A Word In Edgewise: Universe Calling: Yes, You!

I had no intention of watching the 2026 Winter Olympics, didn’t even view the Grand Opening on February 6 in the San Siro Stadium in Milan, Italy. Nope, nothing, and come the 15th, I’d have a task-free week, free to work on a project of my own. “No Olympics for me!” I proclaimed, smug in the assumption I controlled my frail humanity.

Above, in the aether, someone — something — took up the challenge: “Oh, really? No Olympics for you? We’ll see…”

And, thus, when a friend dropped by to visit the afternoon of the 15th, I couldn’t have sorted out my name, much less the topic of my project. I faintly heard him saying, “… ambulance, now!” then … nothing.

I woke, flat on my back, attached to tubes, in possession of my name in the ER of a local hospital. I could vocalize, but the intervening hours were gone forever — erased, I learned, when my BP plunged to 69/49. After further rounds of questions and tests, my visitor friend returned bearing concern, my iPhone, charger cord and a pair of old spectacles (not my readers). Six or so hours later, I was whisked from the ER up and away into a room illuminated only by an overhead TV eye, on and broadcasting … the 2026 Olympics. The Universe, I conceded, was driving the bus.

My friend, when he visited me in the ER, had gushed about the fantastic figure-skating doubles he’d just seen. Odd, since I knew he didn’t have a TV, and I couldn’t recall, over the past couple of decades, us ever discussing figure-skating or any Olympics-watching of any of the numerous summer or winter extravaganzas since 2001. Of course, some folks — even “no TV ever” friends — have learned to stream all kinds of things via other devices, while I, wedded to paper, lag far behind the digitally literate.

But now, there they were, those pairs, skating their hearts out for supine me in the dark of night. (My time frame was out of joint, so I can’t pinpoint exactly, but if an event was broadcast between the evening of February 15 and ‘round 2 p.m. on the 19th, it/they/them was unfolding before my eyes.)

Wagering on February 14th, I’d have bet the farm I wouldn’t be staring glassy-eyed at curling competitions at 3 a.m., nor would I ever, even in the most melatonin-infused dreams, envision Alysa Liu, clothed in gilded samite and a smile, floating effortlessly, joyously, scarcely scoring the ice, to claim the gold.

I mention melatonin, given to me, the nurses said, “to help you sleep,” but which my metabolism used paradoxically to keep my eyes wide-open, riveted to the screen hour after hour. Take snowboarding, first allowed as an event in the 1998 Winter Olympics in Nagano, Japan. My first viewing, February, 2026. Stunning! How do they even practice? Perhaps these were sole survivors… And curling. “Rocks and brooms” were in my head, but so many participants? So passionate! So many hours filmed…

Those five days didn’t further my own project, yet offered a unique educational experience, about others, yes, but myself as well. Ms. Liu was conceived by surrogacy (as were her four siblings) to be raised by a single, immigrant dad. He was her coach until she retired at 16 to rest, to take possession of her own life, then to re-enter skating at 19 to do it her way, with joy, winning gold at 20 with that ecstatic, shining smile.

From such heights to one’s own small victories, calmly calling, “Excuse me, I’ve inadvertently ripped out my IV line,” and the patient assistant, on her own life path, stoically mopping up my splashy Bates Motel cosplay, draping me in a fresh gown and calling nurse for another IV stick. Another computer-savvy aide who jiggered my iPhone into working.

Everyone, it became clear (or was it just the melatonin?), is somewhere along their life’s path — nurse’s aide to patient to gold medalists. Each intent on their own mortal business as the Cosmos murmurs, “Oh, really?” and casts the dice.