When I was a child, my mother broke both arms while skiing, and I spent a couple of months bathing her, since she couldn’t get her casts wet. So as much as I adore skiing, I’m always a wee bit hesitant.

When I was training to become a surgeon, my teachers warned me never to do anything that might jeopardize my hands. “Your hands are your life,” they would say. So I always heard their words whenever I was tempted to throw my hand into a closing elevator to catch it. And last week when the wind was blowing through my hair as I cruised down a ski slope, the same words echoed.

Now, I’m no longer doing surgery, but my hands are still my livelihood. I make my living largely from writing, and the memory of those two casts on Mom’s arms still haunts me. Somewhere in the back of my mind, a lingering fear whispers evil nothings.