Taking time off from work is delightful and also a little disorienting. I’ve been publishing consistently on Sundays for the better part of a year, but now I have all the time in the world to write. Every day is like Sunday. Except it’s not. Today is Wednesday.
In 2021, I took my fourth sabbatical. I had just spent over a year leading the pandemic relief programs for the City of Portland and was worn to pieces. I started to describe myself as a husk of a person and often told people that if someone were to unzip my body, they would only find stale air and some tumbleweeds.
After working from my home from sun up to sun down, the only logical thing to do was quit my job, get in my car, and start driving places where mask mandates were optional. So that’s what I did. I drove from Portland to the Oregon Coast and then up to Whistler. Then, to Mt. Rainier, Yellowstone, and the Colorado Rockies and into the southwest. All told, it was around six thousand miles.
Throughout the road trip, I did very little planning. When there was a camping spot available, I would camp. When there wasn’t, I slept in the back of my SUV or rented a hotel room or an Airbnb. My only rule was that I would drive in complete silence. No music. No audiobooks. No podcasts. Just me and the open road and a wandering mind.
About halfway through, I spent a few days in Colorado Springs, a place I hadn’t visited since I lived there in the mid-90s. My friend Kevin still has a place there, so I rented a tiny house and stayed for a while. I also used it as an opportunity to unpack and sort through my things. It had been several weeks on the road, and everything I had with me needed a good once-over.
On the last day of the visit, I slipped on the porch steps while carrying a large tote filled with camping gear. Instead of letting the container fall to the ground, I was like all those cartoon characters slipping on a banana peel. I flew up and then down, twisting my left calf muscle in a direction it was not meant to go. The tote, on the other hand, went unscathed.
I could barely walk. But instead of going to urgent care, I pressed on. I had camping reservations in Ouray and was really looking forward to being in nature again. Never mind, I couldn’t take a step without excruciating pain. EVERYTHING WILL BE FINE.
The quickest route from Colorado Springs to Ouray was crossing highways 24 to 50 to 550. I hadn’t driven that way before and was excited about the experience. When I saw a blinking construction sign that flashed “HIGHWAY 50 CLOSED” on the first blink and then “LIMITED TRAFFIC THRU” on the second, I didn’t give it a second thought. I was certain I qualified as “limited traffic.” I am, Giyen Kim, after all.
By the time I got to the Curecanti National Recreation Area, nearly 200 miles had passed. Sure, a few more static signs were warning of road closures and construction ahead, but I didn’t give them a second thought. “I am the exception to all rules!” I said to myself. Everything will be fine.
The Curecanti National Recreation Area is breathtaking. Seeing the intersection between the high desert, snow-dusted mountain-tops, and miles of shoreline along the Gunnison River was everything I had hoped it would be. What I hadn’t anticipated was the traffic jam I was closing in on.
As I drove toward the Highway 50 and 92 junction, I could see a line of cars a half-mile long. I figured the road was down to one lane due to the construction, and they were letting groups of cars take turns going east or west. Undeterred, I inched on patiently.
Nearing the front of the line, I could see a flagger approaching each vehicle as it pulled into first position. One of two things would happen. The car would either proceed forward or make a U-turn and head back in the direction from whence we all came. There was no rhyme or reason to it. From semis to SUVs to sedans, they carried on or turned around.
As I reached the front of the line, the flagger, who struck me as a Marge, approached my window and signaled me to roll it down.
“Where you going?” she asked.
“Ouray.”
“You know, Highway 50 is closed. Didn’t you see the signs?”
“I did. But the blinky sign said, “Highway 50 closed. Limited traffic thru.” so I figured you were letting some people pass. Was I wrong about that?”
“Lady, the sign said Highway 50 closed. Limited traffic thru. ONLY ON THE WEEKEND.” Marge then rolled her eyes.
Unfortunately, it was Tuesday. I had missed the third part of the message because I drove past the sign going 70 mph.
“Give me my options,” I tell Marge.
“Well, you can either take 92 and go the long way to the north or turn back around and go the even longer way to the south.”
“What do you recommend?”
“I recommend that you read the signs on the side of the road.”
“Thanks for that reminder.”
I took the long way to the north and didn’t make it to Ouray until dusk. I was in no shape to camp, so I decided to forgo camping and drove on toward Durango instead.
I bring up this story because I completed my six-week post-op appointment and am cleared to do most things again. I just need to keep listening to my body and not push myself unnecessarily. I am so good at pushing myself.
Prior to surgery, I thought I would ace this recovery like a midterm exam. If it usually took four weeks to recover, I would take two. In four weeks, I would be lifting weights at the gym again. In six, I would be completely back to normal and would have lost ten pounds.
Of course, none of this happened. I am not the exception to all rules. Healing from injury, whether physical or mental, is on a timeline that you don’t control. It takes as long as it’s going to take.
But the truth is, I was sick for way before I got diagnosed. The brittle nails. The shortness of breath. The restless legs. I can see the signs so clearly now. That’s often the truth in relationships, too. The signs are usually there right in front of you. We ignore or don’t see them. We are either moving too quickly or preoccupied with the bustle of life. Sometimes, we need more time to truly see them.
We can’t control what happens to us or how long we recover from a situation. But we can all get better at reading the tea leaves beforehand. We can slow down and take time to be in tune with what’s happening around us. And we can all show a little more courage in facing issues head-on.
Everything is going to be fine. Eventually.
Love,
Giyen
PS. I cannot get over how mesmerizing it is to watch A’driane Nieves make art. It’s like exhaling a deep breath and inhaling peace all at the same time. I can’t embed the Instagram post for some reason, but you can find the video here. It’s worth it.
