Building Resilience
Diary of a Broken Boarder
True Events from Les Deux Alpes, 1999
Prologue
In 1999 I broke my back in a snowboarding accident. I was fortunate, and six months later enjoyed a full recovery. For many years this small chapter was a defining identity story for me. I am still torn between letting go of it, releasing it back to the past, and keeping it close to remind me of what I learned and the powerful perspective shift it offered me.
I only recently discovered the diary I wrote at that time. This is the story of the scariest week of my life. At least until the next story replaces it — for sure life will terrify me many more times yet. Of this I am certain.
And drawing from the insights and lessons this experience offered up I’ll write more about how and where I’ve applied those gifts. But for now, let’s start with the story.
It’s 1999, the threshold of a new millennium.
Day #1. Sunday, February 28
A superb first day of boarding; excellent conditions and beautiful scenery. The highest point of the glacier is 3,500 meters above sea level. From here we looked down into the sea of clouds obscuring the valley below. On the horizon sits the peak of Mont Blanc. I’m happy in the mountains.
Day #2. Monday, March 1
The ill-fated day. Amanda, Rich, Simon and I are boarding off-piste with our guide. A combination of foolishness and very bad luck. We sat above the lip of a large flat basin we were to traverse. The guide showed us how to drop in and ride the floor of the bowl to the back wall, emphasising the need to keep up momentum.
One by one we hit the lip and dropped in. I kept in mind the speed tip to make it to the far side and set off enthusiastically.
Too fast for the terrain, which I couldn’t see, I got out of position, bottled it, and began turning away from the lip, but too late. I hit the lip fast and caught too much air. I landed on my toe edge and compressed, hard. All forward movement stopped in an instant. My spine absorbed the shock.
Laid in the snow I felt a tightness in my lower back and intuitively knew something was quite wrong. Strangely, it seems, there was no panic; rather a serious focus on the moment. The others were around me now. I knew my boarding was over, and I was heading to the clinic.
We needed the keys to the van. They were at the mid-station where we would meet the others for lunch. The guide and Amanda are my escorts off the hill.
It was a long, long walk to the lifts. I could walk, awkwardly, but I could walk. (It seemed a call for help was not necessary — odd in retrospect).
The shortest route to the lift is down a steep snow bank. Carefully I slide down on my arse. It becomes impossible to control my speed down the increasingly steep slope. Amanda slides down before me, kicking foot-holds so I can lower myself down in her steps with a degree of control.
Suddenly I need to pee. The calm seriousness I have experienced so far vanishes, and now my mind races irrationally.
“What if my bladder is damaged?”
Very stupid, but very real, very scary thoughts.
Two painfully awkward chair lifts later (only one operator stopped the lift to make it easier for me) and we’re back up to the mid-station. Nervously I go find the washrooms. I have to pee — but don’t want to.
“What the fuck happens if there’s blood?”
But I have to pee — and it’s fine. Thank God. At last I get a desperately needed break in the restaurant waiting for the keys, and then the cable car (luxury!) down to the van. That was a long, long, long journey.
A short drive to the clinic in town. So many x-rays that I lose count. I’m lying down and no one wants me to move. Then those words from the doctor…
“Your back is broken.”
…so matter of fact, so casual, so detached.
It doesn’t register at first — both Amanda and I think it a joke. Seeing this, the doctor quickly restates the diagnosis.
And that’s where my world seemingly changed.
A single instant.
Panic floods my body. The true shock of the situation hits me for the first time. I won’t forget this moment.
“…Fuck, my back is broken. Oh God.”
I don’t recall being aware of anything in my environment right then. Not the physical surroundings, not Amanda’s reaction, nothing. All I recall is a feeling of intense introversion. Questions and emotions rushing round my head. Everything else blocked out. I’ve become completely internalised.
Dr. Bernard attempts to stem the imminent flood of emotion,
“Now listen to me. You are not going home in a wheelchair, and you will still make beautiful love”.
…Okay doc, you’ve got my attention
“These are the two most important things in life — yes?”
…No argument from me there.
Now he leaves me in the x-ray room, attending to arrangements. Amanda has left to tell our guide the facts.
Waiting to talk to someone, trying to get some information. I still know nothing of the reality of my injury. Lots of nurses and attendants but no one who can tell me what is going on.
This is just the beginning.
A two-hour ambulance transfer to a hospital in Grenoble awaits. The paramedics are calm and not surprised by my injury. Not anything actually. They see this, and worse, every day I guess.
I’m on a stretcher and immobilised. A neck brace and a head strap. I don’t want to move a single muscle.
The voice in my head begins a relentless monologue of anger and judgemental self-pity.
Why me?
Why not someone else?
What if I’d just gone slower?
What if I’d gone last?
What if I’d just gone slow and got stuck?
What was I trying to prove to myself?
Why me?
This isn’t fair.
That voice drags me into a deep pit. And nothing in the real world situation is changed.
Late evening I see the specialist. Briefly. A CAT scan tomorrow but he can’t tell me when tomorrow.
The clinic is well staffed and comfortable. I share the double room with Nick, a fellow unfortunate. He sports a busted shoulder and broken collarbone; seems that skiing is not so safe either. He’s just out from an operation to wire it all back together. His partner Jo arrives. I’m not in the mood for much chatter, but in the fragments of conversation we seem to have connected. A bond borne through a shared understanding of the helplessness of our situation.
The nurse fixes me up with a morphine drip. I’m not in any great pain but I don’t argue. Lights out at 21:00.
This is the most terrifying week of my life.
Day #3. Tuesday, March 2
05.00. The day of my scan. More morphine.
Breakfast at 07.20.
Nick checks out today. He is moving on. I get wheeled out in the trolley.
…Suddenly so very scared.
Still no-one has told me anything. None of my attendants will let me move.
Another ambulance ride. I’m terrified by the caution with which they move my body.
At the scanner building; waiting in the corridor. The moment is too much for me and I break down in tears again.
…So very, very scared.
All my thoughts concentrating on just one thing. It seems dumb now, just working myself into a hysteria.
…I’m going to walk out of this place.
And then the voice in my head changes. Seemingly unprompted, it’s clear to me.
“If what lays ahead for me is different, that’s fine.”
“Whatever my challenge is now, I will focus completely on only that”
“I will celebrate every bit of progress, no matter how small”
“It’s my challenge. My progress. My celebration.”
“If that’s different now, so be it. That will be my normal”
I pictured the small stuff, putting on socks, walking up stairs. If these things were to be my big challenges going forward then I’ll embrace that.
In the scanner. The slab is drawn into the main drum. The loneliness is back.
…I am going to walk out of this place.
After the scan, I’m left back in the corridor on my stretcher. Another 10 minutes before the doctor will come. So many things going through my mind. Finally the doctor sees me.
“It is a good scan”.
There are no dangerous bone fragments. There are 2 treatments; one surgical and one orthopaedic. Only my surgeon back at the hospital can tell me which I will have.
…still I’m not out of the woods, still don’t know how bad it is.
I’m overwhelmed and my relief pours out in sobs. The doctor checks my understanding in a heavy French accent.
“I said you will be okay, yes?”
“I know, I’m happy”, is all I can get out through the sobs. This feeling is almost impossible to explain or rationalise.
…Suddenly so very tired.
Waiting for the ambulance back to the hospital.
An old, old woman is brought on a stretcher into the corridor beside me. She is the oldest woman I have ever seen. She has many tubes coming from her, connecting to a yellow box sat on top of her legs. Two very large syringes are fixed into the top of the contraption.
We attempt conversation for fifteen minutes or so. We exchange the basic details in broken French and English. She explains with great pride a little about her family; her children, her grandchildren. I have so much time for this woman. I am eager to speak with her and learn about her. I feel less alone in this moment and want it to last. My ambulance arrives.
Back at the hospital and I have a new room mate. He is an old guy. French. I’m too tired and absorbed in my own thoughts to talk to him. Not even a ‘bonjour’. He doesn’t speak with me.
The surgeon is soon in my room and tells me there will be no surgery, but an orthopaedic corset. He remains caring but detached as again I cry in relief.
I am taken downstairs into a basement room. Naked, I stand facing a tiled wall, arms raised. I am wrapped in plaster-of-Paris — a fitting session for my corset. I don’t like standing up. Every part of me shouts that I shouldn’t stand yet. I’m terrified of making the situation worse. In my head all I can think about is my spinal cord.
I’ve already decided not to call my parents. They don’t need to know anything just yet. I don’t want them here. There’s nothing they can do. Apart from worry. And that doesn’t help them. It doesn’t help me. It’s a long trip and a lot of money for nothing.
I do call my boss. That’s important. I won’t be at work and he needs to know. That feels like an easier conversation.
A long day. I am drained.
Day #4. Wednesday, March 3
07.30. Breakfat. Too early to eat.
Today I feel stronger.
…a lull in the storm.
Increasing frustration at not being able to do anything other than lie in bed. I am sore, more from the bed than my back. In my enforced apathy I actually enjoy peeing in a bottle under the covers — it’s a lot easier than moving. Shame about the solids though! Nothing happening there. I don’t want to deal with that yet.
I am the master of absolute stillness. I am patience.
Amanda and Ian visit today, but not till 2pm. It’s a very long wait with nothing to do. I force myself in and out of shallow sleep.
09.00. Time passes interminably slowly. The old French guy has no visitors. He snores — even when not asleep. It nearly drove me mad last night. I think I want to kill him.
10.30. My drip hurts. With every new drip bag (two are hooked up right now) I can feel the needle inside my arm, chilled by the cool solution as it passes into my body. It’s all I can think about.
Tomorrow, I understand, I return to the chalet.
The old guy leaves. I sleep.
Amanda and Ian arrive. I am so pleased to see them. I cry. I’ve felt so alone. Their friendship has never been as important as at this moment. I am grateful, and I feel stronger.
Time accelerates. They leave on the long ride back to the chalet.
Day #5. Thursday, March 4
Today is a new day. I have promised myself not to linger on the accident, or how things may have been. The only thing on my mind now is getting fixed up and figuring how to cope with the certain discomfort over the next few months.
Dr. Galland arrives to tell me the corset will be fitted soon. Amanda phones.
My corset arrives early in the morning.
First time passing solids in 4 days. The practicalities are difficult. I’m grateful to have the opportunity of new challenges to solve. It feels like progress.
Standing up for 10 minutes leaves me feeling pained. Leaning backwards causes stabbing pain down my spine. I’m terrified to hiccup or sneeze — the consequences are unthinkable. Unsteady on my feet. Slow. Steady.
My x-rays and scan arrive for me to take back. Looking at them brings on the fear.
…Such a lot of x-rays !
One more x-ray before I am dismissed and taken yet again in an ambulance back to the chalet. The paramedics are fine people. Respectful, professional, efficient. I recognise the same pair now, and they know me. They’ve seen me at my lowest, unhappiest moments. I am humbled. There’s not a lot left to hide.
Day #6. Friday, March 5
A peaceful day in the chalet. The conditions have improved all week with large snow dumps. I work my way through the video collection, indulging in the comfort of my surroundings. I’m working hard to be grateful and not begrudge the others their days riding in fantastic conditions. I don’t do that well. And I’m conscious I don’t want to bring the atmosphere down by being miserable. But I needn’t worry. Everyone does a fine job of enjoying themselves despite my situation. I can’t help but feel a little pissed at that.
Day #7. Saturday, March 6
The trip home. An ambulance ride either side of the airport. Leaving the chalet we meet Nick and Jo as they head for the airport also. It is good to see them. I am glad they saw me; I think they were glad too.
