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March 12, 2010

The mountain

Notes from a ski run that changed a life

I was always a moody kid, a contrarian. I especially liked to vent my frustrations on my dad, who would look me straight in the eye and say: “I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man who had no feet.”

I never really understood what the saying meant, though, until years later, in the winter of 1988, when I was introduced to the people at The National Ability Center in Park City.

That was the Christmas I had made up my mind to learn how to ski. Unable to walk (I was in my 13th year with MS), I knew I’d be going down the mountain strapped into a “sit-ski,” negotiating turns with my arms. (For safety reasons, an experienced volunteer tethers sit-skiers to spot problems and stop them before they crash into any unsuspecting skiers roaming the slopes.)

The run down the mountain was thrilling, the cold air whipping my face, the roller coaster dips and turns, the moments I was sure we were careening out of control on the edge of a vast white abyss.

But I think what really defined the experience was not that run down the mountain; it’s what happened when it was over, in the locker room. It was crowded and warm in there, and it was not your typical après-ski crowd. There was a young woman with slurred speech and jerky movements, the result of some long-ago head injury; a boy with cerebral palsy; a young blind man who was helped stiffly into the room by a volunteer; and then my own volunteer instructor, Peter Badewitz, an amputee. I remember helping him exchange his heavy ski prosthesis for the lighter one he used on the street. The stump left by the surgeons after his leg was blown off by a land mine in Vietnam was red, swollen and irritated. I could tell he was in pain, but he never complained as he carefully placed his swollen stump into his prosthesis, his lifeline to walking.

I’ll never forget that day. Parents were hugging their kids who, after coming in from the slopes, acted as if they had just climbed the Matterhorn. I can still see my instructor in his street clothes shaking my hand and encouraging me to come back as he limped away.

That was the day I began to understand what my dad meant: “I cried because I had no shoes until I met a man with no feet.” It was the day I began to see how all of us cope with the adversities of the human experience, and how lucky I had been for all those years. It was seeing that we can all make it down the mountain one way or another—it just takes the courage to try.

During this new year and every day you live, thank God if you can see the sunlight when you wake, as there are many who are blind. When you sit down to a meal, give thanks, for there are many who are hungry. Give thanks for your family and friends, for many are alone. Thank the Lord for your job and co-workers, for there are many with no job.

Most of all, thank God for your life; it’s a gift. Treasure each day, and don’t take anything for granted. Make your own way down the mountain, but cherish the journey.

And make the world a better place to live along the way.

Pictured: The author, right, with NAC co-founder Peter Badewitz

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