Trauma Bay NZ IPA / Brewer’s Select
I’m Not Fucking Leaving in a Wheelchair
Max's Story
"I'm not fucking leaving until I can walk out of this hospital."
Almost a year later…
Carving glass outside the wake on an adaptive sit-ski. The hardware in his spine, the wheelchair, the hospital, the surgeries, all gone for a few minutes as he runs his fingers over the surface and slides back into nature, his freedom space.
He’d been a rock climber. Six days a week spent on cliff faces and under ledges. He never fully overcame his fear of heights, part of his draw to scaling those walls.
Speedflying sparked his interest two years into skydiving. “It was the best of both worlds,” climbing, views, flight, and that solo journey into nature, everything he loved in one sport. He never became an aggressive pilot; barrel rolls and controlled flights were all he wanted. He downsized slowly, studied terrain, and cut out when conditions were bad.
The incident: low on sleep after working a double shift and having a tough week, but winds looked flyable. The hike was good, the launch was clean, and the first half of the flight was smooth. After soaring the ridge and heading toward the landing area, conditions near the ground changed. As he began to descend and turn, he knew, “I was going in.” There was no cinematic moment where the world slowed and offered him a decision, everything was rapid. Winds shifted in those last seconds and thrust him into the ground. His GoPro was knocked off and lost, or taken. “Good,” he says, “I never want to watch the moment my old life ended.”
His spine required extensive reconstruction, but after multiple surgeries he woke up. Heavy medication reduced entire days to flashes, but one reality clarified the haze; he couldn’t move his legs. After years choosing mountains, airplanes, cliffs, and open sky, nobody could promise he’d walk again. Nurses had to lift him out of bed with a sling and keep him clean and fed. “You need to stop apologizing,” was a demand from one hospital caregiver.
At 18, he’d left home and learned to take care of himself. The loss of independence was almost as difficult to process as the injury. He’d wake up from fever dreams convinced he needed to escape the hospital. He’d scream in his head to move, run, get up. In his mind, the plan was simple. “I’m not fucking leaving until I can walk out of this hospital.” Reality was different.
Rehabilitation was about learning how to transfer from a wheelchair to a bed; how to shower, use the toilet, and get through the day in his new body. When the therapist tried standing him between parallel bars, he collapsed from pain. Imaging found another injury. A fracture in his lower leg had been missed. Another surgery followed with more weeks of no weight.
Six weeks after the crash, he left the hospital in a wheelchair. “Two good days, a week of bad days. Two good days, a week of bad days.” There were very dark periods. Some people he loved left. Purpose was often a ghost he couldn’t hold and depression would creep in.
Eventually Max found NeuroWorks, a nonprofit neurological rehabilitation program in Utah. “That changed things.” The focus shifted from what he had lost to what he could do. NeuroWorks introduced him to adaptive sports like mountain biking, horseback riding, and water skiing. They also connected him with other people who were trying to rebuild their lives after spinal cord injuries. He learned to take the small wins and stop measuring himself against the person he was before the crash.
On his birthday he walked a mile. Next goal is a 5k. There will always be hardware in his body, but he won’t accept the possibility of “never” running again. He says he may not speedfly again, but maybe he’ll paraglide. Recovery isn’t about getting back to the exact place he was before the crash, it’s about discovering that there are still places worth going. “Let’s go. It’s go time.”
Almost a year later…
Carving glass outside the wake on an adaptive sit-ski. The hardware in his spine, the wheelchair, the hospital, the surgeries, all gone for a few minutes as he runs his fingers over the surface and slides back into nature, his freedom space.
He’d been a rock climber. Six days a week spent on cliff faces and under ledges. He never fully overcame his fear of heights, part of his draw to scaling those walls.
Speedflying sparked his interest two years into skydiving. “It was the best of both worlds,” climbing, views, flight, and that solo journey into nature, everything he loved in one sport. He never became an aggressive pilot; barrel rolls and controlled flights were all he wanted. He downsized slowly, studied terrain, and cut out when conditions were bad.
The incident: low on sleep after working a double shift and having a tough week, but winds looked flyable. The hike was good, the launch was clean, and the first half of the flight was smooth. After soaring the ridge and heading toward the landing area, conditions near the ground changed. As he began to descend and turn, he knew, “I was going in.” There was no cinematic moment where the world slowed and offered him a decision, everything was rapid. Winds shifted in those last seconds and thrust him into the ground. His GoPro was knocked off and lost, or taken. “Good,” he says, “I never want to watch the moment my old life ended.”
His spine required extensive reconstruction, but after multiple surgeries he woke up. Heavy medication reduced entire days to flashes, but one reality clarified the haze; he couldn’t move his legs. After years choosing mountains, airplanes, cliffs, and open sky, nobody could promise he’d walk again. Nurses had to lift him out of bed with a sling and keep him clean and fed. “You need to stop apologizing,” was a demand from one hospital caregiver.
At 18, he’d left home and learned to take care of himself. The loss of independence was almost as difficult to process as the injury. He’d wake up from fever dreams convinced he needed to escape the hospital. He’d scream in his head to move, run, get up. In his mind, the plan was simple. “I’m not fucking leaving until I can walk out of this hospital.” Reality was different.
Rehabilitation was about learning how to transfer from a wheelchair to a bed; how to shower, use the toilet, and get through the day in his new body. When the therapist tried standing him between parallel bars, he collapsed from pain. Imaging found another injury. A fracture in his lower leg had been missed. Another surgery followed with more weeks of no weight.
Six weeks after the crash, he left the hospital in a wheelchair. “Two good days, a week of bad days. Two good days, a week of bad days.” There were very dark periods. Some people he loved left. Purpose was often a ghost he couldn’t hold and depression would creep in.
Eventually Max found NeuroWorks, a nonprofit neurological rehabilitation program in Utah. “That changed things.” The focus shifted from what he had lost to what he could do. NeuroWorks introduced him to adaptive sports like mountain biking, horseback riding, and water skiing. They also connected him with other people who were trying to rebuild their lives after spinal cord injuries. He learned to take the small wins and stop measuring himself against the person he was before the crash.
On his birthday he walked a mile. Next goal is a 5k. There will always be hardware in his body, but he won’t accept the possibility of “never” running again. He says he may not speedfly again, but maybe he’ll paraglide. Recovery isn’t about getting back to the exact place he was before the crash, it’s about discovering that there are still places worth going. “Let’s go. It’s go time.”