Slow Magic: A Healing Journey Post-Acl Reconstruction – Tips for Coping and Getting Back to Strength with Guitar Songs, Recipes and Stories along the Way

By Dee Panaretos

'The MRI reveals a high-grade tear to the anterior cruciate ligament.'
'The anterior crucial what? Do you mean my ACL?!'
SLOW MAGIC emerges from the shock of an unexpected ruptured ACL diagnosis. Awake in the dead of night soon after reconstructive surgery, Dee decides to start writing. What unfolds over the next twelve months is her healing journey. She writes daily for the first three months, then weekly and then monthly, counting until Day 365 – November 21, 2023. All the way, she is hoping for and working hard towards a happy ending: healing.
Share Dee's insightful, entertaining and inspiring journey as she shines a spotlight on the cathartic nature of self-expression, illustrating how the ACL sports injury, considered every athlete's nightmare, can lead to stronger physical health and self-growth.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: Mar 28, 2024
• ISBN: 9781779417169

Dee Panaretos

Dee Panaretos is a passionate high school languages teacher, keen volunteer ski patroller, exercise junkie, awe seeker, writer and proud owner of a newly reconstructed ACL.

Book preview

Disclaimer

The stories shared in SLOW MAGIC are the author’s personal experiences and are not intended to serve as medical advice, diagnosis or treatment. The reader is encouraged to consult a doctor or healthcare practitioner for personalised professional guidance and medical advice.

Invincibility, I have dreamed of that feeling numerous times. The ability to do what I want when I want. The reckless abandon with which I was able to perform the sport and exercises I love, and the innate feeling that it would never end. Unfortunately, something as previously irrelevant as a 1.5-inch long,.5-inch wide ligament could take it all away in the blink of an eye.

Keagen Hadley

Author’s note

Anterior cruciate ligament (ACL) injuries are becoming a sporting ‘hot topic’, particularly in the world of football. The extensive catalogue of articles and medical papers found online concerning this injury over recent years draws international attention to its growing prevalence. The 2022–2023 FIFA World Cup championships highlighted this issue particularly in the women’s game, with a long list of players absent who were recovering from ACL reconstructions (ACLR). There are calls worldwide for more research to improve our understanding of why this is happening, as well as better education in injury prevention.

Everyone’s recovery after an ACL reconstruction is different. And for the record, here’s mine. It includes the back story, my accident, the pain, the fun bits, some of the songs I tried to learn on the guitar as the year ticked on, some tips for healing should you be hobbling along a similar path, simple recipes that my kids have asked for over the years and also stories from my past that I never dreamed I’d end up writing about. I couldn’t really ignore them. They just tumbled out along the way, in between the here and now of my healing.

In some instances, I have changed the names of individuals to maintain their anonymity. I may also have changed other details such as locations and dates.

I invite those of you who are interested, to share my journey with me.

Here goes.

Table of Contents

Disclaimer

Author’s note

Prologue

Chapter 1 – Back story

Chapter 2 – Thredbo Ski Patrol Association (TSPA)

Chapter 3 – The stack of the season

Chapter 4 – Further diagnosis

Chapter 5 – Surgeon’s call

Chapter 6 – Surgery

Chapter 7 – The healing journey

Acronyms

Young Person Text Talk

Acknowledgements

Endnotes

Prologue

As ski patrol volunteers, we are cautioned not to scream or cry in uniform. But on this particular morning I did both. When pushed, the human in us all kicks in. Hindsight is perfect vision; it would have been smarter to wait for the sun to soften the icy south facing slope, before venturing onto it. Keep the run closed – who wants to let the public loose in such conditions only to then risk the first responders who must go in to help them? But I was given a duty which I felt compelled to complete; didn’t want to let the patrol team down. Instead, I let myself down. Little did I know just how much things were about to change …

Chapter 1 – Back story

I will never forget my first trip to the snow. I was five. My dad, a vet scientist, had taken a year’s sabbatical leave from the Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organisation (CSIRO) to work with researchers at the Babraham Institute in Cambridge. We lived in Little Shelford in a cottage beside the village common, and my siblings and I attended local primary school there. Coming from the Australian summer to the European winter, we arrived as sun-bleached, bronzed Aussies; I scored the schoolyard nickname of ‘chocolate face’. Could have been worse. That year, we celebrated a white Christmas in the tiny mountain resort of Alpbach, nestled in the Tyrolean Mountains of Austria; a magical and formative holiday of picture postcard traditional wooden chalets set in sublime mountain scenery. Being the youngest of three, I learnt to ski on the lower nursery slopes. I remember the horse-driven sleigh of the ski school transport and the packed lunches we littlies were provided in brown paper bags, which included a delicious chocolate bar; an ‘in my wildest dreams’ daily highlight. At the end of my bed that Christmas, Santa left me my first set of ski goggles and I couldn’t have been happier. From that point on, the seed was sown and our family’s passion for alpine sports was set.

Coming from a non-English speaking, migrant background, it was Dad’s hard work and determination that led him to Cornell University in New York State, USA, to complete a PhD in veterinary science. He and Mum travelled there as a newly married couple in the late 1950s. From their Cornell base my parents were introduced to skiing at the aptly named ski mountain of Greek Peak Resort, less than half an hour away from where they lived. Talk about living the dream! They grew to love this snow sport so much that it would become the passion of their future family. The Americans encouraged their newfound wonderment, and at every opportunity my parents headed for the slopes. Much later in life my elderly father told a good friend of mine who I had just taken skiing for the first time, ‘Skiing is the best fun you can have with your pants on.’ He was right, but I was embarrassed.

The annual family pilgrimage to Perisher took place in the August school holidays where we stayed at the CSIRO Ski Club. Throughout my entire schooling, this holiday was by far, the highlight of my year. Every year. Back in the 70s, the CSIRO Ski Lodge was part-way up Mount Perisher so we would ski ourselves to the lodge with our food and our gear in rucksacks. This logistical challenge started off our white week with a fair amount of fun and adventure. Riding lifts and skiing into your accommodation with all you plan to wear and eat for the week on your back wasn’t exactly easy, but once the arrival mission was accomplished, we revelled in splendid isolation up on the higher slopes. ‘The Lodge’ as we called it, was ‘no frills’ mountain accommodation which slept 16 people in basic bunk beds. The daily schedule was a big pot of porridge for breakfast, ski all day until closing, then outside snow playtime ’til dark. Dinner followed, then cards at night, usually 500, where I’d continually muddle the trumps much to my father’s consternation, then bed – snuggling into a down-filled sleeping bag armed with extra pairs of socks to throw at anyone who snored in the middle of the night. The week was what we made of it; there was not a whole lot to do but ski, so that’s what we did.

During my uni years, I’d head for the mountains more frequently. Mostly with friends. Sometimes alone. I didn’t join the university ski club; they skied Thredbo and I was a Perisher girl. After graduating, I went to work as an English assistante in two junior high schools in the South of France where I discovered just how much I loved teaching. Of course, I joined the local ski club there. Every weekend in winter, we’d gather well before sun-up in the town square, to bus off to the different resorts in the southern French alps; SuperDévoluy, Serre Chevalier, Villard de Lans, Pra Loup, Isola 2000. We were spoiled for choice. I picked up the brand-new sport of snowboarding over there, as a side interest. Just for fun.

As I got older, I headed for the hills at every opportunity. I could never get enough. Still can’t. The mountains had become a part of me, and winter was my season of choice. The frozen, crisp air sparkling in the sun, the prowling winter wind blustering in the blizzard, the serene still after the snowstorm, the soft squeak of fresh snow underfoot. That magical, fairyland feeling of other worldliness; another far more beautiful, glittering white world.

* * *

Once back in Australia after my post-uni southern France sojourn, I began working as an international flight attendant. Pros: slipping in the odd ski trip whenever rostered on a flight to Christchurch in winter. Cons: the erratic hours and constant sickness from the ever-changing seasons and time zones. I had also just met a chap, Charlie, who I was particularly interested in. My itinerant lifestyle unsettled me and so I left Qantas to return to university. Time to complete my teacher training and follow my heart.

I built my teaching career working in public and private schools, firstly in Canberra, then Sydney. I loved what I did; it always seemed fun. Charlie and I married in our late 20s and our pathway seemed clear. Almost predestined.

Next came the arrival of our two beautiful sons. Life was full. Life was busy. Life was just as it was expected to be. Our careers moved ahead until the strings of motherhood tugged too hard at me and I took extended maternity leave to be the primary carer at home. I didn’t think twice about it. Didn’t even question it. Our young babies were adorable. Life was good.

Time passed; business opportunities opened up for my husband. Next thing we were living in Brisbane and a third baby was on the way. Enter Zambella. We spent four years in Brisbane, before moving back to Sydney. Time whizzed by. Our daughter turned 4 and I went back to work. We had three kids at various schools; I worked four days a week, Charlie full-time. Chasing his deals and business dreams interstate and overseas, he was often absent from home. This became the norm. Full on. Hectic.

All parents know that a young family leaves little time for self. Life becomes a fine balancing act between family, work and sleep – métro, boulot, dodo as the French would say. A kind of rat race syndrome. The routine can be exhausting. But you do it. Of course you do! Life is rich and your children become your world. Time passes. Change is inevitable. Looking back maybe I should have made more ‘me time’, even though I loved what I did. Despite its joys and rewards, the flip side of parenting depletes you and maybe even suffocates you as well. Unawares.

At some stage along the way, we bought a pad in Thredbo, our own place to stay in the school holidays. Sooner than I’d prefer, my ski buddy sons finished school and were starting to move on. Zambella still followed me down the slopes for a few more years until she too skied more with her pals than with her mum. Coupled with this, Charlie preferred to avoid the school holiday crowds. More often than not, I found myself alone in the place that I loved. The family that skied together no longer skied together that much.

Looking back, I realise that I had come to a point in my life where I was seeking something more. I was craving something different and dynamic; something exciting, something challenging. Call it a mid-life crisis, whatever; it was time for change. Time to give myself permission to do something just for myself. So, I hesitantly dared to embrace a life dream that had been lying dormant for decades and had almost been discarded at the bottom of the ‘never in my lifetime’ basket. Decision made: I would train to become a ski patroller.

Chapter 2 – Thredbo Ski Patrol Association (TSPA)

I had been a nippers age manager for two of the kids and had completed my surf bronze medallion as an adult. But the unpredictability of big surf always scared me. Just ask my friend and neighbour Rob who was in my bronze medallion training group. One of the last board rescues I remember doing in training was in decent sized surf at Coogee Beach. I was to take a surf rescue paddle board out to save Rob, a strong, stocky man who was supposedly caught in a rip out the back.

Initially, all went well. I made it through the waves out the back and hauled him onto the front of my rescue board. As we headed back to shore, Rob started to paddle hard for a large wave coming in behind us. I called out to him to hold back; it was way too big. Best to keep things safe for my ‘patient’ rather than lose control and get dumped. He didn’t hear me – or chose to ignore me – and in an instant, we were careening down the face of this massive wave all the way into shore. It was fast and I was furious. We made it back to the beach and as we got off the board, I went up to my ‘patient’ and slapped him across the face, telling him in no uncertain terms never to do that to me again. It was my call, not his.

Even though Rob pragmatically says he doesn’t remember this incident, all these years later I think it’s time I apologised. Luckily our friendship endures despite this apparent setback. Sorry, Rob! Probably a good thing that I had other patrol plans.

* * *

Winter 2014. I am heading down the Thredbo Supertrail scouting for a man in uniform called Paul Black, the captain of the Thredbo Ski Patrol Association (TSPA). I want to know if I am a strong enough skier to join his volunteer organisation. Once located, we head off together for a ski. He explains that I must take an interview and pass a practical test in late August. I train for this test by taking private lessons to be coached in technique. In August, I pass the interview and the ski test and become a trainee. I am so happy. But it’ll be a further two years before I actually train on the slopes. I take a new job; a career move where I am a member of a school executive. But there’s no time to escape down south. Something has to give. I ditch the job to follow my dream.

Fast forward to the winter of 2017. It’s the beginning of the June school holidays and I make my way to the TSPA base at 7:30 am, keen to learn. I have to pass the ski test all over again before I can train. No problems there, happy days. Then there is mountain knowledge to learn and practical tasks to accomplish. I’m a Perisher girl – my knowledge of Thredbo Ski Resort is sketchy. So much to learn. I am told training is all about putting in the time, the hours on the hill, learning the ropes. And I do train hard. My trainee group and I practise innumerable rescue sled rides down to the medical centre. We do these runs again and again. Such a determined bunch, all with the same goal.

The school holidays end and I return to the classroom. There’s an invaluable training week prior to test day, which is set for late August. I’m teaching at a brand-new school and while a few days leave to catch the end of training week is granted, it feels wrong. Teachers don’t take time off to ski. While it was no holiday, try explaining this to a bunch of people who don’t know you. As it turns out, a few days are not enough to get me back up to speed. I pass my mountain knowledge written paper and the practical test for the back of the akja, the rescue sled. However, I am not demonstrating enough control in the front handles of the sled. You cannot be sent out as a first responder to help people in distress on the mountain, if you can’t get them to medical care in a completely controlled and safe manner. Over any terrain. I would have to train again the next year to perfect being at the front of the akja. I was okay about that. Bottom line was, I needed to put in more hours. And I was happy for those who got through – nice job!

The following year, once again I show up to train at the beginning of the winter school break. Dad is not well. Mid-holidays Mum needs a hand, so I head back to Sydney. The last week of the holidays, all seems calm so I’m travelling south again. At the airport, ready to board a flight to Cooma, my sister calls. My father has died. I leave the airport, numb. Life speeds up. So much to organise. Time flies. We give Dad a fitting farewell and bury him with olive oil and love; he’s at peace – that’s super important to me. August comes and I know I’ve not trained enough to pass the patrol test. Heartbroken for Dad and bitterly disappointed for my hopes, in late August I head south and show up on test weekend. I choose not to take the sled test. That evening back at the patrol lodge, I celebrate with those who have passed. There’s always next year I tell myself, wondering if they will still want me. Is this taking too long?

Winter 2019 arrives and I’m still super keen. It has to happen this year or the dream is done. Luckily, they do still want me to train. I am out on the hill again the entire school holidays. All day, every day. Up and down Antons T-Bar dragging the sled. I’m out there training with whoever will take me, whatever the weather. Experienced patrollers act as ‘dummy patients’; they take it in turns to sit in the akja and yell at me. Others take the back handles of the akja and yell at me. Over and over, ‘The fall line, the fall line, get into the fall line!!’ I hear them loud and clear. I try harder. I get into that frickin’ fall line, I crouch down, relax and I stay there. I keep thinking to myself, ‘Yell all you like boys, I’ve got this!’ We practise over and over again. Exhibition Run. Albert’s Amble. Lenny’s Leap. Over the Q5 cornice. Again and again. It is physically taxing, but I love it. The help is there, the help is everywhere. They are such a supportive bunch. I hope for a test earlier than August as I am training so much. It’s only July, but I feel ready. During the last week of the school holidays Captain Black indicates to me that I will be tested on the weekend. He also mentions that there’ll be just one person being tested. ‘Be on your A game,’ are the only words of advice he has for me. 10-4 Captain!

Saturday arrives. Nice weather, good snow conditions. Excellent. Deep breath. I’m scheduled to test in the early afternoon. I slide into the handles at the front of the akja. The task is to launch off the Bluff – one of the steepest slopes in Thredbo. At the back of the akja is a friendly fellow