What I learned about my son
on Whistler Mountain
I WRECKED MY BIKE on Whistler Mountain late in July. That's the mountain where skiers competed during the 2010 Winter Olympics.
It was Monday, Day One into a mountain-biking week with my nearly 22-year-old son Brad, in the Canadian Rockies. I killed our vacation. And nearly myself.
Six broken ribs, two broken collar bones, one punctured lung.
It took two falls to accomplish it. In the first fall, I thought I strained my right shoulder, but learned later I had broken the collar bone and one rib. My fix: two Tylenol and a rub of Icy Hot. Then Brad and I, along with our instructor, caught three ski lifts to the peak for a four-hour run down the mountain.
Almost made it all the way.
Some 700 feet above the valley, our instructor led us to a trail called Joyride. In the long haul, I think it was the right name.
It showcased three bumps. One after another. Each progressively higher. One foot, two, then about three. I didn’t intend to catch air. I’m from Kansas. And I’m past the half-century mark. But the inclines on this mountain are sometimes deceptively steep. I didn’t squeeze the brakes hard enough.
I remember the moment in the trauma center when I realized I had killed our vacation.
The doc said I needed a chest tube, followed by transport to a Vancouver hospital where I’d spend several days.
The doc left us alone. It was just me and Brad. And silence. I wanted to speak the words plainly, but could only choke them out.
“I’m sorry.”
Brad had just graduated from college in May. He was starting up a new business on a shoestring, and this would be his only vacation this year. I had wrecked it.
Brad never holds my hand anymore. But he reached out and grabbed it. “It’s okay, Dad.”
My son took control of the next several days. Rushing back to the hotel to grab us both a bag for the ambulance run to Vancouver, while docs inserted my chest tube. Negotiating with hospital bookkeepers, social workers, hotel managers, airlines. Sleeping on the floor beside me in the ER ward that first night.
On Wednesday, the day before Lion’s Gate Hospital in Vancouver released me from their trauma unit, I had a few minutes alone with Brad. I told him I was proud of how he handled this. And again, I choked out, “I’m sorry.”
This time I saw his eyes fill, matching mine. He took my hand again.
“Honestly,” he said. “The hardest thing I’ve had to deal with has been knowing that you blame yourself.”
He looked right past my chest full of broken bones and saw my broken heart.
How could he have seen that, had he not loved me?
Maybe Whistler’s mountain trail was rightly named. Joyride.
My broken bones hurt; there’s no joy there. But I’ll ride again. Beside my son.
Happy trails.
Books by Stephen M. Miller
For more about any book—a peek inside, reviews, where to buy—click the thumbnail cover.
