News from Jules | 03.26.2024 | Break a Leg: Part 1

It can be incredibly lucky to break a leg.

Well, now I know it can indeed be incredibly lucky to break a leg. The few weeks preceding my ski accident on Friday, March 8, 2024, were a totally different kind of rush—the kind I don’t like, the kind that feels like survival. The kind we call busy, but I call hectic.

Instead of expansive, time became compressed. As if there wasn’t enough time for basic care, nonetheless honoring excellent self-care. For instance, writing every week, cooking healthy food, getting eight hours of sleep, or going skiing!

The irony is the “extra” that tipped the delicate balance of daily life was seemingly more self-care.

The whirlwind of February and early March included: Sick days to nip a chest cold in the bud, filing taxes, getting a new physical therapist, interviewing for a different job at REI, entertaining favorite out-of-town visitors, attending not one but two women’s spiritual retreats, and finally a bluebird day of skiing with my sister’s family before everything abruptly slowed back down.

For the first time all season, I drove the 30-minute commute from Bend up to Mt. Bachelor Ski Resort instead of taking the shuttle bus because I was heading directly to the Bend Womxn’s Spiritual Group retreat in Sunriver, Ore. just south of the mountain for the weekend and the roads were actually clear.

I was beyond excited. I had been waiting for this day all season.

Dreaming of ripping down the mountain with my sister like when we were kids since the first day I clicked back into skis a year ago—after my 15-year hiatus from skiing—and realized you still got this, girl.

And now, how much more fun would it be to also ski with my 13-year-old nephew and my 10- and 8-year-old nieces who all learned to ski soon after they could walk so were likely even better than me!

Around 11:30 a.m. my phone chimed with the much-anticipated text: “We’re here!” so I finished up my fast and fun warm-up laps with a couple of Mt. Bachelor co-workers and headed to meet them at the lodge for lunch after their four-hour drive over from Portland, Ore.

After a first lap together through the popular tree run which the kids love called Dilly Dally Alley, we headed up the Summit lift to the top of the mountain. My heart swelled as I looked over at the view of the Three Sisters mountains behind us while I sat beside my own sister some 25 years since our last time skiing together.

I watched in awe as she elegantly and expertly swerved down the run beside her kids. Unlike me, she never stopped skiing and it showed. Alas, at the bottom of the very long, 2,500-foot run, my niece wasn’t feeling well so they headed back to the van where my other niece was already napping.

My nephew and I headed over to the terrain parks—groomed runs with manmade features for performing tricks like at a skate park—something I had wanted to try all season.

Since it was my first time, we started at a Progression Park, a beginner, freestyle terrain learning zone, where I skied off a few plastic boxes in a row and caught a foot of air each time. It was so fun!

After my brother-in-law joined us, we headed over to Otter Rock Park, family-friendly terrain with flowy features, which was even more fun. I watched my nephew glide over the rolling bumps with ease but still suggested to my brother-in-law to wait and go after me in case I crashed. He laughed and encouraged, “Nah, you got this! Piece of cake.”

It was a delicious piece of white frosted cake.

As we got off the Rainbow chair lift, the clock on the booth read: 3:43 p.m. “About time for apres ski at the van, huh?” my brother-in-law noted.

Yes! I could already taste the cold, celebratory beers. There was so much to toast.

My dream had come true to ski with my family. And I had just skied for a whole day, whereas my personal best this season was three hours before my legs were cramping and I could barely ski back to the lodge. It seemed my two physical therapy sessions for pelvic alignment and leg strengthening were already paying off.

There was just enough time for one more park.

We skied over to the Short Sands Park, named after a surfer’s haven on the Oregon coast known for medium swells inside its small cove. I had literally just walked barefoot on its shores two weeks before during the first of the two women’s spiritual retreats.

I sentimentally snapped a selfie with the sign at the top of the run before we found a good vantage point on the side near the trees where we could watch others navigate the park features—starting with a series of three jumps.

A snowboarder crashed after the first jump, but got right back up and rode on. Once it was clear, I watched my nephew and then my brother-in-law effortlessly coast over the edge.

I could steer left, skip all the features, coast into the lodge, and call it a day—which was apparently what my brother-in-law thought I would do—or I could steer right and try another jump.

Like those still moments when a crow drifts by overhead in the breeze, just one quiet, gentle thought passed through my mind: “One more jump after such a long day…”

I still don’t know if it was a question or an answer.

My body pushed off to the right, took two small turns for speed checks like I had seen the guys do, and then launched off the lip of the jump to coast several feet in the air. Time stopped.

My next thought was: “Concussion” as the back of my helmet bounced off the snow, my skis flew off and I finally slid on my butt to a stop on the solid, cold ground.

“Oh my gosh! Are you okay? Do you need help?”

“Yes,” I replied as I looked around for the voice but didn’t see anyone. All I saw was a surprisingly tall jump far behind me, my skis and poles in a “yard sale” across the middle of the run, and another jump in front of me.

A head popped out of the trees, swooped under the rope along the edge of the run and a woman came running toward me. She had jumped out of her snowboard so urgently that it flew down the rest of the run and into the lift lines where my brother-in-law and nephew were waiting for me. This surprised them until I called to say that I crashed, a snowboarder was helping me and Ski Patrol was on the way. They said they’d be right there too.

I calmly sat in the snow dumbfounded while Ski Patrol asked what happened and what hurt.

The snowboarder said I landed the jump, perhaps leaning back, and my right ski seemed to twist as I crashed. My head was surprisingly clear, but my right calf throbbed aggressively like when Yosemite Sam hits his thumb with an anvil in the cartoons.

Ski Patrol promptly put a splint around my right ski boot, tucked me and the Good Samaritan snowboarder into the sled behind me and skied us down to the lodge. She chattered nervously and breathed heavily behind me during our tipsy sled ride, but I thought it was pretty fun.

When my sister arrived at the Ski Patrol lodge asking what happened, I was already perched up on the gurney. She was holding back tears. I immediately recognized that concerned, protective face. This is why I intentionally took a moment to cry before she arrived so I could re-compose myself.

We discussed the situation with Ski Patrol and agreed on a game plan based on my past injury experiences and current reality. I’d go to urgent care in a couple of days once the swelling went down, or if any concussion symptoms appeared. Since I couldn’t put much weight on my right leg to get around, it seemed best to be with others at the retreat as planned rather than alone in my hotel room all weekend.

My sister’s family and their friends were also staying in Sunriver, so we caravaned and she drove me and my car to the retreat. On the way, I sent a voice message to my friend, the pastor and retreat co-organizer, to explain the situation and options.

She texted back:

“Oh Jules! I’m so sorry that happened! We will be ready to receive you however and whenever you arrive.”

The theme of the retreat was unconditional love after all.

See photos of my skiing accident on Instagram.

After 36 hours of T.L.C. (Tender Loving Care) from this group of womxn that I’d just met—bringing me everything including medicine and food and tea and ice packs and craft supplies while I was perched on the couch for all of the sessions so I could R.I.C.E. (Rest, Ice, Compression and Elevation)—the swelling was down, but I couldn’t move my leg without hot flashes of pain.

So, as soon as the retreat ended on Sunday morning, we headed to Urgent Care for X-rays which showed a nondisplaced, hairline fracture in the middle of my right Fibula, the small shin bone on the outside of the leg that primarily supports the calf muscles and only bears about 17% of one’s body weight.

My physical therapist and a second opinion from another radiologist agreed with the diagnosis and treatment plan. Six weeks in a boot while my bone naturally heals with the first few weeks on crutches until I can bear my full weight on both legs.

Before my sister and nephew helped me into the retreat house and hugged me goodbye that Friday evening, she commented: “This stuff just always seems to happen to you.”

I tilted my head to the side with wondering eyes and said, “Maybe? But I always seem to be so lucky.”

Lucky it wasn’t worse. Lucky it will heal so fast without surgery. Lucky to have a Physical Therapist already. Lucky to have affordable medical insurance. Lucky to have access to rehabbing in a heated pool and hot tub. Lucky to live in such a small space. And most of all, lucky to already belong to so many communities filled with kind people here in Bend willing to help with everything.

This is how I know it can be incredibly lucky to break a leg.

Just like the quote on the Yogi teabag that I saved from the first retreat and stuck in my journal as a reminder said: “Be fearless; Know that all will be provided at the right time.”

So, perhaps not just luck, but faith.

May you be fearless this week.

Love,

Jules