Shamelessness: A Beginner’s Guide

a

I knew I shouldn’t have gone skiing on April 4th, just the third day after I moved to Breck.

That Friday, after Trump’s first insane tariff announcement, the market went completely crazy overnight.

The price of gold shot up like a fighter jet, and you could almost see the collapse coming right after.

I wrapped up a market report that basically just poured gasoline on the fire, and by the time I finished, it was already past 10:30 in the morning.

Still, I decided to go skiing, thinking the mountain would be packed over the weekend.

I planned to go back to Copper like I did the day before.

The first sign: I was busy on my phone and accidentally took eastbound I-70 instead of westbound.

I watched the ETA on Google jump from 7 minutes to 20, got mad at myself, and thought, whatever, I’ll just head to A-Basin since it’s on the way.

The second sign: the parking lot was packed to the brim, and I had to park at the very highest lot.

The third sign: while skiing down from the parking lot through the tunnel, three seconds in, my left ski just flew off my foot, and I faceplanted straight into the snow.

(And honestly, I’m pretty sure I knew the binding wasn’t secure before that.)

The fourth sign: the first time I fell into the snow, my phone and earphones got completely soaked, and lowkey, they haven’t been working properly ever since.

But I decided to ignore all of it.

Later, while carrying my skis downhill at the base, I slipped and fell hard on a sheet of ice.

The first thing I felt was the pain.

A guy standing just outside the railing looked at me and, with an oddly calm voice, asked,

“Are you all right?”

— like I was just standing there sulking instead of lying there in real pain.

I couldn’t speak at first because it hurt so much.

After three seconds, I finally squeezed out one word:

“Fuck.”

And somewhere in my head, I thought, Wow, I can’t believe my first instinct wasn’t to curse in Chinese.

Later, a kind couple helped lift me onto a bench.

And from the exact angle only someone flat on the ground could see, I noticed a sign hanging there:

“Slippery Slope.”

Sometimes, I think life just has that kind of O. Henry-style dark humor.

b

After the ski patrol subtly hinted that I could leave, they helped load me into my car.

Thank God I had hurt my left leg, not the right — at least I could still drive.

I drove myself to the clinic at Keystone because the ski patrol told me I could buy crutches there.

But why, for the love of God, is the handicap parking spot still a mile away from the entrance?

A distance that should’ve taken 30 seconds on two legs took me five minutes, hopping on one.

A kind lady saw me struggling and asked if I wanted to borrow one of her poles.

I said no.

She thought I was just being polite and pressed again,

“Are you sure?”

In reality, I simply couldn’t for the life of me imagine

how the hell I was supposed to walk using two ski poles on one leg.

After finally making it to the clinic, I pushed the door open, gasping for air, and leaned against the entrance trying to catch my breath.

The old man at the front desk stared at me through the glass for about two full minutes.

Once he was absolutely certain I had no way of getting to the counter on my own,

he finally shuffled over and asked,

“What do you want?”

I said, “I want to buy a pair of crutches.”

“We don’t sell crutches.”

“But the ski patrol from A-Basin just called you guys. They said you sell crutches.”

“We don’t sell them separately. But I can check you in as a patient, have you see a doctor, and then you can get the crutches.”

“Uh…”

“So do you want me to do that?”

“No, no, it’s fine.”

I hopped back to my car, immediately ordered a pair of crutches from Walmart,

and honestly, curbside pickup is one of the greatest inventions in the history of mankind.

c

I spent about ten minutes assembling my crutches in the car.

First of all, I’ll admit it I’ve had terrible hands-on skills my whole life.

Second, whoever designed the labeling on these crutches seriously needs to rethink their choices.

Anyway, after much struggle, I finally managed to piece together a functional pair of crutches and hobbled back home.

I started googling what might have happened to my knee.

After reading a ton of random posts and blog notes, I realized —

this was probably a way bigger problem than I thought.

My mind went from, “Crap, maybe I can’t ski for the rest of this season,”

to,

“Crap, maybe I can’t ski ever again.”

My knee was huge. Massive.

It’s hard to even describe how swollen it was.

At that point, I was pretty sure I had injured my ACL.

Should I go see a doctor?

Wait.

My health insurance had expired.

Awesome.

Now this was the real end of the world.

d

When I told my friends, “I fell and sprained my knee,”

they replied, “Oh no, are you okay?”

I said, “No, listen — I twisted my knee.”

They said, “Yeah, maybe you should ice it?”

I said, “No. I’m disabled. I’ve lost basic self-sufficiency. I literally cannot walk, bend, or straighten my leg.”

It sounds bad, but it’s not like “I broke a bone” bad.

It’s the kind of bad where all the little things you used to do effortlessly…are now impossible.

It now takes me five minutes just to hobble from the living room to the bedroom,

and another five minutes to crawl onto the bed — during which, at some inevitable point, a wave of searing pain will shoot through my knee.

Getting from the bed to the bathroom feels like a full-blown torture sequence,

especially because you have to hold your pee the whole way there.

You suddenly realize you don’t know how to scoop your cat’s litter box anymore.

You don’t know how to pick up a package sitting in the office.

And most importantly,

Why does everyone say, “One torn ACL, a lifetime of fear”?

g

The next day, I still decided to go see a doctor.

It was probably the second biggest regret I had after forcing myself to ski at A-Basin.

“I’m doing self-pay,” I told the front desk guy.

He looked like the classic Colorado guy — you know, strange beanie, shoulder-length hair, a little mustache.

“Alright, you’ll get a 40–60% discount,” he said.

They moved me onto a bed in urgent care.

Very considerately, they gave me an ice pack and took my blood pressure.

“We’ll have you take an X-ray first, then you’ll see the nurse,” the lady told me.

“Okay,” I said, while silently wondering, “Wait, if I’m going to see a nurse later… what exactly are you?”

When an elderly lady wheeled the X-ray machine over to my bed, I suddenly realized something wasn’t right.

“I’m going to take your X-ray now,” she said.

I looked at the machine and asked,

“Wait, wait… how much does an X-ray cost?”

She shrugged,

“I don’t know, honey.”

I said, “I’m self-pay. I really need to know how much an X-ray costs.”

“Alright, let me grab the nurse, maybe he knows.”

The nurse was a guy, and he also looked extremely Colorado.

God, I hate myself. I swear it’s just a joke.

He said,

“You need an X-ray. We have to make sure you don’t have a fracture.”

I said,

“I’m pretty sure I don’t have a fracture. I just want to see a doctor and get referred for an MRI.”

He blinked his blue eyes at me and said,

“No, we need to make sure first. If you do have a fracture and leave it untreated, it’ll only get worse.”

“But I really don’t think I’m fractured… Also, how much is the X-ray?”

“Since you’re self-pay, you’ll get a big discount, 40–60%…”

“I know. I’m asking for the actual price.”

“Sorry, I can’t tell you that right now.”

I swear I couldn’t hide my expression at that point.

“Huh??”

“I can’t give you the price.”

“I don’t need an exact number. Just a range.”

“I still can’t tell you the price…”

I honestly felt like I was talking to a robot.

Three minutes later, somehow, he convinced me.

I can’t even remember how — maybe I’ve blocked it out of shame.

Anyway, the old lady reappeared, wheeling the machine.

“Honey, I’m back.”

I got the X-ray done.

As expected, my bones were perfectly fine.

Still lost in reflection about how I got pressured into the X-ray, the nurse told me,

“Now you’ll need a brace.”

“Okay…?”

Then a fancy-looking knee brace appeared right in front of me.

As the lady started unpacking it, a sudden thought hit me.

“Wait, how much is this brace?”

She hesitated.

Maybe she wanted to say she didn’t know — but unfortunately, the plastic packaging had a huge barcode and price tag: $500.

Hell no.

“I don’t have the money for this,” I said, trying to sound heartbroken.

“Do you think I can get one from Walgreens or Amazon instead?”

“I’ll get the nurse to answer that,” she said.

And thus, my dear male nurse came back for the third time.

At this point, I was officially done with Colorado men.

“The brace is very important for your recovery,” he said.

“Yeah, but I don’t have the money,” I said firmly.

Finally, he gave up.

There’s an old Chinese saying:

Mistakes shouldn’t happen a third time.

Luckily, I didn’t even let it happen twice.

h

When I checked out, the front desk girl told me,

“Your facility fee is $400.”

I asked,

“Does that include the X-ray?”

Without even looking up, she replied,

“No, that’s just the facility fee. Original price was $1000, we gave you a 60% discount. The X-ray will be billed separately.”

“By the way, you can call this number to apply for financial assistance.”

I didn’t feel angry.

Strangely enough,

as I signed the paperwork,

I smiled.

I

“You know, if you just keep ignoring the bill, they’ll eventually send it to collections.

The collections agency will start calling you.

And when they do, you just tell them you’re broke.

Then they’ll lower it, and lower it again, until you’re willing to pay.”

That was the only useful piece of advice my friend had ever given me since we met.

J

On Monday morning, I got a call from the assistant at the orthopedic clinic.

“So how much is the consultation fee?” I asked him.

“I don’t know,” he said.

“But I need to know,” I replied.

“Alright, let me check with our billing department…”

A few minutes later, he came back.

“So, you’re self-pay. You’ll get a big discount,” he said.

“I know,” I thought to myself. Oh God, here we go again.

He continued,

“So, for today, you’ll need to pay a $500 copay.”

I said,

“Five hundred?? Like 5-0-0?”

“Fifty,” he said.

“Five-zero.”

Honestly,

I still don’t understand how I heard “fifty” as “five hundred.”

I guess it was just auditory hallucination caused by emotional trauma.

A few hours later, I met him in person.

And as it turns out, he looked exactly like how he sounded —

very Colorado.

My orthopedic doctor, though —

he was handsome.

Don’t get me wrong, his hair was already white.

But also, don’t get me wrong — being older doesn’t matter when you’re genuinely good-looking.

He thought my MCL was damaged and my ACL was loose.

“Is my ACL partially torn, or completely torn?” I asked.

“With the ACL,” he said, “it’s either torn or not torn. There’s no halfway.”

I stayed silent for a second.

“So… do I need surgery?” I asked.

“Surgery is the best way to treat this,” he said.

“But of course, we’ll confirm everything with an MRI first.”

“I don’t want surgery,” I said.

He thought I was scared and tried to reassure me by explaining the benefits of surgery.

“No,” I said, “I mean… surgery would mean I need someone to take care of me. And also, I don’t have insurance.”

The very handsome doctor looked at me sincerely and said,

“We’re not the kind of people who just want to take your money. We just want to do everything we can to help you heal.”

Then he asked if I had a knee brace.

“No,” I said. “Yesterday someone tried to make me buy one for $500. I couldn’t afford it.”

There was a slightly awkward three-second pause.

Then he smiled a little and said,

“Well, let me see if we have any donated braces around here. Maybe I can get you one for free.”

And just like that,

I scored a free brace.

At that moment,

I finally understood the ultimate truth of life:

Shamelessness is the most useful tool of all.

(and yes ofc this is to be continued, i will keep harassing u guys with this story)