So there we were, walking the dog round Copper Village. As we passed the emergency clinic I foolishly said, "This is the first time we haven't had to go there". Given that this was day three of a two week stay, yes - it was a bloody stupid thing to say.
And almost incorrect since I'd had to phone them when the Little Guy started throwing up on our second night. Obviously, under normal circumstances I don't phone doctors just because someone throws up, but he'd been complaining of a headache so severe that it was making him scream in pain. He can give Lord Olivier a run for his money, but suffering a similar headache myself, I knew that he had a touch of altitude sickness, and when the person starts vomiting, it's a little more serious. (I saw his face drain of colour and managed to get a small bucket in front of him just in time, thank you.)
Unfortunately the clinic was just closing, but they kindly gave me the next step on the seriousness scale (coughing) and told me to take him to the hospital 5 miles away if that happened. It didn't.
So there we were on Christmas Eve, skiing with the teens (who were kindly "taking it easy" and not trying to get me down black bumpy runs). Little Guy was in ski school for the day. As soon as we got off the lift of the highest mountain the phone rang. LG was hurt - not badly, but we needed to come to ski patrol straight away.
Previously, I had been practising skiing slowly, as I have a habit of hurtling down mountains,marginally out of control, and silently screaming "Sh-i-i-i-t". This time of course, that went out the window as we raced to the bottom. The Ball & Chain just yelled, "I'll meet you down there" (ie. "I'll go on ahead being a superior skier"). Unfortunately, I wasn't quite sure of the way down so I ended up following him down some very steep, bumpy runs. He almost crashed into a tree when he looked back at one point and saw me careering down behind him. I don't think I was touching many of the bumps (moguls) though - I was literally flying.
And road up, the Little Guy was not badly hurt, thank goodness. He finally bumped into the little girl who seems to have a crush on him and spends the entire day skiing about 18 inches behind him. I was going to have a word with the ski instructor about it only the day before, but having been accused of turning into a "helicopter" parent by the Queenager (for telling her not to brush wet, tangled hair) I held back. On this occasion I was right though (she says, triumphantly); the little girl had skiied too close to him and they ended up colliding. Apparently she was fine but he banged his knees so badly, he couldn't stand up never mind ski down the mountain.
So he was put into one of those yellow body bags and stretchered down to the bottom. (I am so glad I wasn't standing around on the slopes when he went past as I would have fainted.) Once we realised he was fine, I tried to make light of it by announcing that being stretchered down the mountain was "cool".
He looked at me deadpan, gestured to the small bucket next to him and said "You try coming down on your back, head first at about 70 miles per hour when all you can see is the sky, mom. It's not cool it made me almost throw up". And indeed, he was once again, a whiter shade of pale.
He's back at ski school today and I have my phone at the ready! Ho hum.