A fractured fairy tale

This is a story with many layers.  I submit it as a tribute to our knitblog and medical communities.  Much of this was dictated by Mr. Etherknitter, who rejected the idea of co-blogging.  I think he is shy. 

We love to ski.  It is exhilarating.  By definition, it takes place in mountains.  It turns the cold, dreary drudgery of winter into a pure, bright joy.  Just read my previous post.  (Foreboding music queues.)

On a beautiful, groomed slope at Deer Valley, Mr. Etherknitter and I were making simple, happy turns.  It was stockinette stitch, if you will.

He hears a loud scritch in the snow, a yell.  Impact.  He is thrown forward 30 feet.  Glasses and goggles flying, he spins to a stop.  I had stopped to rest, and saw a chilling sight up the slope.  A pile of skis and poles, in one spot, and a skier lying on the ground, black jacket, and tell-tale red boots.

Slowly, he moves, calls me on the cell.

"Are you okay?"  "I don't know.  Something is wrong with my knee.  No.  Not my knee.  My leg is broken."  "i'm coming up."  The cell phone goes back in the fanny pack.

I'm screaming at him from downslope.  "OPEN OR CLOSED?"  "OPEN OR CLOSED?"  Closed means the bone hasn't cut through the skin, and we can get it fixed in Boston.  Open means the bone is through the skin.  The clock starts ticking at the moment of injury, and it MUST be fixed within six hours to reduce the risk of infection. 

"Open!"  he yells down.

"FUCKFUCKFUCK" I scream.  I see heads turn.  They aren't the ones whose life has been irrevocably altered.

I climb up to him, uphill.  I now completely understand oxygen debt.  At first I hiked in skis, then I stopped, took them off, dug the toes of my boots into the steep slope, and stopped every three steps to try and breath.  It took an eternity of ten minutes to reach him.

Ski patrol got there first.  I can see as I climb that he is sitting up.  That means his neck is okay.  His head is probably okay.

With far more composure than I ever thought possible, I sat in the snow next to the assailant.  A young man, sixteen years old, lying winded a few feet away.  I don't yell.  I don't berate.  I just tell him:

"Now listen.  You need to learn from this accident.  You have to understand that you have altered my husband's life and my life for the foreseeable future, and you have made it into a nightmare.  I want you to understand what you have done and use it to learn.  I hope you heal well."

I really didn't, but I also didn't want ski patrol to shoo me away before I had a chance to make my point.

They splint Mr. Etherknitter's leg, bring him down to a waiting snowmobile.  They take us to the ambulance at the base.  I ride in front, he is in the back having an IV started.  The ambulance crew puts in the backboard that was forgotten by ski patrol.  I call back, "How is his oxygen saturation?  Is he okay?  Does he have neck pain?  How are you, dear?"  He is stable.

I feel so helpless.  I have to find a surgeon who won't screw up his leg, and an anesthesiologist who won't kill him.  I don't know anyone in the medical community here.  I make a cellphone call to the chief of my department.  His secretary says he is in a meeting and unavailable.  "Missy, this is an emergency.  I have to speak with him NOW."   

He calls the chief of the anesthesia department at the University of Utah.  I start hearing the same surgeon's name from multiple lips.  I throw the dice, commit myself to the bet.

This is the part not for the squeamish. Really.   It will take me a very long time to learn how to live with what I saw next.  The staff takes the gauze off his sock.  They cut the sock.  His tibia has exploded through the front of his leg, created a six inch by three inch gash, with bone sticking out.  He can't see yet what I see, and agrees to let them take off the ski boot.  I tell him NO.  I ask the nurse to give him morphine first.  Several attempts at pulling the boot yields a dose of 20mg that finally has some effect.  The boot is pulled off by SIX people.  They are very good at what they do, but he almost passes out.  As they take the boot off, and tip it to free his heel, blood pours out onto the stretcher from the boot.   My sweet man.  I can't let myself cry yet.

The chief of anesthesia comes down to the ER. He arranges for a wonderful clinician to take care of Mr. Etherknitter.  He rearranges an extremely busy OR schedule and makes it possible for the operation to start before the timer runs out.  I meet the surgeon.  Young.  Brash.  From New York, and quoting data, studies, experience.  Exuding confidence.  I like him.  GO.

It was the longest, loneliest, bleakest three hours of my life in the postsurgical waiting room.  I couldn't call anyone because I couldn't cope with MY response OR theirs.  Complete strangers saw the look on my face and reached out.  When they found out I was alone, they hugged me.  I was an unusual sight in the waiting room:  ski jacket, ski pants and ski boots. 

The surgeon and the chief of anesthesia rematerialize together.  "Boy that was a pain in the ass to fix."

"What do you mean, 'a pain in the ass'?"

"It was a PAIN in the ass.  He has really good muscle tissue and strong bone.  I had to open another incision proximally (higher up) and reach in and yank it into place."

He described what he did.  A large metal rod spans the whole tibia.  Lots of screws.  Complexities involving location of fracture relative to tendons, and what the limitations were.  And are.  Now, I can only cross my fingers, and trust in the Higher Ether.  It's going to take months to heal, and to find out what we need to deal with next.  He answers every single question, and I am satisfied. 

So far, a bad story.  A long, cautionary tale.  But it's not the real story here.

Deep breath.

Mr. Etherknitter is trying to take it in stride.  (His pun.)  He dislikes being helpless and dependent.  And there's a possibiity that future surgery may be necessary.

I start to understand PTSD.  It will take some careful thought and an effort of will to go back to the slopes. 

What I've really come to appreciate is our community.  It was powerful in fun times (Rhinebeck, SPA, local get-togethers), but incredible in a crisis.  You can't feel anything close to worthy.  The condo didn't have internet access, so I went to the local internet cafe, and sent off three emails.  A tidal wave of support and love swept over me, enfolded me, helped me.

Cassie made me take care of myself, talked me down, set me straight.  Juno helped me feel normal.  Claudia stepped in with sympathy and professional opinion.  Marcia lent me her Park City son to help me move from the condo to the hospital room, a drive of about 20 miles.  Margene opened her heart and herself to whatever I might need.  The email support has been stunning in sympathy and generosity.  Mr. Etherknitter was moved to help write this  story. 

Tom, son of Marcia, chauffeur extraordinaire, below.  He actually managed to stuff a week's worth of ski luggage into a Mazda RX-7.  Amazing.
Once you look up from your feet, you see the sun.  I can't begin to list my saviours.  Our knitbloggers.  The hospital staff.  Our neighbors.  Even the ski resort.

So today, it all seems feasible.  I plan to sit with the DH while he snoozes, and I knit.  He likes that.

Comments

[Janine]

Just some simple but heartfelt good wishes to you both. I hope you and your husband both heal quickly from this!

[Stephanie]

Oh pet. I'm so grateful for so much reading this. I'm grateful he's allright. I'm grateful that the kid got a chance to learn a big lesson without killing someone, I'm grateful that you are so strong and tough that you were able to advocate for him so well, and I'm grateful that the knitblog community did for you what it does best.
I'm grateful to know ya. Drop a line if I can help you. You know where I'm at.

[Rose]

Sending you positive thoughts and prayers. I hope you both take care and get better soon.

[Betsy]

Been there, done that...not open but closed...missed in the local er that the leg was very broken; even the ski patrol (gods and goddesses if you are ever in the situation...what incredibly talented people)got that one right...other than going thru it for him which obviously you can't do you did the absolute best thing you could ever do for your husband...you were his advocate...
I send good thoughts for patience and healing for both of you in the coming months...

[Lisa]

What a nightmare. Thank goodness for the blogging community so that you were not alone out there. And it's great you had the connections and knowledge to find the right surgeon and know what Mr Ether needed! Keeping you both in my thoughts.

[Jennifer]

You have my deepest sympathies. Good luck in the ordeal ahead.

[Kim]

Laurie -

My daddy had a similar (but certainly less dramatic) thing happen to him. My brother and I learned how to ski in school, and my dad decided to learn how to ski at 46 so that he could take us on vacations. At Blackcomb few years later, he was still on the greens, but was doing fairly well. Some hotshot came barreling down the hill, and my dad was standing off to the side of a junction, and this guy took him out. My dad totally blew out his knee, which we didn't know until he didn't come back to the condo that afternoon. I got my first experience driving in/on snow getting around to pick him up, take him back, and then driving back to Seattle. He's a trouper, though - back at it even though he's a bit more gimpy than before.

I'm sure Mr. Ether is much more hardcore, but I deeply sympathize nonetheless. Best of luck!

[eyeleen]

You have remarkable strength. Best wishes to you both.

[Cindy D]

Girl....you can write under pressure!!! May your Mr. Etherknitter's tibia knit together.

[twig]

Your story had me on the verge of tears because I could feel the terror you must have been feeling. Best wishes to Mr. Ethernet. And you hang in there, too.

[Erin B]

I have so been there. I had a rod and four screws putin my tibia. I understand how hard it will be and my heart goes out to your husband. When he gets it removed, I know its a long way off but mount it up like a trophy. He will definitely deserve it!

[Andy]

You are very brave and so is he. I'm so sorry, but you did manage this wonderfully and so glad you said what you did to the young fellow on the slopes. It is heartbreaking. Not to make light of it but many of us manage with our spinning and spin/knit friends. Some things can't be helped, I think they should stock yarn and needles in hospital gift shops, maybe they do. They could leave a basket of skeins and needles on the table for people to borrow or adopt, wouldn't that be helpful?
Hope it all goes well, I'm praying for his speedy return to full health. The way I see it is, he is who he is and that must be expressed in wholeness of his identity and being in all its perfection. All the best, Andy

[Siri]

Oh dear, what a terrible day that was for both of you. I'm so sorry to read about this.
I was about 12 or 13 when I had a similar experience to yours. Ski vacation, Spring Break, beautiful day, taking it easy down an easy ski run, and then seeing my mom fall, below me; not a hard fall, no collision, just a typical fall on a ski mountain. She yelled up to us, my dad and I, and when we reached her she told us her leg was broken.
I skied down to the bottom of the lift as fast as I could to get help from the ski patrol while my dad stayed with her. Then I had to ride the old SLOOOW lift back up and ski down to her. The ski patrol was there and we followed her down the mountain in the stretcher. Turns out she broke both the tibia and the fibula. After a couple of days we were able to make the 8 hour drive back home from Bend, OR to Seattle, WA.
I'm not going to say that she healed miraculously quickly, but she did heal. There were some mistakes made with her treatment that prolonged her healing. It was difficult, mostly emotionally, with lots of ups an downs. I'm afraid that I was still quite young and maybe not as sympathetic as I could have been to her predicament.
She had a long rod in her bone but eventually had it removed when it started to jar loose while she was hiking on Mt. Rainier a few years later. She had a bone graft from her hip at one point, too. It was years before they figured out that one of her legs was now shorter and that wearing a slightly altered shoe would virtually end the back pain that she was experiencing.
Now, about 23 years later, she's 74. She started back with cross country skiing (a looooong time ago now) but eventually started downhill again. Our boys and I skiied downhill with her this winter. She spent a week cross country skiing this winter in Yellowstone and will spend a week hiking there this summer. She spent a month last year travelling in Africa. She went on a several-day hike in Glacier Nat'l Park a couple of years ago. She spends on average 2 hours a day working in their garden. She is an active woman who worked her way through this.
I wish for an easy recovery for Mr. Etherknitter. It may not be easy, but it will happen. Those bones do "knit" themselves back together in time.
And to you: Knit on!
(Oh yeah, AND my mom is a fabulous knitter. It would be hard to determine which she started doing first as a child: skiing or knitting. What else would you expect from someone who spent the first 21 years of her life in Norway?)