Last time I checked in from Utah, we’d just discovered that my son had ski boots but no shoes. 

Turned out, he didn’t have clothes, either. The paramedics cut them off during the copter ride to the trauma center.

No one told us.

As soon as his hospital discharge papers were signed, he was ready to get dressed. One by one we removed items from his bag only to find all his damp clothes shredded. His ski pants were intact but his boxers were nothing but fringe.

Main thing is they looked clean. Just like we always tell our kids. 

So we left the University of Utah Hospital with my kid in soggy ski pants and sausaged into my fleece. On his feet: those polyester no-skid hospital socks. Perfect for trudging through the snow.

Not complaining. Emergency responders are in the life-saving business not fashion. But dammit, I wish he’d regained consciousness long enough to shout, “Not the jacket! It’s Gore-Tex!”

Staying with my One-Armed Liftie for a few days while he gets the hang of being uni-limbed. Next week he’s headed back to work - as a ticket checker - till he loses the cast. 

What have I learned as I play nurse to an injured skier?

Just this: Never encourage a big guy with a freshly broken arm and shoulder to take a “nice, hot bath” in a tiny Holiday Inn tub. He may not be able to get out. For a few awkward minutes last night I feared we’d have to call the fire department.

He finally ordered me out of our room. When I returned he was standing. Red-faced and sweating.

He didn’t want to talk about it. I didn’t want to know.