I sometimes compare that first trip to the old "Mission Impossible" television series: "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take a group of 14 amputee teenagers from vastly different backgrounds, races and socioeconomic levels on a one-week trip to Colorado to learn how to ski."
Inside the van, despite the early hour and morning chill, the teenage passengers are excited. Although I've repeated this trip often, I still share their anticipation. More than six years have passed since my first ski trip with this unique group of kids; I am still amazed by the imprint it has left upon me. As I look at our young passengers, I am certain that, although they have each faced challenges beyond their years, none will return from this experience unchanged in some positive way.
At the base of the mountain, we unload the van in an icy parking lot. One of the kids quickly discovers that crutch-tips slip on ice. Daniel's hydraulic knees have stiffened in the cold. Chandra's heavy jacket makes it difficult for her to use her single partial arm to carry her equipment bag. Their common response is laughter; it is obvious that their enthusiasm will surmount the obstacles that lie ahead.
I sometimes compare that first trip to the old "Mission Impossible" television series: "Your mission, should you choose to accept it, is to take a group of 14 amputee teenagers from vastly different backgrounds, races and socioeconomic levels on a one-week trip to Colorado to learn how to ski."
This mandate, issued in 1990, did not come from a self-destructing tape recorder, but from Gary Kendrick, the hospital administrator who had recently hired me as director of the Prosthetics Department at Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children in Dallas. Then in its eighth season, the annual ski trip was part of my new responsibilities.
Although comfortable with designing and fabricating artificial limbs, I was unsure of my ability to lead a ski trip for 14 amputee teenagers for two reasons: I knew nothing about skiing; and I wear two artificial legs. As is often the case in this unique hospital, it was the kids who taught me that not only was skiing possible, the challenge itself would reveal a new world for each of us.
Fortunately, I had well-qualified support on that first trip. Dr. Herring, who masterminded the hospital's first amputee ski trip, would accompany the kids in his perennial role of diagnostician of bumps and bruises, chaperon, chauffeur and occasional chef. Roger Bell, a medical photographer at the hospital who skis better backwards while videotaping than most people ski forward with poles, was returning as chaperon and trip documenter. No evening was complete without the group gathering as Roger replayed the day's often comedic footage. Also returning as a chaperon was Bob Ayers, a long-time hospital volunteer with an infectious sense of humor and an uncanny ability to motivate those around him. Female chaperons included a clinic nurse, a physical therapist, and an occupational therapist.
Our destination, as usual, was the National Sports Center for the Disabled (NSCD), in Winter Park, Colorado, where our group was assigned a coordinator to evaluate each skier's level of physical ability and previous ski experience. Each skier was then directed to an instructor who matched the student with any necessary adaptive methods and equipment.
Skiers missing a leg above the knee are generally taught to "three-track;" they ski on their one good leg without a prosthesis, using outriggers, a modified forearm crutch attached to a short ski, instead of ski poles.
Students with bilateral leg amputations may "four-track," using both prostheses with two skis and a pair of outriggers. One also can learn on the mono-ski, a unique frame attached to a single ski which enables the seated operator to use the edges of the ski and a pair of short outriggers to ski independently.
The equipment room of a disabled ski program is a world of its own. An artificial limb, whose owner is hopping down the hall to buy a pair of sunglasses, is passed to a technician who fits it with an appropriate boot and ski, then sets it aside until the owner returns. Stowed canes, crutches, and artificial limbs lay at odd angles beneath benches. Outside, an empty wheelchair sits in the snow, its owner no doubt flying downhill on a mono-ski.
I rode a snowmobile up to the practice hill for my first lesson. My instructor began by showing me how to fall, a technique I was to find came naturally to me. Like any first-time skier, I discovered that getting on and off the lift was both challenging and humiliating. I was then taught to turn so my body would naturally follow along. Later, I learned to touch an outrigger down much like a ski pole in order to initiate a turn, and to use my hips and knees and the edges of the skis.
By the end of the first day, I had graduated from the practice hill to a "green" run. Although most of the kids had already moved on to intermediate runs, I was ecstatic over my own success. My instruction had been focused and sequential. The mechanics of skiing with two artificial legs were challenging, but not impossible.
Once I began to master skiing under control, I discovered a new freedom. On skis I could travel with as much ease and speed as I wished without the normal constraints of my disability. As my skills improved, I could whiz by an able-bodied skier, or better still, stop to assist one who had wiped out.
Kids get the drift
This pride in a new athletic accomplishment wasn't the only healing effect of the trip. The kids also were reinforcing my belief that, whenever possible, a disability should not prohibit good clean fun. On that first night, I made sure all the boys in our cabin were in their rooms before I positioned myself like a sentry on the sleeper sofa by the front door. Several hours later, I was awakened by Nathan, one of my young charges. Apparently, while I slept, he and his friend, Derek, had been leaping off the balcony of our second floor condo into a deep snow drift. Unfortunately, Derek had lost his prosthetic leg which became buried in the drift. Not wanting to wake me, they had tried, unsuccessfully, to dig out the leg by using Nathan's prosthetic arm as a shovel. With the aid of fireplace tools and a flashlight, we eventually found his leg.
Several of the kids who were making the trip for the first time were shy about being amputees. In the pressured high school world where film and television have established the standards of beauty and physical perfection, it can be tough to grow up with any visible imperfection. Nor are adults immune. I still avoided public swimming pools and health clubs because I felt conspicuous. The ski trip quickly cured us.
Imagine a starry winter night on the redwood deck of a ski lodge . Several weary couples relax in soothing hot tubs sipping drinks when they are suddenly interrupted by 14 teenage amputees emerging from the clubhouse. Arms and legs are removed and strewn on the deck as the kids, laughing and joking, pile into the steaming tubs. Conspicuous? Without a doubt. But, any self-conscious feelings are washed away by the teenagers' unique camaraderie.
That same team spirit revealed six years ago is apparent again as the kids prepare for their first day of skiing. Daniel has already fastened his boots over his ski legs, and is leaning over to help Amy retrieve an outrigger. He moves with such confidence and ease, I often forget he also was born without hands. Amy is a senior in high school, so this will be her last trip with our group. Later, on the ski lift, I listen to her describe how events like the ski trip and her experience of growing up with one leg have influenced her decision to study medicine or psychology.
As a professional, I have had the honor and privilege of being entrusted with their prosthetic care. But, to be able to ski with these kids each year, to watch them mature into adults with talents and dreams, and to become their friend, has been a profound inspiration.
About the Author
Donald R. Cummings, CP, has been director of prosthetics for nearly ten years at Texas Scottish Rite Hospital for Children in Dallas. An ABC-certified prosthetist, he received a Bachelor of Science degree in prosthetics and orthotics from the University of Texas Southwestern Medical Center at Dallas. Don supervises a staff of nine in a department which fits some 300 prostheses annually for children and young adults with limb deficiencies. A bilateral BK amputee, Don leads the annual teen amputee ski trip and is also involved with the hospital's fishing trip, the amputee track team and running clinic as well as PALS, a support group for families of children with amputation. Don and his wife Karen have two daughters and live in Carrollton.
