Whenever someone asks me how I tore my ACL (Anterior Cruciate Ligament), I try to keep it simple and say, “I went skiing.” Then comes the surprised look.
Wow, she skis, the person’s face reads—which is expected. After all, the activity is out of the ordinary if you live in a tropical country. Moreover, one might reasonably assume that to warrant such an athletic injury, I must’ve been skiing at a considerable level. And I can’t help but think, if only they knew the full story.
Well, here it is.
Around this time six years ago, I went to Canada because my cousin who lived there was getting married. It was a two-week vacation. And the first thing on our agenda? A ski trip.
On the second day of my vacation, we drove out to the Blue Mountain Resort with the Canadian road trip ritual: a Tim Horton’s cup in hand. While sipping my hot French Vanilla, I looked out the window and recalled the past times I skied. By then, I’d already tried it thrice. I remembered the basics: To move, keep your skis parallel to each other—a position that resembles and is thus called the “french fries”. If you want to slow down, turn in your legs until the front tips of the skis meet, forming a pyramid. This was the “pizza”.
I’ve always enjoyed the thrill of skiing! And it helps to have a lot of relatives who are avid skiers. I always had extra guidance on the trail, which is to say, I could often run down beginner hills without feeling too scared. So, on this trip, I felt especially excited knowing I wasn’t going to ski as a complete noob.
We arrived at the ski resort: a darling village lined with wooden cabins and shops, their roofs carpeted in snow. We were only going to be there for the day, so we wasted no time. I wore my gear, filled out the forms, fitted my ski boots and skis, and hurried to the bunny hills.
French fries? Pizza?
Yep, still got it.
I watched other skiers—many of them probably half my age—swerve left and right, creating wide S-shaped trails on the snow.
“I can do that,” I told myself.
So I tried it.
Intuitively, it seemed simple enough: you just have to shift your weight. And growing up as a dancer and cheerleader, I was pretty confident in my ability to do that.
To turn right, I had to apply pressure on the inside edge of the left ski. And to turn left, I would do the opposite. Naturally, I let my body lean to the side, allowing me to maneuver the turn more easily. (I would learn only now as I write this that this was called the snow plow turn.) Then I learned to link the turns.
A long left.
Then a long right.
I practiced a couple of times, mostly on my own—my confidence building every time I successfully snow plow turned my way down a beginner trail or “green circle”. There was the Undergrad, a 125-meter trail, and the Easy Rider, a 200-meter trail.
After a while, I felt like I’d gotten the hang of it—the french fries, the pizza, the turns— and, feeling the daylight waning, I thought, I’m ready to graduate.
Literally. That was the name of the next slope: the Graduate.
It was still a green circle, so I was confident that I could do it. I rode the magic carpet going up the hill. When I got to the top, I looked down and felt my stomach whirl.
In writing this essay, I did some research and found out that The Graduate trail ran 250 meters, which distance-wise, isn’t that far from the two previous trails. Descent-wise, however, it was a markedly different story: The Undergrad and Easy Rider had a -1 meter descent and -6 meter descent respectively, while the Graduate had a -38 meter descent. Honestly, I don’t fully understand what those numbers mean, but being on top of that hill, boy, did I feel that -38 meters.
I remember thinking of another way to go down and realizing there was none.
A stranger, probably sensing my apprehension, called out to me and said, “Just go left and right.” His hands gestured a zigzag, referring to the snow plow turns. “It’s the easiest way to go down.”
I know how to do that, I told myself.
So I took a deep breath and went for it. I let my ski slide, applying pressure on one side and angling my body accordingly. I made a long left, then pivoted my weight, and turned right.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
A quarter of the way down now.
Left. Right. Left. Right.
Half-way point.
I felt the frosty wind on my face.
Then I thought about my speed—which I realized was a lot faster than I’d ever gone before.
So I thought about slowing slow down—and realized I didn’t know how to do that at that pace.
I think I may have tried to do the pizza. Then, in what felt like a blurred split second, I felt my torso hit the snow and then watched my legs, boards still attached, swivel over me.
Then I heard something pop in my lower body.
I found myself near the foot of the hill lying down with one leg over another in an L-position, unable to move. My face was wet, but if it were tears on my face or just the snow, I couldn’t tell.
A patroller saw me, and thankfully, my uncle was skiing in the area too. As they helped me up, I felt a dull pain radiating in my right knee. I couldn’t walk, so an emergency vehicle took me back to the lodge where I was shortly greeted by a medic officer. He applied ice on my knee, checked my condition, and filled out the incident report. He couldn’t confirm the injury and recommended that I get it checked by a doctor as soon as possible. Ever the unbroken optimist, I told myself it was probably nothing serious.
So I decided to prove that.
Upon leaving the lodge, I saw that I had to walk down two steps of stairs. I had changed into my normal boots now. The stairs had a handrail in the middle, and I took the left side so I could hold the rail with my dominant hand, my right. My uncle supported me on my left arm.
I stood on the edge of the landing, my left foot still carrying all my weight. I lowered my right foot and planted it on the step.
Then I took a deep breath and shifted my weight to my right foot the way one would normally walk down the stairs.
I heard another pop. I felt a sharp, stabbing pain that shrunk my world into my right knee. And I screamed.
Back in Toronto, I stayed inside my room and rested my leg for two days. Once I saw that my knee was less swollen, I decided to suck it up and enjoy my trip. (Still hopeful about my condition, I thought that we could wait until we got back to the Philippines to get myself checked.)
So there I was, hobbling around the city. I took respite on every bench and ledge. I put my leg up on another chair as I ate in restaurants with my relatives. I posted on Instagram a photo of me—a subtle but dignified smile on my face—in front of the Parliament of Canada, with the caption “Walang pilay sa may gusto pumasyal” (“You can’t be lame if you want to loiter”).
The day of my cousin’s wedding came, and I, one of the bridesmaids, decided I would traverse the fortunately short aisle in heels. I would force myself to walk properly. I succeeded. (I changed into my flats for the rest of the wedding.)
When I finally got my knee checked in the Philippines, the results showed a complete ACL tear, a torn meniscus, and a couple of other broken ligaments and cartilages.
Considering my surgery and year-long rehab, I think this is my most expensive travel souvenir yet.
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