Author Ralph Gilbert, who suffered a punctured lung in a ski accident, and his son, Keith, his rescuer (Courtesy)
By Ralph M. Gilbert
Traumatic pneumothorax: the presence of air or gas in the pleural cavity, which impairs ventilation and oxygenation, caused by a severe trauma to the chest or lung wall. Symptoms are often severe, and can contribute to fatal complications such as cardiac arrest, respiratory failure, and shock.
Every time I tried to lift my head the sky began to spin. Then I felt the nausea. I knew that I had to get up out of the snow but after a few attempts, I just lay back, exhausted. Suddenly, a spray of powder was kicked onto my face as a young ski patrolwoman executed a hurried skid stop. She bent down and put her cold face next to mine:
“Sir,” she said looking into my unfocused eyes. “Are you all right? Do you know where you are, sir? Where are you, sir?”
I realized that she wasn’t asking a particularly hard question, but I just couldn’t come up with an answer.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
She helped me to my feet.I looked around and saw the other skiers.
She radioed for help. The next thing I knew, I was being leaned back into a toboggan. Fighting the nausea and afraid that I would have to throw up, I asked to be tipped over momentarily before they restrained me to the sled for my ride down.
I regained consciousness in a strange hospital ER.
A young woman was standing over me. She asked: “Do you really think, sir, that a man of your age should be skiing alone in the glades?”
I hated that question. I found it particularly humiliating. As an intrepid, former U.S. Army trooper, I didn’t want to be talked to that way, especially by a woman who asked me the same questions my wife often asked.
Tests indicated a concussion. Upon release, I was told to buy a new helmet (each helmet can absorb only one crash), and not to ski for a week. I took only one day off, which I thought was plenty. I then purchased a new helmet and two days later I was back up on my skis again.
My next accident a few years later was to be worse, much worse.
Age denial? Not So Much
Before I tell you that story, I’d like to note that I’m not in total age denial. Now 79, I spend less and less of my après-ski time trading embellished ski stories with my buddies in smoky bars. These days, when we go on our annual ski trip, I can be found at night alone in my little room, carefully applying ice packs and winding compression bandages around my ill-treated joints.
I reject the idea, however, that I am suffering from any age-related diminution of muscle tone, balance or endurance. My ski dreams are still intact even if my body is not. I do realize that I should avoid the super steep double black diamond trails that I once traversed. But I just can’t resist.
Why? By story’s end, I’ll try to explain.
Each year, twelve of us, former army buddies at Fort Bliss, Texas go on a ski trip together. We had trained as Nike Missile crewmen back in 1958 during the Cold War. Our job was to join with others to protect the City of New York.Stationed in a darkened radar van, we were to monitor our radar screens for Russian bombers. Our Nike Missiles were buried in concrete shafts near us. Our vantage point was Spring Valley, New York, which otherwise is known for kosher chickens and Hassids. If we saw any Russians in the air we were to electronically challenge them, then shoot them down. Continue reading