Downward Spiral
February 1994
A broken bone should be more than enough justification to ask for help. Unless you are 11 year old Gino, completely divorced from the ability to identify and express his needs. One of my greatest thrills in prepubescent life was the annual Lake Tahoe skiing pilgrimage my father and I embarked upon each winter. In the pitch black silence before dawn, we quietly loaded the roof rack of our gray Chevy Nova with rental gear, which we acquired locally to avoid paying the excessive fees charged at the resort. We piled into the vehicle while the engine warmed, cranked up the heat, and rubbed our hands together furiously, attempting to banish the frigid air from our midst. I playfully exhaled and marveled as the vapor of my breath whimsically wafted across the dashboard, imagining myself as an arrogant adult puffing on a huge cigar.
Once the frost retreated from the windshield we pulled carefully out of the driveway and began our exodus of the urban environment. We merged onto the sparsely populated interstate 580, and I pondered if all the other drivers were following us to our mountain adventure. I didn’t see any skis on the rooftops, so I assumed they were the kind of people who could afford to rent them on the mountain. We traveled in silence with a plastic bag of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches wrapped in paper towels sitting between us. The concrete jungle eventually surrendered itself to agricultural land being watched by the curious gaze of the sun peeking over the sierra foothills. The roads which had propelled us for hours in a monotonous straight line gave way to the arching curvature of the rising mountains, as we began our rapid ascent above sea level. The joy of the journey always became real the moment I spotted snow on the ground. Excitement bubbled up the base of my spine, culminating in a giddy smile, as small, sporadic patches of ice evolved into a winter wonderland of white froth outside my window.
If we were successful, we arrived in the parking lot just in time to buy our lift tickets and get on the mountain within minutes of opening. Maximizing our time on the snow and getting our money’s worth was the name of the game. Like penguins in search of a mate, we shuffled eagerly into the line of the nearest lift, which I approached with great fear and reverence, due to a previous mishap which resulted in my falling and being struck in the back of the head by the approaching chair. With great focus and prayers for a smooth passage, we were successfully whisked off the ground and delivered into the canopy of snow dusted trees, being serenaded by the melodic hum of the lift, carrying us up the mountain, suspended awkwardly upon a metal cable that appeared completely incapable of holding the weight of it’s cargo. My father carefully removed his gloves and placed them securely under his thigh in order to retrieve the map of the ski resort from his pocket. We held a brief meeting to discuss our desired route and then sat in silence, as I anxiously awaited the descent.
Once we were out of the chairlift, I was a distant memory in my father’s squinting eyes. I was a speed demon, intent on violently ripping through the atmosphere like an air force pilot. Allow me to paint a brief picture of my 11 year persona. Favorite animal: cheetah. Favorite Baseball player: Ricky Henderson (the all time stolen base leader). Favorite football player: Jerry Rice (typically the fastest person on the field). Favorite Olympic sport: the 100 yard dash. Favorite Olympian: Carl Lewis (world record holder in aforementioned 100 yard dash). Favorite Movie: Speed featuring Keanu Reeves. I could go on, but I’ll end this tangent by sharing that I had become obsessed with downhill skiing during the 1992 winter Olympics and liked to envision myself as a Scandinavian world record holder, in a skin tight onesie, ripping down the mountain at 100 miles per hour. In true early nineties spirit, I was cloaked in a full body polyester ski suit that was a vibrant shade of my favorite color, neon green. Also in the spirit of the times, I was not wearing a helmet. In fact, I don’t recall seeing a single person on the mountain protecting their head. The only cushion between my skull and the hard packed snow was a thin, black, acrylic beanie that clung to my head for dear life as I slashed my way down the slopes.
I charted a straight, aggressive path down the mountain, only making the slightest adjustments to dodge slower skiers and trees that stood in my way. I skied like I had urgent business to attend to at the bottom of the mountain, or some kind of vendetta against the stillness of the stationary trees. At the bottom of the run, I dramatically came to an abrupt halt, kicking up a miniature storm of snowflakes, turning my attention back up the slopes in search of my dad. I would wait for what seemed like hours to pass until I spotted his puffy blue jacket passing gently over the horizon, slowly crisscrossing the mountain until gliding slowly up to my side. Up and down, we continued this routine all day long, only pausing to meet the biological needs of food, water and urination which I found to be annoying interruptions to my need for speed.
On his particular day which was going to end in tragedy, I prepared for the last run of the day before the lifts closed. I rode up to the top of the mountain with my father and his friend Matute, a wild and hairy man whose disregard for safety could only be matched by an 11 year old boy. Matute, who I had seen jump gleefully into a frigid mountain lake in his birthday suit. Matute, who I watched scale a vertical ice wall with his hands and chest completely bare. We exchanged mischievous eye contact and quickly agreed to race down the mountain. I knew if any of my dad’s friend’s could beat me in a race it would be the reckless Matute. Still, I felt confident that my youthful enthusiasm would be the deciding factor in my victory.
As soon as my butt left the ski lift chair, I was shot out of a cannon, leaning my body towards the bottom of the mountain and pushing my poles vigorously atop the snow to propel myself forward. My velocity increased in harmony with the slope of the mountain and a smile spread across my face which was being pummeled by crisp air and ice shrapnel. I glanced briefly over my shoulder and saw Matute and his unruly hair begin to fade into the distance. I was cruising to victory and already laughing hysterically at having defeated my dad’s craziest friend.
Ahead of me lay a woman who would alter the course of my day and my frenetic life of athletic activity for months to come. She was completely oblivious to the fireball of neon green and chapped lips that was barreling into her orbit. I spotted her, splayed across the snow, limbs sprawled in all directions, trying in vain to use her poles to push herself back up onto her feet. I casually adjusted my course to veer around her left side, making sure not to go too far off and crash into the trees. The space time continuum then opened up and swallowed me along with my hope for victory. My vision began a rapid descent into slow motion. At the precise moment that I was passing her, she swiftly swept her skis in front of me, creating a brief, hideous tapestry of fiberglass, metal and plastic that shattered just as soon as it had manifested. My vision went black as I flipped through the air like a limp rag doll, coming to rest on my back in the snow, which felt surprisingly comforting like a warm blanket. I gazed up at a sky so blue that I wondered if I had been transported inside of the alpine lake where Matute liked to skinny dip. My entire body was overcome by a heavy, warm, numbing peace that rendered me unable or unwilling to move.
Various concerned faces began to pop in between me and the blue ocean above, presumably the women who had sabotaged my race, and my opponent Matute whose facial expression suggested that he had just shit in his pants. I slowly turned my head sideways in response to the sound of an approaching vehicle, and saw the red and white jacket of the ski patrol atop a first aid snowmobile. After demonstrating that I had not broken my back by wiggling my fingers, I was loaded into what felt like a body bag for a corpse on a long plank, harnessed to the rear of the snowmobile, and escorted dramatically down the mountain, being followed by the watchful eyes of every human we passed.
In what was ambitiously labeled as the medical center, my father accompanied me for an examination that was laughably negligent. A young, blond woman in a ski patrol uniform sauntered into the small, windowless room that felt like a prison cell decorated with a stethoscope and a first aid kit. Loosely grasping a clipboard, her aura screamed “it’s been a long day and I’m ready to go home.”
“Do you know what year it is?” She flatly asked.
“Uh, 1994?”
“Do you know who the president is?” She muttered with the affect of a burned out DMV worker. “Bill Clinton.”
“Can you move your ankle?”
I demonstrated the severely limited range of motion of my left ankle by slowly rotating it in a circle.
“It looks like a bad sprain. You should keep off of it for a few days and make sure to ice it and take some pain killers.”
With that, I hobbled to the parking lot on one foot while clutching to my father’s arm for balance.
My father drove us to our cabin where we reunited with Matute, and his friends and spent the night playing Pictionary. I sipped instant hot cocoa while the adults shared generous servings of red wine. From my reclined position on the couch I participated in Pictionary to the fullest extent possible, hopped up on ibuprofen and not feeling much concern about the state of my leg. I never left the soft embrace of the couch and probably fell asleep in the middle of a failed attempt to frantically illustrate “secretary.” In the middle of the night, I woke up with the urgent need to pee and attempted to move myself to the bathroom. I found that even the slightest movement sent excruciating pain through my lower left leg. To avoid waking anyone up by expressing the sounds of anguish that were attempting to exit my mouth, I grit my teeth, got down on my belly, and did an improvised army crawl. Using my forearms, I dragged myself slowly across the floor, like a soldier whose legs had been taken out by an assault rifle in the jungle. I succeeded in reaching and mounting the toilet, emptying my bladder, dismounting, and returning to the couch, where I lay in a state of pain induced delirium. I hypnotically gazed up at the high wooden ceiling, transforming the patterns within the lumber into myriad mythological beasts, until eventually returning to the sweet sanctuary of sleep.
The following day we made the long drive home with me sprawled out across the backseat, left leg elevated and iced, and fully medicated on ibuprofen. It was by now apparent that I was in severe pain and requiring further medical attention. My father dutifully drove the 4 hours back down interstate 80 to Alta Bates hospital in Berkeley. Along the way, every bump in the road sent pain shooting through my left leg, which resulted in a contained exhalation through my clenched teeth. I peered awkwardly up through the side window at a blend of blue sky, transitory clouds, and passing vehicles, I descended into a state of intense nausea. By the time we arrived in Berkeley I was as pale as a ghost, fully drained of life force, and unable to perform the persona of someone who was doing ok.
An x-ray at the hospital revealed a spiral fracture of my left tibia and instructions to be placed in a cast and on crutches for at least 3 months. I instantly mourned the amount of games of kick ball I would be missing at school. When we finally returned home, my mother met us at the front door with tears streaming down her face, visibly shaken by the sight of her seemingly invincible firstborn son hobbling down the driveway on crutches. The story that emerged about this incident was about my high tolerance for pain and how I stoically survived a broken bone for nearly 24 hours without any real medical attention.
It wasn’t until becoming a father that I questioned the narrative of this story and found a cause for concern in an 11 year old boy scrambling heroically across the floor without asking for help. How did this happen? When I was dragging myself across the floor in the middle of the night, it never even occurred to me to ask for help. I didn't even go through any internal debate. Should I wake my dad up to help me? Will he be upset because I woke him up in the middle of the night? Am I really in pain or am I overreacting? Nothing. Just bite down, bear the pain, move through it, and stay as quiet as possible. Certainly, if I would have asked my father for help, he would have rushed to my side and did any and everything he could to ease my pain and support me. How did I get so convinced that my needs do not matter if they put even the slightest inconvenience on another person?
~
For a musical experience on the topic of not knowing how to ask for help, check out the song “On My Own” by clicking the image below.
“I thought I could do it on my own
Will power discipline all I know
Didn’t want to depend on a single soul
It’s no surprise that I feel alone.”