For a heart stopping moment I felt the blood rush to my head and my pulse pound in my ears as I tumbled down the hill. Then everything stopped. Pain replaced my terror. A crowd gathered around my crumpled body. A scream penetrated the silence of the snowy ski hill. It was my own. The bone in my left leg had been broken in a way that forced the bone through my muscle, tissue and skin. A compound fracture. Ironically, the blood that surrounded me was coming from my badly bruised nose, not the awful injury that lay concealed in my ski boot.

 

An incompetent ski patroller tugged at the boot which was holding my leg together and a sea of blood spilled onto the floor. That’s when the ambulance was called. I was poked and prodded with a series of needles, but was oblivious to such minor pain. In my third grade mind I thought that I would certainly die. No person could live through pain like this.

 

When I awoke from the sedation, I was being wheeled down a barren hall. My mother was trotting next to the stretcher, holding my trembling hand and explaining that all they had done so far was cut off my boot. Now I would endure a series of surgeries. I entered an extremely white room, so white it almost blinded my tired eyes. In the room were several men, all masked and looking solemn. I was very afraid.



The next time I awoke I was in a clean hospital bed. My mom sat in a chair next to my bed. I felt very tired. I smiled at my worried mother and stayed awake long enough to see “get well” signs and cards stationed around the room. I also felt the comfort of a teddy bear brought from home. Then I gave into my weary eyes’ protests and went into a deep sleep.



The faint scar on my left leg is not a clean one. It is jagged and you can see the wide messy stitch marks left by a rushed doctor trying to stop rapid blood loss. The tissue never grew back quite right, so there is also a small indentation. It serves as a reminder, though, of a trial that I overcame and of a battle that I won.