up. She was cheerful. I was speechless.
Why did this happen to her? She’d done nothing wrong! Her twin sister would pooh-pooh her, for partaking in such a dangerous sport. No one would understand. It’s a war between two worlds, the one inhabited by me, the heathen, and everybody who knew her before.
So I have guilt.
I’d say why didn’t it happen to me, but I’ll be honest, I cope with this shit worse than Felice. Maybe because I don’t come from a touchy-feely family, where attention is lavished upon you to make you feel whole.
There are no answers. There never are, not when there are accidents.
The medical fee will exceed the price of the gloves, probably by a number of times. If only she hadn’t returned them, this never would have happened. That’s what Felice thought.
Just like you replay every move, every choice you made before a car accident.
I’m not looking for your sympathy. I’m certainly not looking to be put down. It wasn’t Felice’s fault, it wasn’t mine. As for the decision whether to return from Blue Sky Basin, we try to make choices. Wondering whether to soldier on or stop and evaluate. Your life can change in an instant. But usually, you don’t know when that instant happens. It’s only in the aftermath. And as you get older, there are more of these incidents, and it’s harder to soldier on.
On an absolute scale, this injury is a blip on the radar screen. One that won’t be forgotten, but won’t be life-changing. On one hand, you could say we were lucky. Just like I was four days ago when that skier blasting along at forty miles an hour narrowly missed me on Northstar. The movie can end in an instant. But if you focus on that, and avoid all risk, the movie is already over.
So I’m at loose ends. I don’t understand the mentality of these people. The same drunks who bump into you at the gig, not wanting their fun spoiled. Where’s the respect?
On the license plate.
But slogans don’t mean shit. It’s who you are on the inside that counts. It’s how you react in a crisis, whether you can be depended upon.
I know I can depend on Felice. I want her to know that she can depend on me. That I’m not taking her on adventures willy-nilly, that I am considerate. But the nature of living is being at risk. Or as Bob Dylan so famously sang, "He not busy being born is busy dying."
I just hope the psychological trauma is not too severe. That Felice can shrug off this anomalous incident. But I’m not sure I could.
But I do know that I always get back on the hill. Because you have to. Because that’s where the inspiration arises, that’s where the fun comes. Unfortunately sometimes at a cost, but we really wouldn’t want it any other way. The unknown makes us feel alive. It’s that thrill of exhilaration as you come over the rise and see an untracked field of powder. But you can lose your balance, catch an edge and go down injured in that pristine snowfield. That’s the rub. Today Felice was rubbed.
But deep inside I know she’ll recover. Because she’s got a will. To live life to the fullest.
