Uganda Be Kidding Me Read online

  I was minding my own business skiing down a double black diamond at around forty-five miles an hour with my legs in the same position they would need to be in order to birth a midsized kangaroo. My skis didn’t come off, and from the clicking sound I heard during my wipeout, I was certain the bottom halves of both my legs had separated from my thighs and were already on the chairlift back up the mountain. Once I stopped writhing in pain and pounding my forehead into the snow, I looked up at Johann who, in perfectly low-key fashion, informed me that I had just torn my ACL and that a helicopter of Nazis were on their way to medevac me to the nearest burn unit. Then he offered me a cigarette.

  To add insult to injury, I was dead sober, and I hate getting injured when I’m sober. This proves my theory that sobriety is not for me and is, in fact, for the birds. The helicopter landed and three big hot Swiss EMTs got out. One of them yelled at Gina, Shelly, and Sue—who were all filming me on their iPhones—to back the fuck away. The propeller was blowing the snow in every direction as two guys ran over to me.

  “Are you in pain?” one asked. I was in pain. I was in a tremendous amount of pain, but for some reason I told him no.

  “No morphine?” he asked.

  “I meant, yes. I am in pain.”

  “Would you like some morphine?” he asked again, pulling a liquid vial out of his ski jacket.

  “Yes, and I have a very high tolerance for drugs, so whatever you normally give someone, double it.” I have never had morphine, and it had been on my bucket list since I saw my mother die. The last three days of her life were the happiest I’d ever seen her.

  I smiled at the EMT. What a good sport I am, I thought. The three guys lifted me up onto the stretcher. One of the Germans attached my stretcher to his boots and skied me down to the helicopter. Once they skied me closer to the helicopter, which was noisier and seemingly much more dramatic, Johann wrapped his arms around my head to protect me from the propeller-driven wind and snow. I was more than a little turned on by this move.

  I’d like to go on record and say that Germans are the worst.

  Not only do I love helicopters, but we were flying right over the Matterhorn and it was an incredible view. The morphine was amazing, and I felt like I was on top of the world. I was trying to take pictures with the pilots while we were flying and they wouldn’t even smile.

  The female doctor at the hospital was the biggest German bitch I had ever encountered in a medical facility—and needless to say, I’ve been to a lot. I’ve had numerous injuries as well as many elective procedures done in order to amplify my coordination. Never had someone aside from a receptionist been lacking in empathy. Why would a person get into the medical field just so they could be mean to people at work in addition to being a bitch at home?

  I was left alone in an examining room long enough to call whomever I was dating at the time, then my sister, then my doctor in LA, who patched me through to an orthopedic specialist, who asked me if I could pop my knee in and out of its socket. I tried and I could, and then I couldn’t stop doing it because it was so weird. The doctor on call walked into the examining room, took one look at me on the phone, and angrily pulled the curtain shut before I could even tell her that I was speaking with my doctor.

  She hissed something in German that sounded like “Schitzenschfuckle,” and stormed out.

  What in the hell is the matter with these Germans? I thought. You’d think they would feel guilty about what they’ve put everyone through. I mean, seriously.

  “That’s it.” I told my doctor to hold on, hopped off the table on my good leg and went after her. “Excuse me.” I hobbled over to the nursing station she was at with my bad leg in the air, and I put my hand on the wall to balance myself. “What is your problem, Fraulein? I happen to be on the phone with my doctor in Los Angeles. I’m not on a social call. You need to be a little more professional.” I handed her my phone. “Here, talk to him.”

  After she hung up and handed me back the phone, I told her, “Just so you know, I’m Jewish.”

  After a very nice man wrapped my leg up and put it in a nice brace, I called Shelly. When she didn’t answer, I called Gina. When she picked up, she told me that they had gone to a chalet to have a drink, and Shelly had slipped on a set of stairs and landed on her elbow. They were all at the hospital.

  “What?”

  “Yeah, she slipped and fell down the stairs in her ski boots.”

  “Oh, my god. What the hell is wrong with us?”

  “Nothing’s wrong with me,” she said. “It’s you two idiots. They think she cracked her bursa.”

  “What is a bursa?”

  “I thought it was a dance, but it’s not. It’s a bone in your elbow.”

  “Oh my god. So where are you? I’m still here in the ER.”

  “I don’t know. We’re at the hospital in Zermatt. Johann said the one they took you to is a two-hour drive away.”

  “What?”

  “Yeah, I guess yours is a bigger hospital. They thought you were seriously injured.”

  “Well, how am I supposed to get back?”

  “I guess a taxi.”

  “A taxi?”

  “Yes. It’s stupid for us to drive four hours when you can just drive two.”

  “Thanks a lot. Like I know how to get a taxi in German.”

  “Chelsea, you can get a taxi,” Gina assured me.

  “Well, why can’t I just get a helicopter?”

  “I don’t know. You can try. Shelly wants to grab a drink. She’s in a lot of pain.”

  “Yeah, so am I,” I reminded her. “Well, I guess I’ll just walk back. I don’t know how to get a taxi.”

  “What did the doctor say?”

  “There’s no prognosis. They took an X-ray and said nothing’s broken, but my doctor in LA said it sounds like I tore my ACL. Something’s definitely wrong, but I’m just going to wait until I get back to the States.”

  “So, can you ski tomorrow?”

  “No, asshole, I cannot ski tomorrow. I can pop my knee in and out of its socket, and I’m on crutches. A torn ACL is what athletes get when they do a split by accident.”

  In transgender voice: “Athletes?”

  “Yes, like basketball players. Those are athletes. Thanks for nothing, Gina.”

  I hung up the phone and looked down at my knee, which had been wrapped in an Ace bandage with a brace on top. A nice German emergency room man came over with my crutches and told me in English (but still in that accent) that there was a taxi waiting for me outside. I thought that was a nice gesture from a country that had already put me through such hell. I asked for some more morphine and pain pills, and went on my merry way.

  Getting back took more than two hours, but I was on such a high at that point that I didn’t really mind. It was a beautiful day outside and it was a beautiful drive alongside a beautiful river.

  Once at the hotel, I found Shelly, Sue, and Gina in our suite. Shelly and Sue were smoking cigarettes. Gina was not because she, of course, quit that forty years ago. Shelly’s arm was in a sling.

  Next up: dinner.

  Chez Heini is a restaurant in Zermatt that came highly recommended by our concierge. It is written up and recommended as one of the best places in all of Switzerland to get rack of lamb. Shelly had been there before, and she explained that the owner or manager comes over and sings, and the whole place turns into a party after 9 p.m.

  There was some confusion over the reservation name, but once we sorted that out we were sat next to what I presumed to be a lamb oven. The waiter came over and Shelly ordered a bottle of wine for the table. I for some reason didn’t want to drink. The morphine was perfect and I didn’t want to mix it with anything, food included.

  “You’re not having a drink?” Gina asked. “That’s a first.”

  “This isn’t just a liver cleanse, you guys. It’s a lifestyle.”

  “Well, I guess you weren’t faking it, because in four years [tranny voice] I have never seen you lose your app