V. H. King's Ink

January 19th marked the one-year anniversary of my surgery. I’ve felt some measure of anxiety about it since December. End of the year reflections, on top of a major recovery milestone, created pressure to reflect. I’m not sure I have anything profound to say, though. As someone who has often been told my words carry weight, I find myself internalizing the narrative that everything I write must be profound. It’s a damaging expectation to set for myself.

On my surgery anniversary eve, I wanted to cry. My calves and lower back and sides had been in an ever more irritating flare. Despite stretching before bed, I tossed and turned for a while before deciding a shower would put my restlessness to better use. I was frustrated with my body and all the ways it just couldn’t anymore. But at least a shower would exhaust me to the point where I was forced to sleep. Maybe. 

I can’t focus for more than an hour, if that. There are scenes I want to write that I can’t find words for. Even typing up poems I wrote years ago is too much for me to manage. On top of that, my brain delightfully goes blank when I try to work on art. Whether it’s sketching, planning out a painting, or coloring with crayons, my mind just can’t grasp the task more than half the time.

All of that from the past year weighed on me as I wrangled myself out of my pajamas and into the shower chair, my heart-rate speeding well over 150 beats per minute in the process. All this while biting back a curse on the neurosurgeon who said I should go back to work April of last year

As I slogged through the chore of scrubbing my arms and legs with hands that could barely grip a towel or shower loofa, I remembered the conversation I had with a friend from undergrad, whom I hadn’t talked to in at least two years. Health matters aside, there was plenty for both of us to catch up on, but she quickly pointed out the gross inadequacy of so-called health care.

“Ten years,” she said. “Ten years with a tumor before they discovered and removed it–plus it worsened your other conditions and they’re not even trying to solve anything?!”

Yes. Ten years.

And that’s what I’ve been stuck with, while my heart hammers away and I shiver as my blood sugar drops from the strenuous labor I just put my body through all for the sake of hygiene. 

The 19th feels like less of a recovery milestone. I don’t feel recovered of anything. How could I, when I’ve barely been able to acknowledge the scope of what I’ve been through? There’s no way to determine the true extent of the damage, but I know I keep stubbing my toes and knocking my shins against memories, realizations, pieces of a puzzle that remains forever unsolved.

What do I have left in the wake of the past decade? A decade, might I add, that I was told would be full of deep friendships and incredible growth and all kinds of adventure. Senior year is supposed to be full of milestones marking one’s official entry into the adult world. Homecoming, the last of the hardest classes, spring dances. Acceptance letters, final essays, classic pranks, class trips. Parties, scholarships, more parties–spending every minute you can with the people you want to keep close, no matter how far you’re about to go out in the great wide world. 

College years are supposed to be full of recklessness and mentors and bright ideas and new iterations of identity. Learning the campus and traditions, awkward roommate interactions, difficult class discussions. Finding friends and favorite hangouts. Taking risks to be more honest with yourself

Grad school is supposed to deepen your knowledge, increase your real-world experience, and widen your career opportunities. Structured, multi-phase projects with messy data that feels impossible to analyze. Internships that have you fielding all sorts of last-minute emergencies. Conferences and theory and specificity in one’s chosen field of study. 

I don’t know how much I lost in the haze of medical neglect between the beginning of my senior year and a fledgling network of colleagues who fostered my professional development. I do know I experienced a lot of broken trust along the way. I

I tried to explain to my doctors what I was experiencing, despite my taking my meds as best I could. I asked my academic advisors, both in undergrad and in grad school, for guidance about how to manage academics and my declining health. I told my parents my fears of holding down a full-time job when I knew my body was falling apart on me. I raised my concerns to so many people. I

I did all the right things—advocating for myself, continuing to keep up with my studies and work schedule despite the difficulties, going to therapy to refresh myself on coping strategies and work on my anxiety. Things would turn around, right? I would get better if I just tried harder, if I kept pushing myself, if I refused to give up. Judging on paper—grades, work experience, hobbies, involvement, goals—I was on the road to success.

Inside my body, everything was going wrong.

They say that the early twenties are when the decision-making and complex thinking parts of the brain really start to crystalize. Imagine a tumor growing in the middle of trying to make friends, make sense of theory, finish short stories, and write essays.

Imagine your reading comprehension slipping like a loose gear until your whole language processing center blows a gasket. Imagine applying for jobs you think you’re (mostly) qualified for in between splitting nerve pain and realizing you can barely make breakfast without feeling worn out for the day.

I did all the right things, and it landed me here.

There will be more nights like the one of the 18th, where frustration yanks me by the ankles and leaves me flat on my back, gasping for a way forward. The majority of my days, I am grateful for the small graces: podcasts that sparkle my imagination, disabled friends across the internet, the simplicity of looking out the window and cozying into blankets.

I don’t know if I’m happy to be where I am now. I’ve spent so much of the last ten years trying to will-power my way around something relentlessly set against me. When I look back, all I see is one battlefield after another in a meaningless war. Is my ability to trust myself one of the casualties? Is my hope lost in the clearing smoke? When the dust settles, will I too be dust? How much of my faith, how many of my dreams, have crumbled?

If there is anything left of the last year, the last ten years, it is this: a deep love for story and art; the desire to care for others in gentle ways; friends who truly hope the best for me; a commitment to treat everyone with kindness; the clarity of my own personhood; a willingness to accept my own uncertainty and let go of planning. 

For all this, and for whatever else left for me, I am grateful.