In April 2007, I was skiing with a friend when I lost control on a jump and hit the ground hard. My friend Fraser skied up to me to check in and I told him it felt like I had broken my jaw. I realised that up to this point in my life (34 years old) I had never broken a bone, and had a belief that I never would. I told my friend that I was going to ski down the mountain, and if the pain in the side of my face didn’t ease up, I would probably call it a day. I set off again and 10 minutes later arrived at the chairlift, about 2 minutes ahead of Fraser. As I waited, the staff operator at the bottom asked if I was OK. She could probably tell I was in a little discomfort. I told her I’d had a wipeout and that this was my last ride. At the top the medics were waiting, she had been concerned enough to radio through and their response was not encouraging. They took one look at me and told me I had to go to a hospital immediately. Up to this point, I had been convincing myself that my &q