A year-long void

Writing about Long Covid and other updates

Well, hello again. In 2021, when I stepped away from the Social Sport Podcast, I wrote something along the lines of “I will continue to explore the intersection of sports and social change through this newsletter.”

2021 Emma was very motivated. But then life happened. “Life” was innocuous at first: work and grad school and keeping my head above it all. Then, life took on a whole new meaning. In March of 2022, I fell very ill. And by very ill, I mean debilitated, unable to exercise, often bed-bound, and at times, unable to work, or read, or walk, or even watch TV. I received many diagnoses — Long Covid, post-viral ME/CFS, post-viral dysautonomia. In hindsight, all of these words are just words. When I was sick, I was just sick. It just sucked.

How to summarize this illness for you? Well, there was a mundane virus. A cough, a sore throat, some light fatigue. I tested negative for Covid, but my roommate tested positive and so, I isolated just the same. Weeks passed, and I never got better. There were new symptoms: crushing fatigue, pounding migraine, racing heart, derealization, numb hands and feet. Countless doctors, countless tests, innumerable scans. A Long Covid diagnosis.

A medical leave from work and school. A collage of doctors’ offices, blood tests, and the many concoctions with which I flooded my body. The six weeks of Doxycycline and Malarone (could there be underlying Lyme Disease?). The myriad of supplements and pharmaceuticals: turmeric, Vitamin C, Vitamin D, D-Ribose, antihistamines, B12 shots in my arm. The Midodrine increased my chest pain. The Naltrexone made me so depressed and anxious, I was afraid to go outside. Weekly acupuncture, a month of functional neurology. Hyperbaric Oxygen Therapy. “Anything,” I’d say to doctors. “Give me anything.”

To truly portray this desperation, I must search beyond the limits of human vocabulary. For, what I felt was not so much desperation as something wild and barbaric. It was a feral longing — for answers, for wellness, for me. When I looked in the mirror, I recognized: my tan skin, my brown eyes, the face I had always known. And yet, this body could not be mine. This one had stolen me, entrapped me. I wanted nothing more than to shed this imposter skin; to return to myself. 

Over the months my condition intensified and so did my desperation and so did my searching and then, I began to slowly improve. Up and down and up some more. And now…well…

I don’t usually use the world “recovered” — it’s too finite, too absolute. What does “recovered” even mean? Certainly, “recovered” is a more accurate word for my current state than “ill.” Some light symptoms come and go, but I’m able to manage them. I have a wealth of lingering anxiety and PTSD from the period I spent so debilitatingly ill, though that has improved, too. Otherwise, I’m living a pretty normal life right now. Ok, I have to pause while writing those words and let them seep in. I have to put aside my frustration for a minute and simply breath and be and remember how miraculous this is: I am well. Fuck, I am well.

I’m still figuring out how to write about my recovery and help other people who are suffering from post-viral illness. Read: I want to help other people who are suffering from post-viral illness. Though, to write about all the treatments I tried, and what I believe helped, is not an easy task — it requires many pages and words and disclaimers. It requires, too, that my mind revisit the difficult, desperate place of illness.         

Nonetheless, I’m committed to writing about my recovery, so stay tuned…

Plus, as emotionally difficult as it is to write about illness, I am obsessed with it!! In fact, I struggle to write about anything except illness! My mind just won’t do it. Neither will my hands. Is this my masochism talking? Fortunately, I have a literary fellowship that starts in August. It will provide me with the space and resources to spend a year on a large project — a collection of hybrid nonfiction essays on Long Covid, chronic illness, communal suffering, and other sunny things like that. One might call this project a book (“one” is not me. I don’t use the B word).

I might have dropped the whole fellowship thing in rather flippantly, but honestly I’m freaking out! It’s an absolute dream. It’s also scary because, again, writing about sunny things!

For now, I want to use this newsletter as a space to share some exploratory writing that may or may not end up in the big project. In other words, this will become a very different newsletter than the one it used to be. The focus here is not sports (although, there is some of that at the bottom). If you hate that, unsubscribe. If you love that, awesome! Keep reading! And please, share.

Below — a very early preface to SBP (Scary Big Project). The tone departs quite a bit from what you just read. So, please take a deep breath first. Then, release. Did you do it? Okay, thanks. Now, read:

To drop you into a year-long void.

What month, what hour, what ground to break your landing? What landscape to surround you? Perhaps I won’t drop you in; I’ll ease you. I’ll choose somewhere warm and homey. A shoebox apartment in Brooklyn. A full bookshelf. A plethora of green plants. A young woman who could be a girl. Though, she has taken care, this morning, to look her age. Eyeliner, mascara. A black turtleneck.

She wakes in sleep paralysis these days. Her brain alerts before her body does. Thoughts churn inside a mind constricted. Nowhere to go but here. Nowhere but his bed, these sheets, these weak and shaking limbs between them. A brain trapped within a body. A body trapped within a void. It still catches her by surprise to wake in this state, no matter how many months have passed. Especially when she dreams of illness. Especially when, in dreams, she’s ill. What a cruel trick the subconscious plays – to wake her in the middle of a nightmare. Then, to sit back and watch as the nightmare plays on.

Now, to rally her body for the 10am meeting. To hoist herself out of bed, look smart, speak clearly – none of this is easy. But then again, what choice does she have? She swallows a handful of pills. A glass of water. A spoonful of yogurt. Then, a sudden pang of nausea, a deep breath.

Which number doctor today? Seven, eight? She cannot remember. She opens her laptop, and another face greets her on the other side.

The doctor – early 60s, shoulder-length gray hair – smiles shyly.

Hello, good morning. Any improvement? No.

Dizziness, still? Yes.

Exercise intolerance? Yes.

Fatigue? Yes, extreme levels.

Numbness? Yes.

Where? Legs, arms, hands.

Which side? Both, though more on the right.

Migraine? Yes.

Brain fog? Yes, although, I still don’t think that’s the right term. This feels more like disassociation, like inhabiting a different dimension.

Her constellation of symptoms is wide and growing.

Any new ones? Chest pain, heart palpitations. Blurry vision, sometimes.

Inevitably, the doctor will glance towards the side of her screen, type some notes. Inevitably, she will share test results. Nothing. The tests hold nothing, her face holds nothing. She leaves the woman with nothing. The meeting ends, doctor goes back to work, and young woman falls back to dreams. Maybe when she wakes, this nightmare will be over; maybe she will feel well again.

This young woman is, of course, me. And factually, I know this. Although, I am not always convinced of our sameness. Which each month that passes, she travels farther away. Most days, I am not sure that she truly is me. Or rather, that I am her. My year of illness appears like a void. When I envision it – when I envision her – she is always surrounded by a haze. I look down on her as if from above. I wonder, did she live only in dreams?

This young woman is, also, not alone in her plight. She is lonely, yes. But alone? Not entirely. In some sense, she is a proxy for the millions of people, disproportionately women, who inhabit voids of their own. Each of them fell ill with some innocuous virus – perhaps mononucleosis or the flu – and remained ill. Often, they never got better.

For me, illness began after a likely Covid-19 infection, but post-viral chronic illnesses have existed long before the Covid pandemic. ME/CFS (myalgic encephalomyelitis or chronic fatigue syndrome), in particular, is a post-viral illness characterized by a plethora of diffuse symptoms, including profound fatigue, cognitive decline, and crashes after physical or mental exertion. These are some of the symptoms that wracked me — no, that terrorized me — for the many months I spent ill.

In the void a sick individual lands, and in the void they linger – for months, years, decades. Often, for a lifetime. Eventually, time spent ill may surpass time spent well. And if so, when does a void stop being a void? When does a void become, simply, life?

Every ill person dreams. Every ill person wonders, what would it feel like to exit the void? What would it mean to inhabit a body that is strong and able again? In dreams, they shut the door on darkness. Enter the light. Say goodbye. Be well. Live again.

Sometimes, an ill person exits the void while awake, and for good. Perhaps they find some solution, some path to healing and wellness. Though, the climb out is never easy. One stumbles. One trips and fall, drops back in for a spell, and surfaces again.

It is hard to exit a void. Especially, when it has left you shaking, tortured, fearful of every little cough, every germ, every loud noise, and looming crowd.

It is hard, too, to remember the void – especially when you have left it, closed the trap door, dumped some soil. Planted seeds of grass above it. Trodded on. After all, the remembering is painful. In some sense, a person must forget how dreadful it was to be so deeply, unfathomably ill in order to find joy again.

It is harder, still, to combine these two actions: to both exit the void, and revisit it again.

Though, I reckon to tell the story of this illness, I must do both. I must continue my exodus and revisit my illness, all at once. I must find that ill woman again. Become her again. It is painful, but I must. So, I reach through the mist, climb back inside. One foot, then the other.

It is suffocating in this void; it is dark and dismal and I want out! And yet, I sink further. I find: a too-fast heartbeat, numb and shaking limbs. A pounding migraine, derealization, all-consuming fatigue. I hate it here. I hate it here. I lie down. I linger. I try to breathe, I suck in breath, I fight, I resist, I relent. I inhabit the void anew.

Other Writing From Me

• I wrote this essay about Long Covid for HuffPost in the early months of my illness (summer 2022). It will provide you with some more background information on my illness and misdiagnosis.

• I wrote this essay about the way we write, teach, and understand suffering as related to young people, for Touchstone Literary.

• I wrote this essay about a serial sexual assault case that haunted me for many years, for Sad Girls Club Literary (I first wrote this a few years ago, but it was updated and published last summer). *Content Warning for sexual assault and rape.

  In the past year, I’ve also (somehow) done some reporting in the running industry:

• This for Outside on Allie Ostrander’s radical transparency when it comes to eating disorder recovery. I was really grateful to her for trusting me with her story.

• This for Tracksmith on the history of the 2022 World Championship Marathon Course in Eugene. It’s astounding to me how running/track and field fans still shy away from talking about the less positive details of our sport. Eugene holds a complex, and sometimes ugly, history — especially as related to racial injustice. I think it’s crucial to not gloss over this history, nor cover it up with the whimsical track and field history we often favor (making Nike shoes in a waffle iron, etc)

• This for Runner’s World on Jake Fedorowski’s guide to non-binary inclusion in running. Their work has grown even more important with the recent attacks on trans and nonbinary athletes. We have seen an increase in anti-trans bills across the country and, notably, the World Athletics’ ruling to ban transgender women from female events. If you want to fight against anti-trans legislation, Schuyler Bailar curates a great Instagram account with lots of resources. Transathlete.com is another go-to for me.

• You can find more stuff I’ve written of late on my janky lil website

A bright note to end on: pictured below is a lovely blooming tree that lives in Prospect Park, Brooklyn. It has brought me much joy and the joy it brings other people has brought me much joy, and I could sit and watch all this joy-bringing and hence, be brought more joy, all day.

Thank you so much for reading. You can find me on the internet here. Feel free to contact me for freelance or other inquiries, or just to send me kind words, at emmamzimm@gmail.com.

Oh, and it’s nice to be back :)

-Emma