Blind-Sliding Low

I still have a hard time sorting out my feelings about Friday, February 12th, 2010. You all know, I'm sure, about the fatal luge accident that occurred during the final training runs for Men's Luge. I hope you only heard about it, and did not watch the gruesome video.

Death is a heartbreaking tragedy no matter what the circumstances. I can’t convey how much more difficult it is to face such a sorrowful incident in the midst of a large, juggernaut of an event like the Olympics. There is a line from a song by Ingram Hill that says “I don’t know what I’m feeling – it’s not alright, it can’t be”. That’s basically how I felt that Friday. There was no room for feeling distraught at a celebration as joyous as the Opening Ceremonies, yet I couldn’t feel right about cheering wildly in honor of Canada with this weight on my shoulders. I was in limbo, a weird funk, but of course time marches on.

I was there. I was standing inside Turn 16 – the final curve – the morning of the last practice runs for Men’s Luge. I saw the Italian gold medal favorite fly past me after faltering and correcting his positioning further up the track. I snapped photos of the screen displaying each athlete before they began their runs simply so that I could accurately caption my facebook photos later on. I focused my camera on the “Vancouver” lettering in the ice and waited until I heard the rumbling of the sled barreling around the corner. I rejoiced at catching the luger in frame. The second Georgian luger to take his run had been no different than the rest. I commented to myself that I had no idea how to pronounce his last name.

I don’t remember hearing an audible gasp from those inside Turn 16. There was the briefest of pauses as the whole world slowed down, then the medical team lounging on the Gator beside us sprang into action and raced out of the Dog Bone. The screen that had showed the luger fly off his sled and into the post beside the track went blank as my whole body went numb.

The three other interns and I walked out of track in a shocked daze, mumbling that we hoped he’d be okay and what a shame that he’d more than likely be out of the Olympics. We attempted to check on him from the same spot we watched the Romanian luger be loaded onto a stretcher the day before, but were stopped and asked to clear the area by a VANOC official. In hindsight, I will be eternally grateful for that.

We walked somberly back to the trailer and reported to Scott what we had just witnessed. The office was still quiet (which was the only reason all four of us had been at the track in the first place) so after not too long we were able to slip out into the Workforce Break Tent and watch the news updates on T.V. They replayed the video a couple times, which was completely nauseating to watch. None of us had an appetite for lunch but we ate anyway, clinging to some semblance of normalcy.

After repeatedly searching Google for updated information, we learned that the luger did not survive his injuries.

There was a void deep within the core of me. I immediately felt an unwarmable cold, and fatigue descended like a tidal wave. There was nothing to do but sit in the office and stare dejectedly at each other. As VANOC scrambled to keep media releases under control and a meeting was set up with luge coaches and captains, all of our workers were pulled off the mountain and contained within Lot 7. We speculated as to whether or not they would cancel the luge events, but Kelly pointed out that "the show must go on". That made me even more sick to my stomach, mostly because I knew he was right.

Since our team could no longer access the areas we were scheduled to clean, we were sent home early. Holly and I returned to camp to change and get ready to meet Sydney and Colleen in town to watch the Opening Ceremonies. I felt like I was in a fog. I didn't cry. I didn't want to talk about it, though Holly and I spoke briefly enough to agree that somehow we would feel differently if we hadn't been there - right there, in the Dog Bone, watching...

The Opening Ceremonies were beautiful. Part of me welcomed the distraction, although when the screens at Whistler Live in the Village Square temporarily lost the feed from Vancouver there was room for my mind to wander. Part of me didn't want to be there.

I found it cruelly ironic that the sixty seconds of silence in honor of Nodar Kumaritashvili equaled the approximate amount of time I knew of his existence before his name was ingrained in my memory forever. Tears finally streaked my face during K.D. Lang's rendition of Hallelujah, and I stood grateful for the drizzling rain and the hood that I used to conceal my face. I then felt strangely comforted when one arm of the torch did not rise triumphantly toward the ceiling to meet the others, as if it representing the piece that was irreplaceably missing from these Winter Games.

Oddly enough, that was the small bit of peace that I took with me when it was finally time to escape consciousness for a night's rest.