I wanted to write about Lindsey’s fans or to write about
Lindsey victories; instead I am forced to write about her accident, her
surgery, and her recovery.
***
I left Lindsey’s bus like I always
do, right on time and got to the finish area like I always do, five minutes
early. I waited in the finish like I
never have, for hours and hours. Delay
after delay. Fifteen minutes upon fifteen minutes upon fifteen minutes. All I could think about was how cold it was
and that I couldn’t imagine how much worse it was for the racers waiting and
preparing, then waiting again, at the start.
I was texting Lindsey. We were
planning to meet back in the bus for lunch when the race would be announced
cancelled. I walked leisurely back. It was 1:45 with the last possible time to
race at 2:30. At 2:17 Lindsey texts me:
“Ok it looks like we are going to race. Get my bag and go back to the finish please.”
“Get your game face on,” I say.
“ I will” Lindsey writes.
“Oh, its on!”
I wasn’t surprised at Lindsey’s
enthusiasm; but considering she had been up since six in the morning and
waiting around for half of the day, her reaction put me more at ease. Sometimes, like in St. Anton, I get nervous
in the finish. Sometimes, like in
Cortina, I am completely relaxed and calm.
This time, I wasn’t even thinking.
I had no expectations whatsoever.
Of course, I always want to see that time in green saying that she is in
the lead, but I never had a thought of what was to happen next.
Racers went down one by one. The course looked rough. I prayed for the fog to keep away. My praying didn’t do any good. These weren’t ideal conditions. This course was not acceptable or safe. I watched racers go off course, hit ruts, and
racers ski blindly through the fog. I
thought whatever the problems, Lindsey just had to ski her best and hang on. Lindsey could do it.
There were a lot of delays on the course,
making Lindsey come down at 3:15. After
waiting at the start for 4 hours she pushed off with remarkable power and
energy. She was in the lead. She was fast.
So fast, that she flew farther off of the jump than the racers before
her. She went into a track on the course
no one had skied or slipped. Her right
ski sunk into a pile of snow, stopping her speed and causing her to summersault
into a gate and crash going 70 miles per hour.
Sliding down the hill she finally stopped, her cries were
agonizing.
I was in shock of what to do, of
where to go. I stick to Lindsey’s side
wherever she goes. I am with Lindsey
until she has to go to the start and I meet her at the finish after the race. I am always there to help her. This time, I didn’t know how. I was
completely lost.
I sent her a hopeless message: “Please be okay.”
After talking to the US Ski Team press
agent, Doug, who said he would give me any information about Lindsey once he
knew, I left the finish without a word, and not a word was spoken to me. I went to Lindsey’s Red Bull team hotel
hoping to find out where to meet up with her.
I wanted to drive to the hospital myself. I was sick of waiting around. After 15 minutes or so we finally were taken
to the hospital to see her. I was
shocked that while I was walking through the completely white and desolate
corridors of the Austrian hospital, that through the windows were photographers
snapping pictures. I was near tears and
felt completely disrespected on Lindsey’s behalf.
When I saw Lindsey I couldn’t stop
my tears. I hugged her for a long
time. She was crying too, she was
scared. In less then 10 minutes her mind
had been turned from a perfect winning run, into a painful, heartbreaking,
reality: her season was over.
As an omen or a stroke of luck,
Lindsey’s long-time Doctor was right there beside her. He and the Austrian doctors went over
Lindsey’s x-rays together. It wasn’t as
bad as Lindsey thought. It wasn’t the
end of her career; Vancouver wouldn’t be her last Olympics; and this wouldn’t
be her last World Championships, but it was going to be a long, and tiresome
road to Sochi.
There were a lot of stages of
emotions in the hospital: crying because of pain, crying because the season was
over, learning this isn’t going to be the end.
Medicine induced curse words, medicine induced laughing, and medicine-or-not-defiant-Lindsey. She refused to leave the hospital in a
wheelchair and she refused to stay in a hotel the first night. We finally got her to stay at the team hotel
that night.
She was nauseas the first night
because of the pain medication and also because she hadn’t eaten since
breakfast that day. Everyone was coming
and going, and there were phone calls, plans for the next days and weeks being
made. It was a blur. It took a few days of solitude in the bus for
the reality to really sink in.
On the morning we left, while I was
packing up the car, Lindsey sat watching the women’s race on TV go on without
her. She cheered for her teammates and
her friends, but I think that getting into the car and driving away from her
life, going to Vail for surgery, took all of her strength.
After a lot of talking and
consulting, Lindsey and Dr. Sterett found the best plan for her surgery. Family
members and friends were crowded around her hospital bed, there to support
her. She was nervous and having them there
helped keep her mind at ease. Everything
went as well as could be expected and she woke up from surgery groggy but happy
it was finally over.
It only took a day after the
surgery for Lindsey to go to the gym.
You can’t keep her sitting still for long. That’s Lindsey. I told her this was karma telling her to
relax finally, but she rolled her eyes at me.
Being an athlete is a very fragile
profession. You may not be good enough,
you may not be strong enough, and the conditions may not be safe enough. Athletes are tightrope walkers and there aren’t
any nets. Falling is part of the game,
and getting up is what defines you.
Lindsey might not have two legs to walk on yet, but she has her fans,
family, and friends to support her until she can.
Thanks to all of you for your well wishes and support
through Lindsey’s recovery.
Best,