The title of this post is perhaps a bit of an oxymoron. How can an experience be both the best and worst at the same time? Well, let me begin with the latter adjective - worst. On February 10, 2023 I continued the pursuit of my skydiving A license. It was a Friday, and I took the day off to capitalize on the good weather. Living in Virginia, the weather changes abruptly from day to day, so you have take it when you can get it. The weather was clear but there was a bit of wind. After waiting for the wind to die down, it was time to jump. This was my sixth jump of the required twenty-five to obtain my license. On this particular jump, I transitioned from having an instructor on either side of me as I exited the plane and during free fall to just one. This was a special jump, one that would lead to me jumping solo with an instructor in-tow.
When plummeting to the earth at 120 m.p.h., the slightest movement results in body position changes relative to flight during free fall. Simply stated, to skydive safely, it's critical to maintain a proper arch and remain stable so you don't spin out of control like a top. This is something new skydivers struggle with and is the reason for two instructors at the beginning stages of the course. Usually around jump three or four, instructors back off slightly and allow students to get the hang of maneuvering and stabilizing unassisted. They remain close, though, just in case. I had experienced this twice and had advanced to a single instructor. Although my technique was nowhere near perfected, I was at the point where I could maintain a heading with a fair amount of stability.
Prior to the jump, while I waited for the ground wind to die down (it has to be below 14 knots for students), my instructor and I reviewed emergency procedures. In just about all cases, the procedure is the same - cut away the main canopy and deploy the reserve. While it can be a tedious process to repeatedly review scenarios and rehearse emergency steps, it's my life on the line, so drilling them into memory and practicing cutting away and pulling my reserve is a good thing. Once the wind subsided, I donned my jumpsuit, rig, altimeter, and helmet and made my way to the plane. Sitting on the bench seat facing rearward as the plane sped down the runway, I prepared mentally, as had become my custom. In many ways, I imagine it's not unlike the mental state required to break a board with one's head. It requires extreme focus and concentration.
As we began our ascent, I visualized the jump from beginning to end - standing in the doorway with my head outsize the fuselage with the wind in my face, nodding at my instructor and receiving his acknowledging nod back, going up, down, and out the door. Speaking of the door, because the weather was so nice this particular day, when we reached 1,500 feet, one of the instructors opened the roll top door. I should point out the door cannot be open under that altitude per FAA regulations. With several jumps under my belt, I had gotten used to riding in a plane with the door open and enjoyed the view.
Something I find intriguing about the sport is that as crazy as skydivers might be, many of them experience what is known as "fear of the door." That is, they don't mind jumping, falling to the earth at terminal velocity, and flying under canopy. They just don't like going out the door! Crazy, right? Well, I must be a special breed because I love going out the door. I look forward to it every time. It's my favorite part of the jump because in those first few seconds I "ride the hill," as it's known. To the uninitiated it might appear (and feel) like you're falling straight down as soon as you exit, but you're not. Due to the plane's inertia, skydivers transition into free fall through an arc. It only takes about three seconds and isn't really noticed by tandem jumpers. After a few jumps, though, it becomes readily apparent. Students are taught to go into a strong arch immediately upon exiting the plane so that as they finish riding the hill, they will stabilize.
I visualized this moment and reviewed the jump's requirements - get stable, three touches (reaching back on my right side where my hackie is located; pulling this deploys the pilot chute and initiates opening of the main chute), checking my altimeter, remaining on heading, pulling on time, pulling stable, and landing on target (the large grassy field in front of the hangar). Instructors often joke that when you're a student, you don't get to enjoy skydiving because you're too busy fulfilling requirements, and it's true. We reached 13,500 feet, the plane slowed, and it was time to jump. I made my way to the door and did everything just as I had practiced on the ground and visualized during the brief flight. And then I was out the door. I arched, stabilized, and did my three touches. Then my instructor released me (the term for letting go), and I maintained my heading and stability. I checked my altitude, maintained my arch and stability, checked it again, waved off at 5,000 feet and pulled. I felt the familiar sudden deceleration as the chute opened. After verifying my canopy was "there, square, the slider was halfway down, and flyable," I checked my altitude and calculated where I needed to be relative to my position and altitude. Much like an airplane, skydivers follow a landing pattern. Shaped like an "L" it consists of a downwind leg (the long part of the L), a base leg (bottom of the L), and final leg (the short part of the L). Typically, 1,000 feet is the altitude where skydivers begin their downwind leg, which is what I did.
Under canopy the rate of decent is approximately 20 feet per second. So, at 600 feet, I made a left turn (the bottom of the L = base leg). I was pretty much on course. The wind, however, was blowing against me, which meant when I turned on to my final leg at 300 I was going to land short. In this particular case, it meant I was going to land on the tarmac, about fifty yards from the field. This wasn't a huge deal because I had landed off course on a previous jump and had to be picked up in the Gator, the redneck version of a golf cart. But due to landing short, I lost focus and altitude awareness. I could hear my instructor on the radio clipped to my chest strap shouting, "Flare, flare." I did, but as it turned out it was too little, too late. I landed hard, taking the brunt of it on my right leg. It smarted, that's for sure, and I fell to the ground. Relatively uninjured, I pulled the radio out of its nylon sleeve and let him know I was okay and that I had injured my ankle. Looking down at my right, I was pretty sure it was broken because I was facing left and it was pointing to the right.
That's the background on the "worst" part of this experience. What made it the best is what followed. My instructor and another gentleman arrived within a few minutes. They helped me out of my rig and onto my good foot. Together they hoisted me into the back of the Gator. Feeling like a linebacker getting carted off the field, we headed to the hangar. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the gentleman who met us there was one of the owners. He brought his extended cab pickup truck around and loaded me in the backseat while my instructor retrieved my phone, keys, and other items from my student locker and car. I discovered on the way to the emergency room the owner was retired Navy like me. In fact, we had a common shipmate from one of my previous commands. The hospital was a short drive, and we exchanged sea stories, as sailors are wont to do. He got me checked in and stayed with me for a while, which was nice. He gave me his contact information and told me to let him know if I needed anything.
So, here I was, about thirty miles from home in the emergency room on a Friday afternoon. I wasn't in a lot of pain, thankfully. My ankle really didn't hurt at all. More uncomfortable than anything else. I was more disappointed that I had booked four jumps for that day, and I got injured on the first one! I made jokes with the doctors and nurses about kicking a soccer ball too hard. As crazy as it sounds, I was actually happy - not happy that it happened - happy to be alive and not have suffered a more serious injury. Several weeks prior to my jump, I was at the drop zone. Although the weather was nice and the ground wind was below the student limit, the wind at altitude was pretty high. Jumping was not recommended, so I didn't. But having traveled the forty-five minutes to get there and not wanting to get back in my car right away, I hung out for a while and chatted with the jumpers and instructors. Skydivers are incredible people, the same kind of people you meet in tattoo parlors. They are very chill and friendly. Whether you have a handful of jumps or thousands, we all share a common bond. Like a gathering of sailors recounting stories, we stood around and discussed skydiving. One instructor told a story about a young girl who was seriously injured at that very site several months prior. She lived and would be okay, but she would spend months recovering.
There are plenty of horror stories to go around, and there's no shortage of them on You Tube. With that story in mind, I was grateful to be alive and relatively unscathed. I viewed breaking my ankle as a mere inconvenience at the time. X-rays confirmed my ankle was indeed broken - and then some, as I would learn later. My nurse at the time entered my room and inquired how attached I was to my shoes - Vasque Juxt, my jumping shoes that run around a hundred dollars. I informed her I was very attached and untied them and removed them. She found this surprising given how swollen my foot was; she stood with medical shears in hand, prepared to cut it off, if necessary. What she found more surprising was when I hopped into the bathroom a few minutes later on my left foot. While I was in the bathroom, she found a walker for me, but I was having none of that. They were for old people, and I wasn't old! I did let her cut my sock off. Thankfully, I did not suffer a compound fracture - but, as I was later informed, that was by just millimeters and the grace of God.
The ER doctor informed me it was common procedure to "pop" the ankle back in place. Although it would be extremely painful, I wouldn't feel a thing. The nurse administered Ketamine to offset the pain and make me "loopy," as the doctor put it. (Four years of medical school and that was the best term he could come up with?) That was a wild ride to say the least. I felt a ton of pressure and tugging on my right leg, and I was strangely aware that I was in pain that I did not fully process. Unable to reset it alone, another doctor entered the room and assisted. It all seemed like a hallucination. Unfortunately, that effort failed. I must reveal my niaivette because up to this point, I was hopeful that my ankle would be reset, a cast would be slapped on, and I would go home a short while later. Nope. I was admitted because surgery was required to pop my joint back in place - and also because while attempting to do so the Ketamine put me in AFIB. Unbeknownst to me, I ended up in the cardiology unit. But that's another story for another time.
Day had faded into evening. It was around 7 or 8 p.m. when the surgical nurses came to prep me. Which essentially means no jewelry, no underwear, no contacts just my birthday suit and a flimsy gown. I was informed my surgeon would be in shortly to review the procedure and answer any questions. As promised, about twenty minutes later, a bearded man (under the mask) entered with a student in tow. He reviewed what would happen in layman's terms, discussed how long it would take, and told me that I'd go home the next day. That was actually a good thing because, as I mentioned, I was thirty miles from home. My wife, who hates driving, would have to get a ride to the airport, which had long since closed, pick up my car, and then get me from the hospital, none of which nighttime would help. After briefing me, the surgeon asked if I had any questions, to which I responded, "How long before I can jump again?" A bit taken aback he replied, "Oh, you're that guy." It was a statement, an observation, not a question. Ever jubilant, I proudly said, "Yes." He shook his head, said, "Not for a while," and left. A few moments later I was wheeled to surgery - to the prep room first, where I met the anesthesiologist and his nurse.
Now I should point out that one of my greatest fears in life was surgery. Although I knew I needed it and there was no way to avoid it, up until this moment, this was one of greatest fears. But as I indicated previously, I was genuinely happy - and calm - calm in a way that I had never been. (I'll cover that in a separate post about God's peace.) Skydiving had definitely contributed to that. After all, jumping out of an airplane is a scary experience - a bit unnerving the first few times. It takes a while to get used to and some people never do regardless of how many jumps they make. I had conquered that fear, though, and had not only gotten used to jumping but looked forward to it. I had jumped six times. Nothing to brag about, certainly, but I knew what to expect. I expected to be scared of surgery, but I wasn't. I was a little nervous, but once I found out there would be no catheter (probably more intimidating for men than women), I was good to go. My anesthesia nurse, a very nice, comforting young lady, informed me she'd be with me throughout the procedure and would be at my side when I woke up. I took solace in that, feeling like I had a temporary companion.
The anesthesiologist informed me he would administer a nerve block once I was under and that it would negate any pain for 24 hours or longer. That sounded good to me. I was wheeled into the operating room, where I transitioned onto the operating table. It was cold and I was given a warm blanket. My arms were strapped to the armrests, and a mask was placed over my face and about a minute later, that's all she wrote. I woke up in the recovery room (seemingly minutes later) completely refreshed and without any recollection of time or what had transpired. As promised, my anesthesia nurse was at my side. About an hour had passed. I felt great. Sitting up, I looked down at my foot and viewed the metal cage, as it's known, screwed to my foot and lower leg with long posts - screwed into bone, by the way (my tibia). No pain, though. Oh, and my foot was facing the right direction - pun intended!
I was wheeled back to my room, where I called my wife, watched a little television, and tried to sleep. The various machines made sleep challenging if not impossible. I didn't sleep much, if at all. Sleep is elusive in the hospital and is relegated to little more that periodic dozing. The next morning my only concern was getting out of the hospital and going home as soon as possible. I made sure everyone who entered my room knew that too! My wife arrived in the afternoon. A friend had dropped her at the airport and she made the short drive to the hospital via GPS. My surgeon visited and informed me the surgery had been successful and I was free to go. However...I was still in AFIB, so the cardiologist wanted to talk to me. (Again, another story for another time.) I made it abundantly clear to my nurse that I was leaving no matter what even, direct quote, "if I had to crawl out naked." Legally, they couldn't keep me. I promised to follow-up with my doctor and was released. A very nice nurse, Ashley, wheeled me out and I headed home. In fact, we took a selfie together before I left! She was really awesome, and I'm thankful for her concern and putting up with me.
A little over two weeks later, I had my second surgery, which I verified several times would be outpatient surgery. I'd rather jump out of a plane than spend time in a hospital. It has nothing to do with fear. I just don't like being connected to a bunch of machines because just going to the bathroom is a chore. During this six-plus hour procedure, the cage was removed, fourteen screws and two plates were installed, and synthetic ligaments were attached. As promised, I went home afterward even though it was fairly late. In fact, I was the last one out. (I closed the place!) Thirsty from the surgery, the nurse hooked me up with a Big Gulp size cup of Coke, which I drained before we even got to the car. It was delicious and hit the spot after hours breathing dry air from a ventilator.
I know, I know, you're waiting for me to get to the best part of this ordeal. Okay, okay, here it is. I was alive! I was relatively intact. Although my injury (a displaced trimalleolar fracture - [read more about it here: https://my.clevelandclinic.org/health/diseases/21803-trimalleolar-fracture#:~:text=What%20is%20a%20trimalleolar%20fracture,on%20your%20quality%20of%20life]with severe ligament damage) was going to sideline me for several months (6-12, which sounds like a prison sentence and was in some ways), my prognosis was extremely good. During a subsequent visit with my surgeon, he commented that if every surgery went as well as mine, he would be published. What incredible news! Because of his efforts and God's grace, I would walk normally. I would skydive again one day, as well as cross the finish line of many road races, rock climb, ride my longboard, take my dog for her morning strolls around the block, and walk my daughters down the aisle. Having done the driving for most of the thirty-five years my wife and I have known each other, I got a break and sat back while she took charge. I was able to appreciate her in a way I never have because as strong-willed as I am, I was now dependent on her and was able to watch her shine. Love and support poured in from friends, family, and co-workers.
From the moment I impacted the ground, every person with whom I interacted was incredibly friendly, helpful, and supportive. The folks at the DZ checked up on me and encouraged me to get back to jumping once I recovered. They messaged me and told me to visit as soon as I could. I assured them I had every intention of jumping again and getting my A license and told them I'd visit as soon as I could. In fact, when I transitioned from crutches to a boot, I actually inquired if I could jump tandem with it. Sadly, no, but, hey, I was willing to try. The hospital staff - what can I say about them? Well, for all the horror stories people tell about nurses and doctors and stays in the hospital, I was blessed to meet such dedicated, caring people. I truly admire those who can genuinely care for others. It's more than a gift; it's a calling. Perhaps one of the greatest things one person can ever do is comfort another. The medical staff was top notch and I am grateful for each of them.
I consider my surgeon to be a friend. No, we'll probably never hang out or message each other on a regular basis and we won't go out for dinner or grab drinks after work, but we have a kinship of sorts. As I told him, and I meant it, I am truly glad I got to meet him and that he is a part of my life. It will be a sad day when I no longer have regular visits with him and his staff, all of whom I know on a first-name basis. The folks at physical therapy have been tremendously supportive and patient. Having quickly established a reputation as someone to push the envelope, they tolerated my personality and made the process fun. Providing understanding as well as encouragement, they reminded me often that my rehabilitation was transient and would soon be a distant memory.
In evaluating my life, many people might label this as the worst experience, something to put behind me as quickly as possible, box up and place it in the attic of my mind. In many ways, this was the worst experience of my life, particularly from a physical perspective. However, it took the worst experience to make me appreciate the best in life - family, friends, co-workers, and dogs laying at my feet; the simple things. While I certainly do not want to repeat this experience, I do not regret having it. I am thankful not only for the people I met along the way, but also for the opportunity to see those people in a way I never would have sans a hard landing. I requested a copy of my x-rays showing the screws and plates, which I have framed hanging on my bedroom wall. It serves as a reminder that even during the worst of times, one can experience the best. Perhaps Dickens was on to something!
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