Skier’s Thumbs

Before having kids, I considered myself a pretty healthy person. I’d never had surgery, never needed pain meds, never even broken a bone—well, unless you count possibly breaking my little toe (I’m a bit of a klutz).

But after kids, everything changed. My activities shifted dramatically. Instead of safe, predictable hobbies like spin class or going to the gym, I suddenly had two energetic little boys to keep up with.

Though I grew up in a mountainous state, I wasn’t a skier as a kid. My boys, however, were on skis by the time they were two. Not wanting to be left behind while they hit the slopes, I figured I’d better learn too. As they progressed, so did I—starting with the bunny hill, then breezing through some greens, onto the blues, and eventually even dabbling in the blacks. (Though to be honest, I still avoid anything bumpy, narrow, or icy… you get the idea.)

Two years ago, when my boys were 9 and 6—and both could independently load and unload from the ski lift without my help—they had already surpassed me in skill. That’s when my husband casually suggested I might be “ready for poles.” I thought it was a terrible idea. I had visions of accidentally poking out someone’s eye (possibly my own), or wiping out in a yard-sale-style crash, with poles scattered down the hill behind me.

And as a doctor, I was all too familiar with the injury known as “gamekeeper’s thumb” or “skier’s thumb”—a torn ligament from the thumb being pulled back during a fall. No, thank you.

But my husband was insistent. Over President’s Day weekend, he brought his extra set of poles for me to try. What he failed to mention was that they were racing poles—with hard plastic cages instead of soft fabric loops.

That day, I wasn’t feeling up to anything too intense, so I practiced carrying the poles up the lift (no eyes were harmed!) and took the easier route down while my boys tackled a bumpier blue. I actually beat them to the bottom and was standing still, watching them descend, when—on that icy slope—I somehow lost my balance. I fell straight down on my backside, instinctively bracing myself with my hands behind me. Because my thumbs were locked in the rigid hand cages, they bent backward—and I felt both of them snap.

Immediately, I knew something was wrong. I couldn’t bring my thumbs in toward my palms or pinch them to my pointer fingers. Bilateral gamekeeper’s thumbs. I called a few physician friends right away and was in to see ortho the very next day.

The news? I needed surgery on my left thumb and extensive rehab for the right. I spent 6–8 weeks in splints on both hands. I couldn’t easily feed myself, wash my hair, or even type—an absolute nightmare for a doctor who needs to examine patients and document every visit.

Thankfully, my organization had just launched an AI dictation system that transcribed conversations into medical notes. That saved me from total disaster at work, at least until I could hunt-and-peck my way around a keyboard again.

Oddly enough, the situation came with a silver lining. I couldn’t cook—I couldn’t chop, stir, lift, or get my hands dirty. I couldn’t wash dishes, do laundry, or even hold a cup. By necessity, my kids had to start packing their own school lunches and cleaning up after themselves more consistently. For once, I wasn’t doing everything.

That period may have knocked me down physically, but it gave me something I didn’t know I needed: a break. At work, at home, and mentally. Over those weeks, my physical health slowly recovered—but so did my mental health. It taught me the power of slowing down, of not overscheduling every moment of my life.

And that, in a very real way, allowed me to thrive.