Watch out for hidden rocks

One of the most frightening telephone conversations I've ever had was in 2003 and went something like this:
Me (on answering the phone): "Hello, I'm just about to get on the plane to go home. Are you ok?"
Mr.B (in France): Well, I don't want you to worry, but.."
Me: "But what? What have you done?"
Mr.B: "Erm.. I think I've broken my back."

You can imagine my reaction to that - despite being stood in the middle of Glasgow Airport at the time; and it turned out that he had indeed fractured two vertebrae in his lower back whilst skiing. 4 days later he finally came home, happily on his feet (just), but encased in a hard plastic shell from neck to hip. He was very lucky not to be injured more severely, the helmet that I had bullied him into buying and wearing just before that trip very possibly saved his life judging by the huge dent in it. 6 weeks of being horizontal on the sofa followed by several months of physiotherapy and he was almost as good as new.

So when he casually mentioned last night that the 10th anniversary boys' skiing trip was coming up my heart sank. He's only been back to the slopes once since the accident, and it was an incredibly nerve-wracking time. But, like the good little wifey I am, I've encouraged him to go as I can see he really wants to. Still, no matter how many times he tells me it was only a little fall, and he was just unlucky that there happened to be some rocks underneath the snow where he landed, I won't be happy until he's back in one piece.
Plus I've told him if he has so much as a scratch when he gets home, I'm going to break his skis.