It feels like the past year hasn't happened.
As I write this, it's September 2022, two weeks after I turned 31. And I feel like I didn't even live the year of being 30 years old. My energy shifted so much from exploring music and working on various creative projects to focusing on my health and managing pain, which has sometimes been unbearable. Has any time even passed? All my attention has been on my body and health ā what about my life?
I'm aware that I'm privileged ā I can bitch about the cost of healthcare in this country all I want (and I have), but I have health insurance, and I live in a big city, where I've never had to worry if there was a doctor that even treated my condition. Telehealth appointments have made this easier, too. I've never been fighting for my life or completely unable to work ā but the past year has been full of canceled plans because I was in pain, rescheduled or changed plans because I was in more pain than expected, and swapping my relaxing lunch break for another last-minute doctor's appointment because I finally got in, and paid and unpaid time off to rest and recuperate and for trips to urgent care.
If you've never had to advocate for yourself to get the right diagnosis, if you've never had to fight with doctors for the right treatment, I envy you. If you've never found yourself suddenly screaming in pain while getting dressed or taking a shower or filling a glass with water ā and felt so lost and confused because you still don't know how this all started and nobody has been able to tell you why it got worse when it did ā I envy you. If you've never been so tired that you broke down in tears, desperate for restful sleep that seems just out of reach despite trying everything the specialists tell you to do because you can't find a comfortable position to lay down, I envy you.
Sure, I've been working on my podcast this whole time, but I haven't put the same energy into it; my output isn't as frequent as I wish it was, nor am I as active in my promotion or marketing. Where were the late nights and early mornings where I scoured the internet for everything I could find about the latest band I was excited about, researching and writing questions before I even had an interview locked in? What about the articles and podcast episodes I was so determined to finish that I'd spend every second of my lunch break on the final touches? Or all the years I'd take my laptop everywhere, so I could spend all my downtime creating? That all turned into late nights hunting for medical research and articles that might give me answers; lunch breaks calling doctors' offices to schedule follow-ups and insurance to check on approvals; hours spent scouring Reddit and Facebook support groups desperate for information ā something to explain why my knee suddenly hurt the way it dad, something to suggest there was a treatment out there that wasn't just a band-aid, something to assure me someone would fix it.
And then, on July 7, it happened: I had knee surgery. It was my fifth knee surgery - an arthroscopy to clean up torn cartilage and get a better look at where and how bad my osteoarthritis was. Surgery day itself was a blip. I remember drinking a room temperature lemon-lime Gatorade at 5 AM, taking selfies with my dad in the lobby, being wheeled upstairs to a windowless pre-op area where a nurse doled out a Tylenol in a paper cup and another struggled to place the IV, the headache I felt after the anesthesia had worn off ā all of it is of such little significance compared to the months of confusion, frustration, despair, and defeat I had felt for so long. After eight months of physical therapy, ice, injections, and over-the-counter and prescription medications, going under the knife was a relief. Surgery is trauma to the body ā but it was nothing compared to the trauma of not knowing if and when my pain would ever end and not knowing if or when any medical professional would take me seriously. Getting this surgery meant that, finally, a doctor was listening to me and actively trying to help me get better.
A selfie taken shortly before I was taken to the operating room
I was sure that after surgery, Iād be done fighting. Not done taking care of my health ā but done having to advocate so hard to prove that I needed the care I did. Getting knee surgery was worth it, but what about the months before? Advocating for myself and still not feeling supported by most medical professionals for several months had me feeling hopeless and desperate. It's hard to explain if you haven't been there. Imagine telling a medical professional that you are screaming in pain multiple times a day when you're sitting, standing, and walking; that you're calling your parents crying several times a week because it's that bad; that you are doing everything you've been told to do but you still can't walk or sleep comfortably, you still shower in a shower chair, and you still have trouble getting dressed ā imagine telling a medical professional all of this, and not being offered a solution.
And after surgery? That pain ā the sharp, stabbing pain ā was gone. I felt more confident walking up and down stairs than I had in many months ā while I still had pain, it was manageable, and it got easier by the day. Three weeks after surgery, I was settled in my apartment ā the apartment that was now mine and mine alone, after what felt like a hundred years in a weird in-between but was, in reality, a few weeks ā and put on music while I was cleaning the kitchen and making dinner. I heard familiar opening notes ā the song was "Dead Century" by Wildlife, an indie-rock band from Toronto, one that Spotify had suggested to me a few times and was now ringing true. Why had I not sought this song out before? It explained everything.
Meet me in the hotel bar
Where I've been waiting for a year
When you sit next to me
Don't say anything
Hand me a drink and disappear
From the beginning, frontman Dean Povinsky's voice was gentle but longing ā longing for a time when things felt real again but knowing that right now, they just didn't and maybe they never would. I'd moved my kitchen table so I could look out the window and watch the sunset while I ate; the sky was golden and pure, so, so bright. Then the pre-chorus built and built to the most powerful chorus ā a chorus I wanted to inhale and experience and one that, god, I wanted to feel for myself.
It's all been forgotten
In the dead century
All is forgotten, baby
When you hold out for me, oh
Because what had even happened over the past year? Anyone I caught up with, all I talked about became my health and the latest update or a recap of my last visit. Who was I, through all of this? Was I cooking dinners that I wanted to eat, or was that just what I knew how to do, and I was too exhausted to even think of making something new? Did I even like the music I was listening to or the TV shows I was watching? What about my podcast, my photography pursuits, the band bios I'd been working on? I was certainly not up for going to many concerts ā after all, punk shows usually mean you're on your feet most of the night, something I just wasn't up to.
Soon after that mesmerizing listen to "Dead Century," I listened to the album it's on, Age of Everything, and I was hooked. For the first time in almost a year, I had a new favorite band. I followed them on Twitter and Instagram right then and there, and soon I was searching the depths of the internet for every interview I could get my hands on. I was listening to the album on repeat while reading the lyrics; I was dying to see them live ā and I found myself wanting to write again. A few weeks later, I saw A Will Away and felt immediately welcomed back to a community I realized I'd never really left. It turns out it's totally fine to be one of the people who sit down at shows when they need to, and it doesn't make it any less fun. I never stopped loving going to concerts. I never stopped enjoying working on my podcast or writing about music or taking photographs. For months and months, I had so desperately wanted to pour myself into all of it, to have a break from simply existing in pain and all the work I was doing to manage it. Going to the A Will Away show felt like my first breath of fresh air after hours underwater.
I've been looking at my notes for this piece for about two weeks now, holding off on posting because it didn't feel finished ā because I was hoping that "finished" would include a happy ending, or at least a satisfying one. But I'm now just over two months since my surgery, and a few days ago, the sharp, shooting pain suddenly returned. The world closed in on me at that moment ā had the past five and a half months since it got worse, or the past ten months of knee issues, even happened at all? Or was I living in some alternate reality where the pain never stopped? In the days right after surgery, my biggest complaint was that I was tired ā I thought it was temporary, but I'm still experiencing fatigue that I can't seem to shake. I'm hopeful that things will improve and confident that I'm doing everything I can, but it's still unclear to me ā and to all of the medical professionals on my team ā just what that improvement will look like and if being truly pain-free is even possible.
It was this past Saturday afternoon when that pain hit me. I had a ticket for a show that night and tempted as I was to stay home, I made the drive across the city to see Vanish Cap play their first show. After a conversation with a friend, I left feeling energized ā I felt alive again and was ready to finish this piece. It took a few more days for that to happen ā in addition to the aforementioned fatigue, I worried that after sharing my victories when it comes to rehabbing my knee, people wouldn't want to hear about the challenges ā or they wouldn't know how to make sense of it. That's all part of the story, though ā all of it. It's all part of this lost, forgotten year.
So, that ending I'd been longing for? Well ā here it is.