Going Rogue: An American Life (47 page)

Going Rogue

addition, as I felt that sweet healing spitit of selflessness in Landstuhl’s medical staff, I saw the very best of America. During his teen years, my biggest argument with Track was whether he’d play the hockey position he wanted to play, or skate a position I wanted him to. I thought, ifall I

to fight

about with

is

they’ll be in the lineup, we’re

well.

From the

he could walk, Track skated. He played other

sports, but hockey was his passion. From the moment we first laced up his skates for him, like every other Alaska kid’s, his dream was to play in the NHL. I didn’t want to shatter that dream by reminding him that less than one percent of athletes make it to the big show, but I did occasionally mention that some dreams are thwarted by career-ending injuries. He answered that with a concession: shoot, if I can’t go to

NHL, I’ll just play in

the NFL.” As it turned out, Track was injury-prone because he was a grinder, a player known for workhorse toughness first, and finessing the puck second. He relished hitting the boards-and opponents. He drew a lot of penalties. I remember at a rink once, a clean-cut young man walked up to me.

you Mrs. Palin?” he said.

I said I was.

We shook hands.

“I just wanted to tell you that I played against Track for a whole bunch of years!” he said.

I was thrilled and was about to ask him for memories when he provided one on his own.

“Yeah, Track broke my hand.”

My face fell. “Oh. I hope he said he was sorry.” It wasn’t only his opponents who took a beating. Track had

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chronic shoulder problems, including a right shoulder that persistently popped out of the socket. One spring, he was playing for the Alaska All-Stars and trying out for an older elite juniors team when I got an emergency call from his coach. Track had suffered a devastating hit that blew out his shoulder again. The coach had him in the hospital emetgency room; they’d been there for hours.

The hospital hadn’t been able ro reach me because I was fifty miles away at a track meet with Bristol and the area had weak cell coverage. Guilt enveloped me fat being Out of touch and too far away from a son who was in pain. I quickly wrangled rides for the other kids I’d brought to the track meet and ,took off for Anchorage.

In the ER, I was shocked when I saw Track sitting on a gurney, disheveled, ashen, and shaking. They’d cut off his jersey, and his arm dangled at his side, useless. He looked so worn out and hurt.

“I asked for a cup of water, Mom,” he said. “They said I couldn’t have one until you got hete.”

turned to the nurse, and my eyes said more than words could have. “I am so sorry,” she said. “I really am. But we can’t treat him until you sign consent forms because he’s a minor.” I willed myself to remain calm. “He’s seventeen. And he needs a drink of water.”

Apologetically, the nurse explained that they couldn’t even let him walk down the hail to the drinking fountain because if he needed surgery his stomach should be empty, and they couldn’t treat him without me. Of course I understood, but I still fumed inside. I even wondered out loud about why this big, strapping, neatly grown man who was ovetcome with pain couldn’t even get a dtink of watet without parental consent, yet a thirteen-year-old gitl could undergo a painful, invasive, and scary abortion and no •

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Going

parent even had to be

The nurse seemed to agree with

me, and on’ the spot I mentally renewed my commitment to help change Alaska’s parental notification law so that our daughters would have the same support and protection we give to our children in other medical situations. Track never wanted me in the room for the aftermath of his shoulder injuries, but he always asked me to pray for him before I stepped outside, and this was no exception. From the waiting room, I heard his groan when the doctors popped his shoulder back in.

Later, he would have surgery to correct the problem. As the injury healed, he said he wanted to scar the shoulder up some more-with a tattoo.

“No way,” I said. “How could you choose something to live with for the rest of your life? You want a tattoo to define you?” The answer turned out to be’ yes. On his eighteenth birthday, he and his buddy Jack Nelson headed to the local pador, and Track had a Jesus fish inked into his skin. He knew I couldn’t object to
that.
Soon after, he did it again, this time with a map of Alaska tattooed over his shoulder. He knew I couldn’t argue

about thar one, either.

In his senior year, when Track left Alaska to play on a traveling squad near Kalamazoo,

he bunked with the Holmes

family, a troop of dedicated hockey heads whose lives revolved around early rink times and coughing. up retirement savings for monthly ice bills. Track had traveled outside Alaska many times before, but never so extensively, and it was while bouncing around the Lower 48 with the Holmeses that he fell in love with his country. He would call home in wonder about the diversity and the nice people and the heartland neighborhoods with American flags hung from doorposts in every town. The city of Boston, to which we had traveled for hockey tournaments before, fascinated
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