Two years out of college, I wasn't technically a new grad anymore. But I still played table tennis at the office with anyone who was free. Still went out to meet people at the climbing gym. Still felt like I'd be young forever.
Last summer, I remember eating ramen with a friend after a long climbing session, then walking along the moonlit streets, talking about our pasts and our hopes for the future. I didn't know it then, but that was the last night of that chapter of my life. The last night I'd fall asleep without worrying about whether I'd be able to get up the next day.
In July 2024, I tested negative for covid. I'm pretty sure I had it though, as my symptoms matched, and someone I was hanging out with a couple days prior had just tested positive. Within a couple weeks, I was feeling better and returned to work in our Seattle office. But on the first day back, I had to leave early cause I felt sick again -- this time with a fever and headaches. I figured it was just the second wave of whatever I had and that I would recover with a little more rest.
The next day, everything got worse. My fever spiked, I felt nauseous and dizzy, nearly collapsing in the shower, and I was somehow both constantly sweating while also having chills. My skin was hypersensitive, my throat hurt, and my head throbbed with pain. I scheduled a virtual appointment with my primary care doctor, but they called and told me to go in immediately. They ran a full suite of tests that included nasal swabs for covid and flu, a throat culture for strep, and blood tests to check my liver and kidneys. They weren't sure what was wrong, but they prescribed me some antibiotics, handed me some painkillers, and sent me home to rest.
Later that day, I went to the pharmacy to check on the antibiotics. They weren't ready. The clerk told me I could call later to check, but admitted I probably wouldn't get a response. Even the employees had given up on saving the pharmacy's reputation. But I managed to grab some Tylenol, which helped me make it through the night.
And when I say "make it through", I mean it in the rawest sense. My fever raged, and my bed was soaked with sweat. Every time I turned, I'd feel the icy touch of wet sheets. It felt like there were two forces fighting inside me -- I was both burning up from the fever and shivering from chills.
When I finally woke up, I had no appetite, which was concerning as I hadn't eaten anything the day before. I forced myself to swallow some chicken noodle soup and watermelon. Laying in bed afterwards, I felt a wave of nausea, rushed to the kitchen, and was able to land most of my meal into the sink. Then I called an Uber and headed to my first emergency room visit.
At the ER, they did the whole suite of tests again -- nasal swabs, throat cultures, blood draws, and then some. They also couldn't figure out what was wrong. However, the symptoms suggested a possible a brain infection, so the doctors recommended screening with a lumbar puncture, a procedure they described as routine and low-risk. I called my parents, who initially cautioned against any procedures, but the doctors reassured us with how they performed it on a daily basis with no issues, and a brain infection was no laughing matter, even if hypothetical. Eventually, we agreed to do the lumbar puncture.
I had no way of knowing how much this decision would change my life.
The lumbar puncture, aka a spinal tap, is a simple procedure. It's like drawing blood, but you're drawing spinal fluid instead. The doctors had me lie down in a fetal position, numbed my lower back, then poked me with a syringe. They hit the wrong spot, so they took the syringe out and planted it in a different spot. That one worked. After a couple minutes, they showed me a pair of vials with a clear liquid that was supposedly my spinal fluid. The whole thing only took ten minutes, but it would completely change the next year of my life.
The risks of lumbar punctures are low if you recover properly. All you need to do is lie down for a few hours after your procedure to let the puncture heal, drinks lots of water to replenish your lost spinal fluid, and avoid strenuous activity for a few days to not reopen the wound. The recovery instructions I got were to remain in bed for an hour after the procedure and to take it easy the next day.
After my allotted hour of rest, the doctors sent me home. I called an Uber, and the 20 minute ride that proceeded was hell. It felt like something was expanding in my head, causing this crushing pressure and making my head feel like it was going to explode. Doctors often ask patients to rate their pain on a scale from 1-10, and this was it -- a 10 out of 10.
I got dropped off at my apartment and hobbled up the stairs into my room. If I bent over, the pain was tolerable. Exhausted and beaten, I somehow managed to take a shower and change into clean clothes because apparently I'd rather suffer through crippling headaches than soil my bedsheets with clothes that had been in the hospital.
The headaches did not improve the next day. In fact, I got to experience the full severity and debilitating nature of them. Every time I sat up or stood up straight, even for just a couple seconds, it would feel like a truck crashing into my head and slamming me with the worst headache of my life, an overwhelming, throbbing pain at the front of my head. The weird part was that if I laid down, the headache would vanish. - I later learned that I was suffering from one of the potential side effects of lumbar punctures: a CSF leak. CSF stands for cerebral spinal fluid, and it's what surrounds your spine and suspends the brain in the skull. When a lumbar puncture site doesn't heal properly, CSF can leak out out of the membrane in the lower back, causing issues in this delicate system. Gravity worsens this in two ways: it increases the rate of leakage when the body is vertical, and also pulls downward on the brain. Normally, the brain is cushioned by the CSF, but with the CSF leaking, that force is now applied on the sensitive nerves and tissues around the brain, causing those exploding headaches. - People online say that CSF leak headaches are the worst pain they've ever felt, second only to giving birth. I've never experienced childbirth, but now, I have that much more respect for those who have.
At the time I got the lumbar puncture, I did not know all this, but I knew that being horizontal softened the headaches. I spent the day after the procedure laying in bed, only getting up to hobble to the bathroom, staring at the floor and using my arms as support against the walls. I didn't even bother with eating as I was still nauseous, still feverish, and oh -- now I could barely swallow. My throat was rapidly swelling, and every sip of water felt like I was swallowing pills down an esophagus lined with sandpaper.
Hell continued the next day in the form of a car ride to my doctor's office. What do you do if you need to throw up in an Uber? I kept my hand on the window switch and readied myself because at any moment... Somehow, I was able to contain myself through the ten-minute eternity before releasing into my doctor's sink. She immediately sent me to the ER, this time in a leaned-back front seat.
Once I was released from the second, slightly less hellish car ride, I hobbled to the front desk and doubled over the counter in pain, trying to explain my situation. They told me to sit and wait, so I hunched over their largest chair, battling my nausea and second-only-to-childbirth headache. Less than a minute later, they moved me to triage, handed me a plastic bag in case I threw up, and then watched me throw up. They then moved me to a room and laid me down, and the frenzy and mounting pressure in my head finally died down.
What followed was a series of routine yet novel hospital procedures. They gave me antibiotics for what was likely a throat infection, guided me through a CAT scan where they pumped hot liquid contrast through an IV (which made me feel like I had peed myself), and most importantly, handed me two protein shakes for dinner. Those shakes tasted like nectar. They were my first real source of calories in days. Aside from the shakes, I estimate I'd absorbed just 300 calories over the previous four-day stretch.
They told me that I was to stay the night, and I realized that I'm being hospitalized -- the thing that happens in movies and stories when someone has a serious accident or is about to die. I'd been too focused on surviving my symptoms to register the severity of what was happening. But lying in the reclined hospital bed, sipping my protein shake and feeling the best I had in a few days, I was overcome with gratitude and bliss. I'd soon return to my normal life, and I would not take it for granted anymore. My dreams of adopting a cat and traveling the world I would make a reality. I hadn't felt as excited or alive in ages.
To top it off, two close friends came to visit, bringing snacks, drinks, clothes, a phone charger, and even board games and books. Given how exhausted I was, we settled for watching the Olympics, and I just basked in their company.
Things were finally looking up. It would probably take a few days to recover from the CSF leak, but at least the throat infection had been neutralized. The next night, I was discharged, picked up my antibiotics, and one of my earlier friends graciously drove me home, front seat leaned back.
Once home, I rested. I ordered delivery every day, laid in bed watching the US Men's team eek out a victory over Serbia, and binged the Stormlight Archives on my e-reader. I took my antibiotics each day at noon and was improving.
The next week, I returned to work, except I could only sit for 10-15 minutes before the headaches returned, forcing me back to bed. I took another week off. I started taking caffeine pills to boost CSF production, electrolytes to help with hydration, and collagen to support membrane healing. I was determined to recover and get back to my normal life. My parents offered to fly over to take care of me, but I declined -- I'd be better in no time. The next week, my tolerance had only increased to 30 minutes, and I had to take more time off.
Over the next month, I steadily improved. By week four, I started socializing in short sessions. In week five, I returned to work and even made it to a gaming convention, albeit with an hourly side quest of finding random rooms to lie down in. By week six, I could sit and work for over an hour at a time without issue.
Some friends asked if they could stay with me in two months, and I said yeah, I'd surely be better by then. I also extended my lease by three months, planning to move to NYC as soon as I recovered. Three months was almost guaranteed enough recovery time.
In week seven, I pushed myself too hard. It started on a high note where I went into the office for the first time in over two months. Although I had to scrounge around every couple hours for a resting spot, it was a milestone and felt good to be around friends again.
The next day, I called a friend for a little too long and had to rush to a Mid-Autumn Festival dinner with no break in between. By the time the board games came out, I had a sharp pain in my lower back, and my head started to hurt. I realized I had been upright for over 5 hours.
The next day, I could barely stand for ten minutes. I had re-leaked.
I kept working and socializing as if nothing has happened. Something I had learned in those first couple months was that the CSF leak recovery path is not linear -- some days are just worse than others for no apparent reason. Part of me wanted to believe that these day-long headaches and constant discomfort were temporary and just part of the recovery trajectory. But after a few days of worsening symptoms, I couldn't ignore the regression.
It was a tough pill to swallow. Almost two months of progress wiped out. Fifty days of my prime that I'd never get back. I was at week-one levels again, only able to be upright for 10-20 minutes. My parents were devastated. They booked my dad a next-day flight to come take care of me, and I took three more weeks off work.
When my dad pulled up to my apartment in his rental car, he brought with him a feeling of safety -- that things would be ok. He got groceries, cooked comforting Chinese food, and began cleaning my normally tidy apartment that had unraveled during the two months of neglect.
It wasn't long before my dad brought out his arsenal of Chinese herbs and pills and remedies. I rolled my eyes, but given the state I was in, I agreed to give them a try. And so the smelly patch was attached to my lower back, the ginger tea went down my throat, the bag of ash slid under my pillow, and my furniture was rearranged to align with Earth's magnetic field.
Once my dad was satisfied, we got down to business. It had been two months since the lumbar puncture, and I just had a major relapse. One of our options was to wait another two months to get back to where I was before, then for however long it'd take to recover the rest of the way. We decided to go with the faster option: surgery.
The following weeks were filled with supersized Chinese meals and endless appointment scheduling. If you've ever had to schedule multiple medical appointments, the following paragraphs may be triggering.
First, we went back and forth with my primary care team to order head and spine MRIs, then navigating some paperwork errors that appeared along the way. The earliest appointment at the recommended clinic was right when my dad would be leaving, so we started calling them as well as other clinics every day, hoping for cancellations.
At the same time, we also scheduled a blood patch consultation with a different medical center. They suggested we also see a neurologist, so we scheduled an appointment for the earliest possible time... In two and a half months.
Going into the blood patch consultation, my dad and I had mentally prepared for a couple weeks of complete bedrest to recover from the procedure. But as I described my symptoms, I realized how mild they sounded compared to what other multi-year leakers had to deal with. My headaches were manageable, didn't happen all the time, and I had also been slowly improving under my dad's care. So for these reasons, they decided against doing a blood patch, chalking my symptoms up to prolonged bedrest. They said to return to work next week and slowly ease back into normal life.
This felt like a slap in the face. Partially because it felt like they weren't taking my symptoms seriously, but also because I was losing faith in them myself. I'd always known about the unpredictability of my headaches, but now I wondered if they might be of my own making. Was I manifesting my symptoms because I'd grown so used to them and now expected them to happen? Or perhaps because I'd told myself a narrative that I'm a CSF leak victim? I wasn't sure... Frustrated that I didn't know what was causing my headaches, I was at a loss for what to do. I guess I'd return to work and see what happens.
The three weeks with my dad hadn't resulted in a breakthrough surgery, or in clarity around my condition, or even in significant progress in the amount of time I could be upright. But I got to spend time with my dad. I got to know him better through the basketball streams we watched and the chess games we shared. And also through the absurdly portioned meals he cooked and in hearing about his lack of food growing up.
While I was still in school, my dad and I argued constantly, so I never felt that close to him. When he left my apartment after three weeks of caring for me, I found myself picturing him laying on his air mattress next to my bed or sitting in the small chair he bought, chuckling at the videos on his phone, and I felt an unfamiliar feeling. This was the most I've ever missed my dad.
My dad left me with bowls upon bowls of premade food, as well as renewed vigor to tackle my leak. I returned to work determined not to "imagine" any of my symptoms, but I was still only able to muster out 20-30 minutes of uptime before the headaches came knocking. I went back to Virginia Mason to see if they'd reconsider the blood patch, but they still blamed my symptoms on returning to vertical life again after months of bedrest.
Seeing that I was still semi-bedridden and now had to work, my mom flew over at the end of the week to take over the caretaking duty. She's more adventurous and curious than my dad, so she explored Seattle while I worked during the day, then returned to make dinner for us.
Around the same time, the adjustable desk that my dad had ordered arrived, so now I could work while laying in bed. With its rickety wooden frame and awkward viewing angle, the desk turned out to be quite clunky and made my head and neck hurt when I used it for too long, so I stuck with the half-hour sessions at my normal desk. It wasn't enough.
I was oncall that week, and there just happened to be UBNs, the highest priority bug that stands for UnBreak Now. And so I had to work the whole day and some nights, trying to balance the bug fixing with my headaches. One of my teammates even had to drop off hardware at my apartment since I couldn't go into the office. In hindsight, the obvious move would have been to swap my shift with a later one, but I was a junior engineer and still felt like I had to prove myself.
And so the week went, with constant headaches and a worried mother trying to figure out how to help. Eventually, my shift ended. I had fixed the bugs, but at the expense of my health. My mom flew back home, and I was left to fend for myself.
Except the next week, my friend arrived. The friend that I had promised two months ago to host for a few days, thinking I'd be better by then. I was not better. In fact, I was worse now that I had to juggle new work projects by day and play host by night. After a few days of delivery food, gaming, and far too much sitting, my friend finally left, and I was able to rest again. However, after the dust had settled, I was left with day-long headaches and the sinking realization that I had regressed yet again.
Devastation, once again. My parents had flown over and cared for me for a combined six weeks, yet I still couldn't take care of myself for a couple weeks. I didn't have much time to dwell on this as another friend arrived the next week. This time, I set clear expectations that I would be laying down almost the entire visit. By the time he left, my headaches had eased from the 4/10 pain to a dull throb.
This was when my parents first floated the idea of moving home to Maryland. It was clear that this leak wasn't a minor setback -- it was now a chronic medical issue that could take many more months to heal. And if I botched the recovery, I might be dealing with the consequences for years.
Initially, I waved off the idea as I valued my independence and loved city life. But after a series of particularly painful workdays, I decided that my parents were right. Health was more important than work. If I could take a couple months off work and rest under my parents' care, then I'd have everything I need to recover. Plus, I'd be closer to New York and could move there in the spring.
I researched how to travel with a CSF leak and learned that flying was risky given how the pressure changes might affect my CSF. So I bought train tickets for my dad and I -- a pair of three-day, cross-country tickets for an Amtrak roomette. I told my dad the dates so he could take off work to help me move, and I applied for a two-month medical leave from work.
I started organizing all my stuff to give away as there wasn't enough time or patience from me to bother selling it all. Friends were invited over, farewells given, and my desk was picked up. The air fryer my dad had bought just a month ago was claimed, and my bed frame was boxed and sent away. My dad arrived to help me move the large items while I laid in bed coordinating, occasionally getting up to hug someone goodbye. Soon, all that remained was a bare mattress on the wood floor and a few suitcases by the door.
The time had finally come. The three-month lease I'd originally signed for a NYC move was still serving its purpose in getting me to the East Coast, just not in the way I'd imagined.
In fact, the entire move felt nothing like the send-off I'd pictured for parting with my first "adult" city. No big farewell party with the friends I'd made over the years. No final wanders around the neighborhoods I'd grown to love.
Instead, it felt like I was being airlifted out of a ballgame in the middle of an exciting third quarter. At least I was headed to a loving home, free from the stresses of work and adult life. I could finally focus on recovering, and soon, I'd be buying furniture and making friends in a new city.
Five suitcases, two cardboard boxes, two backpacks, and one guitar case. This was all that I had to my name. My dad piled as many pieces as he could onto a trolley, determined to make it from our Uber dropoff to inside the train station in one go. The thing is, my PC that I carefully built last summer was at the top of the pile. As my dad struggled against the wobbly trolley wheels, my heart dropped when the mountain of luggage came crashing down. My poor PC took a full five-foot fall -- then another as my stubborn-as-a-mule dad did it all again. Eventually, we made two separate, minute-long trips into the station and boarded our train.
In order to lie down for the three-day ride, I had booked a roomette -- a small room with two seats facing each other that could transform into a set of bunk beds. As I laid in the lower bunk, occasionally sitting up to watch the hills dotted with snow whizz by, I entered a period of limbo where I finally had the space to reflect on my journey thus far and on my time in Seattle. Also, no wifi.
After a few fancy-sounding but average-tasting three-course meals, we arrived in Chicago for our transfer. In the station, we got to ride on the red cap vehicles that zipped around the station, flying past other rides at way above the non-existent speed limit. Then it was back to the second and final train.
When we finally arrived in DC, my mom was waiting in the familiar silver SUV to shuttle my father, my possibly broken PC, and my definitely broken body back home. When I stepped out from the leaned back front seat into our home and onto our couch, I felt ready. Ready to rest and finally recover from the tiny hole in my lower back.
Over the next few days, I enjoyed the comfort of a home with two parents helping with meals, laundry, and everything else that I had to do myself back in Seattle. My job was to stay in bed as much as possible and nurse the throbbing headaches that had come back home with me.
Soon after I arrived, we had our long-awaited visit with a neurologist who embodied the kindness I think of when I picture a good doctor. She wrote the note for my three-month work leave and prescribed steroids to help with recovery, but they just made me dizzy. Though the roids didn't work out, we tried several Chinese remedies like pressure point massages, moxibustion, and supplements shipped from China.
By far my favorite remedy came in the form of a cat. A literal cat. For my Birthday / Christmas, my family surprised me by adopting a striped orange tabby cat we named Cary because she was orange like a carrot. When my brother went back to college and my parents were at work, Cary kept me company, laying next to my feet in bed. She'd quickly become my closest friend in the loneliest year of my life.
My days soon started blurring together. I spent most of the time in bed watching videos, reading, and playing games on my Steam Deck. Whenever Cary hopped into bed beside me, I'd enjoy petting her or just laying my hand on her while we both napped. The monotony was occasionally broken by some amusing quirks of bedrest solutions, like attempting to use a projector for my phone so that I could watch my videos on the ceiling, or my dad giving me a haircut by laying out a trash bag over my bed and having me lay my head on it.
I also started tracking atmospheric pressure after hearing other leakers mention its effect on their headaches, and I noticed that my headaches often corresponded with large pressure changes. For my neck pain, I realized it sometimes went away when I changed my pillow, so I experimented with different setups that included random pillows from around the house as well as folding a towel a certain number of times to customize my head support. Some solutions improved my neck pain but would regress the next day. Everything felt so finicky and unreliable. I felt like I had lost autonomy over my pain, and I escaped even more into the books, videos, and games.
Another thing that gave structure to my Groundhog Days were my medical appointments. Our primary plan was to see if the 2-3 months of work leave, parental care, and cat therapy would help heal my leak, but we decided it'd be smart to schedule a blood patch as a backup plan, just in case.
To explain blood patches real quick, they are the go-to solution for CSF leaks. Doctors take blood from your arm and inject it into your lower back to block the hole and let it heal. After a few weeks, your blood should be absorbed and the leak sealed. Basically, a scab for your spinal membrane.
The risks with blood patches are that they might result in another puncture in the membrane if the doctors aren't careful, and it's also just an invasive procedure that you'd want to avoid if possible. But if I didn't recover from 2-3 months of bedrest, home-cooked meals, and snuggles with Cary, then we decided it would be worth going for the patch.
However, as we learned back in Seattle, there was a series of scans and appointments before you can do the procedure. Here's a quick recap of the appointment scheduling flurry, part two. First, my neurologist referred me to the CSF leak clinic at Georgetown, where a neurosurgeon ordered an MR Myelogram to check if I still had an active leak. My neurologist also ordered a MR Venogram to rule out venous thrombosis, so we scheduled that too. Since my last head MRI was from several months ago, my mom wanted to repeat that test, but the appointments got snowed out.
When we finally went in for the blood patch consultation, we were able to get the procedure scheduled for mid-March -- seven and a half months after my initial lumbar puncture. But again, this was all for plan B, only if resting didn't work.
Resting did not work. At least not fast enough.
By the end of February, I was able to stay upright for about an hour with some mild symptoms, for a total of 3-4 hours throughout the day. These were not clean hours though, as I still had significant headaches, neck pain, and tinnitus. At this rate of recovery, It became clear that we'd need the blood patch.
In a last ditch effect, we tried complete bedrest because maybe the little uptime I had was preventing recovery. It was also to prepare for the blood patch and the bedrest that came afterwards. I was only allowed to get up to go number two, meaning my parents had to drive home during lunch breaks to feed me. I also filled up multiple pee bottles over the day as I still needed ample hydration, and didn't shower for over a week. At the end of the bedrest, all I had to show for it was a sore back and more headaches.
On the day of the blood patch, we were late because I was practicing getting into and out of the car without bending my back. My dad had folded down the rear seats and placed my college mattress topper on top for a makeshift bed that was surprisingly comfortable.
The hour drive to the hospital felt impossibly long. I was in an anxious zen state, thinking of all the things that could go wrong and what we needed to ask about before the patch, but also feeling a calmness and acceptance that this surgery was likely the conclusion to my story. An ending was finally in sight. There was sunlight streamed through the rear windows, and classical music flowed from the radio. I was ready.
At the hospital, we went through three check-ins before being called into room 32, where a flurry of nurses took measurements and poked me with IVs. I had a midline in my upper right arm between my bicep and tricep for the blood draw, and then a regular IV on the back of my left hand.
At noon, things slowed down, and we started waiting for our appointment scheduled in thirty minutes. An hour passed. We were getting anxious. Eventually a nurse came in, just to tell us it'd be another ten minutes. At 1:45pm, I finally entered the operating room.
I rolled from my stretcher onto the operating table, and my bare ass was quickly covered by a towel. An oxygen pump was placed in my nose, heart monitors on my chest, and the IV and midline were hooked up.
They injected me with two medications, one for anxiety and another for pain management. Next, they numbed my back with a series of six patches -- three for each injection site -- that stung before sapping away any sensations in their respective regions. The surgeon told me to tell him when I felt a 6/10 pain so he'd know when to stop injecting blood. They moved me in and out the CT machine, and the operation began.
The surgeon started injected blood into my mid-back, and it felt fine. It actually didn't feel like much at all. The CT scans and injection continued until we hit the 20mL maximum. The second injection at my lower back felt less fine. He asked my pain, and I said 2/10. A few seconds later, 4/10, and I could feel my upper left leg tingling. He asked again, and I said it was the same, but he still stopped. We had hit the 30mL maximum for the total amount of blood to be injected. I would soon find out why that limit mattered.
I rolled back onto the stretcher and was returned to room 32. It was 2:45pm. The procedure took longer than I expected, though the actual injection only took maybe five minutes.
They initially said one hour of bedrest, but I'd learned from my lumbar puncture to fight for more time. We were able to negotiate for two hours, and while my dad was struggling to get the car to the pickup circle, my mom and I stalled for another 45 minutes.
While waiting, they gave me IV fluids and advised two days of bedrest and to avoid lifting more than 20 pounds for a few days. Decent advice, but my mom and I had done extensive research and were planning on three days full bedrest, then only getting up for meals and bathroom until the one week mark, at which point we'd slowly increase my uptime.
When my dad finally arrived at the pickup area, a wheelchair was called for me. This is when the injected blood in my back made its presence known. Sitting in that wheelchair gave me flashbacks of riding in the Ubers in the days after my lumbar puncture. My lower back felt like it was about to explode with the 7/10 pain, and every bump the wheelchair went over sent shockwaves through my body.
After the painfully slow five minutes, I crawled into the back of our SUV, disregarding what I had practiced in the morning in a rush to lie down. It was another ten minutes before the back pain started to resolve.
The ride home from a big event always feels shorter than the ride there. What made this return even better was that I was finally allowed to drink water and eat after fasting from 9am. And because those past nine hours marked the start of the final chapter in my journey. Or at least, what I thought would be the final chapter.
We executed our recovery plan flawlessly. Three days of complete bedrest. Then standing only for meals and bathroom. Then slowly increasing my uptime from 20 minutes per session to an hour. Even though it felt like I was making progress, I still battled significant headaches and neck pain throughout the process. By the three-week mark, I could stand for two hours at a time, totaling six hours a day. And then I had to start working again.
I was given two months of remote work, but I also immediately requested a part-time schedule after worsening headaches on my first day back. My software engineering job was demanding and had me fixing finicky bugs, planning out projects, and sitting through hour-long meetings. Some days, I enjoyed coding and getting to talk to people again, but most days were filled with headaches and thoughts of quitting.
For the next couple months, I worked 5-6 hours a day, with a total uptime of 7-9 hours. Even with a part-time schedule, I still felt pressure to perform as teammates were asking for help, urgent bugs were falling onto my plate, and layoff news were around every corner. We had a big deadline that turned into another big deadline, and my workload just kept growing.
My manager was actually quite understanding of my condition, but the nature of the work made it difficult to work in short bursts. I had to lay down every hour or so, and breaking up my sessions led to lost context and longer overall hours. Still, I kept grinding away, hoping that my symptoms would improve and that I'd be able to join my team in NYC when summer came.
During these months, I wrestled with constant self-doubt. Were my headaches lingering because the leak hadn't fully healed? Or was I just imagining them, subconsciously trying to avoid work? Or maybe I just hadn't been properly recovering with my horrible sleep and lack of exercise. I didn't know what I was doing wrong, if I was doing anything wrong at all, but I didn't have time to figure it out. Even during my breaks, my mind was still on work.
This is also when I started socializing again. For the first time in half a year, I was seeing friends in person. But I also found that hanging out with them, even for just 2-3 hours, led to headaches that lasted for days. Yet again, spending time with people came at a steep physical cost.
But I had a four-day weekend coming up. I was using some PTO to take a break, and planned to rest and recover. And it worked. My headaches got better, neck pain softened, and could walk around with minimal discomfort. Then I went back to work, and the headaches came roaring back.
Something had to change. If I kept working like this, my recovery could take many more months, maybe even years. I was getting desperate. My NYC move wasn't happening anytime soon, and maybe not at all, unless I could fully recovering from my leak.
On the first Monday of June, I woke up with a pounding headache after hanging out with a friend the day before. It also happened to be my first day working full-time again. With the way I felt, I couldn't imagine getting through a full day of work, let alone a part-time day. That's when I realized that I needed to quit my job.
I walked slow laps around our backyard that morning, weighing the pros and cons of leaving. After an hour of back and forth, I came to the conclusion that I should quit. I'll save the details for another post, but here's the short version -- my health matters way more than my job, and the past four-day weekend made it clear that resting without work helped.
It was a tough decision though, as I had a very well-paying job in a tough job market, and I loved the team and product, and even the work at times. But at the end of the day, I needed to be healthy to be able to enjoy any of it. Plus, I'd never had a gap year in my life, and I had a lengthy backlog of hobbies, projects, and travel that I'd been wanting to do. After suddenly losing a year of my prime, what better time to live a little life than now?
After making the decision, I felt at peace. I stood in our backyard, marveling at the tiny creatures crawling on the vines that twisted around our fence, just going about their day, stress-free. I'd join them soon. When I laid back in bed, I didn't compulsively check WorkChat or start mentally planning out my work for the day. I just rested.
I wanted to give myself some space to sit with the decision, so I told my manager I'd be taking a few weeks of PTO to rest. Each day, I debated with myself, journaled for hours on end, and discussed with friends who had taken similar leaps. The evidence for leaving was clear: my symptoms had plateaued or slightly worsened when I resumed working, and I had no idea how long recovery would take if I kept pushing through. On the other hand, many of my friends had just been laid off and were scrambling for work, while I had a coveted job that checked all the boxes. But in the end, all signs pointed in the same direction.
In the middle of June, I called my manager and told him I was quitting. I submitted my resignation letter, wrote my badge post, and said goodbye to my team. I was finally free.
I felt so at peace and relaxed after I quit. My days, as well as my mental space, had finally cleared, so I started investing more into my health. Every morning, my dad and I would do tai chi together to get my body used to moving again. I started going on daily walks, gradually increasing the length and pace, then incorporated stretching and light arm workouts into my routine.
I also did a meditation week where I turned off all my screens and focused on meditating and reading for five days. My headaches were the fewest and least severe during this week, so I started a daily meditation practice. After meditation week, I began blogging again, which is why I've finally been able to chronicle my entire journey in this brief post.
And so, this brings us to the present day. I still have up-days and down-days. Some mornings I stroll through the neighborhood, savoring the vertical world. Other days I'm tied to bed by familiar headaches. Some days I feel deep gratitude for the things my body is able to do. Other days I wonder if I had made the right decisions. Of where I'd be if I hadn't agreed to that lumbar puncture.
Sometimes, it feels like I've lost a year of my life -- a year I could've spent working in a dream city and traveling with new friends. Instead, I've been in bed, cycling through false hopes that two weeks off work, a move home, or surgery would fix everything. If only I had declined the lumbar puncture... If only I had recovered properly the first week, or returned to work a little slower, then maybe my life would be normal.
Just a few days ago, the calendar flipped to a new page: August 1st -- exactly one year since that fateful day. One whole year of uncertainty. Of hospital beds and IV drips. Of hope lost, then found again. Of thousands of hours lying awake in bed, yet still living in a dream. Of parental love. Of saying farewell. Of getting used to a new life. A new me.
Over the past year, I've come to realize, accept, and embrace that this is my new normal. Lying in bed with Cary, enjoying the company of my aging parents, noticing the things I once took for granted. I've started to love the life I've been given, and can feel that I've grown into a fuller person through this experience.
I don't know how this journey plays out. Maybe I'll end up backpacking across Asia. Maybe return to tech. Maybe I'll become a lifelong leaker. What surprises me is that I'm okay with all of it. I have hopes, of course, but the past year has shown me that life rarely follows the path you expect, and that off-road detours can be just as enjoyable, if not more, than a well-paved road.
I don't know where this ride goes, but I'll lean the front seat back and enjoy it the best I can -- bumps and bruises included.