(Continued)
The next day was what was to be the first of two days at Aspen, only Bob took a tumble on the last run down the mountain. Ironically, Bob was the expert skier and I was the novice, and I had only learned to ski because it was such a big deal to him. By the time the ski patrol found us, it was already getting dark. They wasted no time in putting Bob onto the sled and leaving me at the top of the hill with all the skis, poles and boots. By the time I got to the bottom with all the stuff -- still a wobbly skier and made even more spooked by Bob's accident -- the ambulance had left.
I loaded up the car and asked directions to the hospital, where I found Bob in the ER getting taped up by the former surgeon for the U.S. Olympic Ski Team. You realize just how big the industry is there when you get to the ER and find ski racks with locks for stashing your gear while getting your wounds treated.
“So you don’t set collarbones?” Bob was asking the doc when I finally found him. He was wrapping his chest and shoulder tightly in what looked like a giant Ace bandage.
“Nope,” he said. “The bone will grow together on their own just fine. You’ll have a permanent bump there on your shoulder, but it shouldn’t be a problem unless you plan to wear low-cut evening dresses.” Fortunately Bob had given that up, so the unsightly bump was permanent.
After paying the bill with our credit card – a "first" back in the dark ages before people lived on plastic –- we found a drug store to get Bob’s prescription for pain pills filled. The pharmacist looked puzzled when Bob asked if he had to get the prescription in the quantity for which it was written.
“Sir, you can’t get more pills than the prescription calls for,” he said, eying Bob as if he were a junkie. Fully dressed, Bob looked perfectly fine. No sign of injury.
“Oh, no,” Bob said. “I only need three pills.”
The pharmacist shrugged. “That’s the first time I have ever had someone ask for fewer pain pills than the prescription was written for,” he said. “But if that’s what you want, sure.”
Of the three pills, Bob took one. FOR THE ENTIRE WEEK. He didn’t “believe in taking pills,” you see, but he did believe in grousing and making life miserable, even if it was our one and only honeymoon. Well, the way things were going, it might not have been MY only honeymoon, but it was definitely OUR only honeymoon.
The next day –- unbelievably –- we went back to Aspen because we had purchased two-day lift tickets, so I skied alone while Bob sat in the lodge by the fire. I rode the lift up in the “single” line, explaining to my co-riders that I wasn’t really single, I was married and on my honeymoon. What fun.
Back in the lodge, Bob was lolling around, drinking hot toddies by the fire, hoping to run into John Denver. That didn’t happen, but he did chat with a few people who thought it was just a scream that I was skiing alone while Bob nursed a broken collarbone on our honeymoon.
“Well, you can always tell people you were swinging from the chandelier,” one guy said.
The next day we were to head back to Denver to spend the night near the airport so that we could get out early the next day to fly home. But the Honeymoon From Hell wasn’t done with us yet. A blizzard was blowing through Colorado, and we raced to beat it to Denver as the interstate was being closed -- one exit at a time -- behind us, like falling dominoes.
(To be continued ...)
