After skiing accident changed his life, former Marin resident learned to push on

Brian Jacobson doesn’t suffer fools. He finds pity a waste of time, but not eating a Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup. He finds humor in the humorless. A radiant sunset, a suspenseful movie, a thick chunk of lasagna send him to his happy place.

In a lot of ways you would never know.

On March 6, 2004, the air was clean and crisp at Lake Tahoe. The view was a postcard. Mountain peaks. Mountain valleys. “The Sound of Music” without the music. Snow was everywhere, the proper cosmetic, the white blanket making sense of it all.

Standing at the top of the Headwall ski run that day, Jacobson was ready to carve another descent through paradise.

“Freedom — that’s what skiing feels like,” the Santa Rosa resident said from his electric wheelchair.

Seconds after he started his run, Jacobson lost his freedom. He fell and broke his neck. Not that Jacobson was a stranger to failing. He began skiing at 9. An expert by his own admission, Jacobson, then 42, would ski any run at Tahoe without hesitation, only with verve.

“I heard some voices of the people helping me,” he remembers. “For a while.” His brain did him a favor and hit the delete key on memory. He awakened enough to realize he had trouble breathing.

The paramedics came to help Jacobson with CPR. The helicopter came. Airlifted him to the Washoe County trauma center, where he was placed on a ventilator.

For five months he was in the intensive care unit. Jacobson had suffered a spinal cord injury. It was determined he had “incomplete quadriplegia.” He can stand unaided. For about 5 minutes. Then collapse.

He would never walk again. From the chest down, he has no feeling. That was 22 years ago. The temptation to surrender was there. Would he shrink from life, give up, surround himself with self-pity? Would there be any enablers to keep him emotionally bound to the electric wheelchair for the next two decades?

As previously stated, Jacobson doesn’t do pity very well. The challenges are there, of course. He awakens every morning with his skin in pain, suffering intense neuropathy.

“You know how you get a sunburn if you stay out too long?” he said. “That’s what it’s like for me every morning. My skin is on fire.”

So Jacobson takes one of his daily 20 pills to reduce the suffering. He has round-the-clock caregivers, with one primary aide who has been with him for 13 years. Navind Swei feeds Jacobson by hand and places a straw in his mouth to drink liquids.

How does one live a life with such restriction? How does one engage and continue to be part of the human experience?

Jacobson moved to Santa Rosa after living in San Rafael for 19 years. He owned a successful graphic design and advertising firm with four employees. Personable and engaging, Jacobson never lacked for clients. His contacts touted his competency, professionalism and, most importantly, his personality. A small business can only thrive on intimacy, that quality of human connection.

“My friends tell me I haven’t changed at all, except for a little more patience,” said Jacobson, now 64.

How can that happen? How can a man practically raised on a ski slope — his father encouraged Jacobson and his three brothers to start skiing at an early age — be placed in an electric wheelchair and remain the same person for the next 22 years? What manner of character can accomplish that?’

For the answer, consider Lindsey Vonn, who took a horrific fall during this month’s Winter Olympics. The three-time Olympic medalist was airlifted off the course and underwent five surgeries as doctors worked to avoid amputating her left leg.

Vonn had skied against common sense. She had fully ruptured the ACL in her left knee just nine days before the Olympics, yet still chose to compete.

“What advice would you give Lindsey, since doctors say it may be a full year for her to regain function in her leg?”

Said Jacobson, “I don’t think I have to give her any advice. She doesn’t take no for an answer. I see an incredible drive. She is going to be an inspiration to a lot of people.”

Years apart in age and even further separated by athletic achievement, Jacobson doesn’t see himself in Vonn except in one critical aspect — determination. The will to continue. Dealing with depression, isolation, feeling like a stationary object, Jacobson could conduct a master class on how to move on from such trauma.

In fact, Jacobson has. After getting his bachelor’s degree from ArtCenter College of Design in Southern California, Jacobson received his master’s degree in rehabilitation counseling from Sacramento State. With that education, Jacobson became more involved with InSpirit, a Marin nonprofit that provides stipends and grants to individuals living with quadriplegia so they can continue living independently in their own homes.

Now the board president of InSpirit, Jacobson is part of a team in charge of annual fundraising and other means of donations. Initially, his two young daughters provided all the reason he needed to stay the course, but Hayley (30) and Taylor (27) are now grown.

Now well-practiced in moving on with trauma, Jacobson is honest with his handling of it. Sometimes he doesn’t handle it well. Sometimes the depression saturates. Sometimes he distances himself, preferring to be alone.

He must stand a few times a day for about 20 minutes total to combat the negative effects of prolonged sitting. Sometimes he finds inspiration in just a simple sentence. He has one sentence close at hand to be accessed whenever he needs a reminder. It’s from Methodist minister Lewis Dunnington:

“What life means to us is determined not so much by what life brings to us as by the attitude we bring to life.”

Jacobson will sit in a wheelchair. That much he will accept. Everything else he will not readily acquiesce to. He even tried skiing in a sit-ski. An aide trailed behind him on skis, holding ropes secured to the sit-ski.

“I could lean to my left or my right as if I were carving a run,” he said. “But I couldn’t slow down. The aide was there to help me slow down.”

So Jacobson had to sit back and go slow. His brain, unfortunately, doesn’t work like that. He only tried sit-skiing once. His brain must find a challenge. Sometimes the challenge is to forget.

“I miss the guy I used to be,” he said. “I was Brian 1.0. Now I’m Brian 2.0.”

He knows all too well that life happens while you’re making other plans. This certainly wasn’t his plan. He was going to ski until he couldn’t stand up. He still can, but only for a few minutes. Such limitations he never wanted, expected or needed.

Yet Jacobson never forgot what skiing always taught him. Keep moving. Even if it hurts.

To comment, write to Bob Padecky at bobpadecky@gmail.com.