In the last week, I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about taxes: not the April 15 kind, but the ways in which I’ve been “taxed,” both mentally and physically throughout injury, surgery, and recovery.
This thinking was prompted by a Father’s Day blog post I read last week discussing the concept of “a tax on life.” Examples of “taxes on life” that come up in the piece include gratuity, ATM surcharges, service fees, “all the nickel and diming that accompanies regular and everyday events and routines.” The real punchline, however, is that main “tax on life” in the piece is a more significant, less financially-measurable one: the author, who grew up not growing up with a father, considered the absence of a fatherly presence his greatest “tax on life.”
It got me thinking, and for this week’s piece, I wanted to play with the concept of “the tax on life” as applied to injury and recovery, hoping to understand how much the last few months have actually cost me.
The obvious “taxes” of recovery: money and time
The most obvious way to measure the impact of recovery on my life is in the form of dollars. I can look at the myriad receipts from…
The initial doctor’s appointments, including X-Rays and MRIs to validate what was torn in my knee and determine a plan of action.
The follow-up doctor’s appointments, inclusive of
“Surgical speed-dating” to pick which surgeon I wanted to do the operation. New to Atlanta, I wanted to pick the right person, not just the first person or closest one covered by insurance.
A series of pre-and post-op appointments to obtain the relevant medical details, bodily substances, and range-of-motion measurements to ensure my procedure was a success.
The biweekly prehab and rehab appointments with physical therapists.
The surgery itself, which totaled around $48,000. Thank f—ing goodness for health insurance.
More precious than the amount of money I spent on all these appointments was the time I spent on them: receiving and paying for the care is the easier part—or at least the more straightforward part. Sourcing the specialists, commuting to and from the appointments—always with traffic—and upending your schedule in order to accommodate an unexpected medical need is a huge tax on time.
Those “taxes” are the obvious ones—money and time spent on, in, and around medical appointments. I could have anticipated those “taxes” before the journey. If you had warned me about them, I would have acknowledged them, begrudgingly, as par for the course, and prepared myself to pay them, receipt by receipt.
The last nine weeks since my surgery revealed a number of nonobvious “taxes” I did not anticipate. If you had warned me about these “taxes”, I would have acknowledged them, but I would not have been able to respect their severity until having to pay them. These “taxes” are the kinds that don’t have itemized receipts.
The less obvious “taxes” of recovery: pace and energy
The most noticeable impact to others is the tax on pace and energy. Every movement, every task demands more energy and effort:
Between work meetings, a simple one-minute trip to refill a water bottle now takes three minutes, depending on how stiff I am from sitting.
Walking the dogs (which I can now do and is a win!) demands intense focus with every step, lest I lose balance from a hard tug on the leash or, suffering from a limp, trip over the roots of a tree in the backyard.
Running basic errands becomes an exercise in strategic planning. What was once a quick stop to the grocery store or the post office now requires careful navigation of parking lots, curbs, and doorways.
My slowness is most apparent—and most embarrassing—in social situations. At a friend's birthday gathering at a bar a few weeks ago, my limited mobility became a source of unwanted attention and anxiety. Wary that any booze would worsen the inflammation of my knee, my mind swam in between sips of sparkling water, bubbling up questions like:
How do I safely get on and off the barstool?
Can I move quickly enough if I need to dodge a server or a tipsy bar-goer?
I have already spent so much energy getting to this bar and have spent the rest of it feigning politeness and optimism about the state of my body. Is someone going to make a comment about my crippled state that will put me over the edge and send me into tears?
Even in smaller-group, lower-pressure settings, the disparity in pace is stark. When a hostess seats us for dinner, I lag so far behind that I nearly lose sight of her and our table. At the end of an evening out, as friends head to the parking lot for goodbyes, I trail significantly behind, peg-legging it with a Forrest Gump-style apparatus locking up the real estate of my left leg between my ankle and thigh. People naturally assume you're right beside them - until suddenly, you're not.
The tax on pace and energy extends beyond momentary inconvenience. It reshapes how I approach every part of my day, from basic tasks to social interactions. Each activity requires a new calculus of effort and time, turning once-simple routines into miniature odysseys.
The least obvious “taxes” of recovery: mental load and leisure
I knew going into surgery that the recovery journey would be both physically and mentally taxing. I was warned about how hard it would be to rebuild trust in my body, to remedy the inevitable muscular atrophy, to relearn how to walk. I knew it would be a long time before I could reclaim the joy of running outside or training jiu-jitsu.
What I did not prepare for were the psychological and emotional “taxes” that came with the physical limitations.
Every action now requires a risk-reward analysis, leaving little room for spontaneity. The mental energy spent on constant calculation and consideration is exhausting. The psychological burden bleeds into leisure activities, putting a “tax” on joy, transforming what should be fun experiences into sources of stress.
For example: I’ll be in Boston next week for a friend’s wedding, and I was thinking of visiting the Museum of Fine Arts before the ceremony:
My first thought, excited to visit the museum:
Wouldn’t it be fun to go to the MFA for a few hours on Saturday? It’s been years since I last went!
My second thought, remembering my current condition:
If I take the T, I'll be exhausted just trying to navigate the crowded Copley subway station. Finding elevators, stepping on and off the train - it's a gauntlet before I even reach the museum. Once I’m there, I might need a wheelchair to avoid excessive swelling. By the time I return to the hotel, my knee will likely be inflamed from movement and summer heat. Is a peaceful afternoon seeing a few John Singer Sargent paintings worth this whole frustrating ordeal?
It’s daunting enough to go through the inner inquiry and evaluation of how to navigate a familiar place. It’s more daunting to do the same for an unfamiliar or uncontrolled place.
Following the trip to Boston, I’ll be celebrating my mother's 70th birthday in Napa and Las Vegas. The trip, booked in December with unfettered joy, now looms as a series of potential obstacles:
Napa, though likely peaceful, presents unfamiliar terrain. How far will I need to walk for breakfast? Are the vineyards and restaurants accessible? Will I be able to do the things my mother most wants to do in Napa with minimal physical accommodation? These questions simmer in the background, a low but constant source of anxiety.
Las Vegas, with the desert heat and teeming crowds, poses an even greater challenge in light of my limited mobility. The pinnacle pressure test will be attending a Lady Gaga concert on the final night of the trip. The concert is a social and physical endurance event that will remain unrivaled for months, until I step back onto a jiu-jitsu mat for my first class post-surgery.
Even simple, pleasurable, controlled activities require recalibration. Going out for coffee with friends, while manageable, requires a new level of awareness and care. Going outside for a walk is possible, but with a limp and relegated to slow circuits of the cul-de-sac.
Every decision and interaction now has a psychological tax—not only in planning and coordination, but also on joy. Enjoying leisure time now involves a complex balancing act between desire and capability, between spontaneity and careful orchestration.
It sucks.
AND
Fortunately, it’s temporary.
Accepting the “taxes” by paying or planning for convenience
I spent a lot of time in the last week trying to plan for the “taxes” of the next week when I’ll be traveling—either alone or with my soon-to-be-seventy-year-old mother, who is in good physical condition, but is in need of a hip replacement.
I decided that while I could have cancelled, it was important to me to go on this trip. My job has been hard. Recovery has been harder. I am desperate for a change of scenery: most of the last two months have been spent at home and in a serious state of dependence. I haven’t left the house much for places other than a doctor’s office or physical therapy center. When I have, I’ve been humbled by requiring significant assistance.
Having decided to take the trip, the question I have been asking myself is this:
In light of the “taxes” on my mobility, my energy, and my spontaneity, what can I do to most enjoy the trip?
The best answer I've found?
Make your life as easy as you can for as long as you need to. Swallow your pride and be as pragmatic as possible along the journey.
For activities like visiting a museum or going places with my mom, I'm willing to spend more on conveniences like Uber. I want to conserve energy for the fun experiences, rather than exhausting myself while getting there and, upon arriving, being unable to enjoy them.
For the air travel, I've planned some specific concessions for ease.
I’m requesting wheelchair assistance. I find that extent of assistance mildly humiliating, but recognize that a long plane ride in a brace will be stiff and uncomfortable enough without the added strain of navigating four distinct, sprawling airports.
Even as it requires spending more time at the airport, I'm checking bags instead of wrestling with carry-ons across endless terminals. The convenience of avoiding baggage claim isn't worth the physical toll of maneuvering luggage through crowds of harried summer travelers.
Closing out: these “taxes” are temporary
The "taxes on life" imposed by injury and recovery are significant.
They are nuisances.
They are stressful.
I hate every single one of them.
But I have to remember that most of them are inevitable and they are not forever: being in recovery is a temporary state, not a permanent part of my identity.
The healing process has transformed my perspective on accessibility, patience, and the value of asking for help. After what I’ve been through so far, I'll never look the same way at a person on crutches or in a wheelchair. If I’m aware of someone suffering from a more invisible, but equally crippling form of pain, I’ll be more compassionate. This degree of fundamental debilitation changes you.
In the future, I have to believe that the “taxes” I'm paying now are an investment in developing a new kind of strength - one that goes beyond the physical and touches on mental fortitude and emotional resilience.
In the next week, I have to find a way to enjoy the experiences that travel will bring, even if they look different from what I'm used to. By the time I can reclaim the simple freedoms of movement and spontaneity that I once took for granted, I’ll be able to savor and appreciate them so much more.
In the meantime, I’m packing my bags—with sensible shoes and plenty of compression socks.
See you next week,
EZ