I think about mortality often. I have this constant thought about life, and how short it really is. How we don’t have the time that we think we do.

In 2023, I was diagnosed with chronic osteomyelitis. In layman's terms, that’s a bone infection. I went through surgery and a subsequent hospitalization for it, then the typical treatment for osteomyelitis didn’t take, presumably due to the fact it was a dormant infection for years. I see a team of specialists annually and have everything managed through medications, which I am grateful for.

These things remind me how bodies break, how disability is inevitable for everyone, how time comes for us all — even when we’re not ready.

It started feeling like a shame to be stuck.

My brain acts in such a way that for the longest time, I wouldn’t travel a lot unless I had to¹. I had to come up with reasons to get myself to travel, usually work related.

When mortality started creeping up on me, I knew I couldn’t keep thinking that way. There was a lot I wanted to explore still, but didn’t know what or how. I went on a road trip to Vancouver, BC before the osteomyelitis diagnosis, but that had been the last big road trip I did — I knew I needed another one.

Rilo Kiley announced a set at Just Like Heaven. Then a full tour. I saw Red Rocks Amphitheatre was on the list. I knew Red Rocks was a storied venue, but I kept putting off eventually crossing it off my list because I needed it to be a band I really wanted to see there. I never thought I’d get a chance to see them. Problem solved.

Going from the Central Valley to Pasadena, then all the way to Denver, was a trek. It was a far longer drive than the one I took the Vancouver and the thought I had was that I could do it. I could do this.

I hung out in the ADA section at the stage Rilo Kiley played at in Pasadena and chatted with folks around there about why we were there to see the band. I talked about the road trip I was on and how much all of this meant to me.

“It seems like you just really love music,” one man told me. “You’re in the right place.”

Sobbing seemed like a necessary option when they went onstage and played The Execution of All Things. I could feel multiple versions of my younger self starting to feel whole again. It wasn’t there yet, but there was something about a moment you were never gonna get and then experiencing it.

The drive the next day was a shorter one, letting myself take a long pit stop in Las Vegas because when you’re on a journey where you feel mortal but also want to bask in whatever joy it is, you’ll take a little piece of home to go with it. For the first time in over 25 years, I stopped in Mesquite, Nev. — a small, Mormon town along the Nevada/Arizona state line that I lived in before my family moved to Vegas, which is now known for golf courses. It’s the Nevada side of the Arizona Strip that has resources for people who live there. Getting into St. George, Utah caused me to immediately associate it with Bruce Springsteen’s The Promised Land. I stared at the 15 from the parking lot of a Cracker Barrel² and contemplated what exactly a rattlesnake speedway was.

The journey to Denver ended up being just as important as being in Denver itself. Solo road trips can be a time where you blast all the music you want, or listen to an audiobook of something, with no one to judge you or want to listen to something else. Being mentally ill means it’s also a time for your brain to go on overtime. It’s a good exercise in learning how to manage. Sometimes, you’ll get a fun intrusive thought (e.g. “Beaver, Utah? And a truck stop souvenir shop? Alright, let’s go.”); sometimes it is a chance to process something you’d rather be avoidant about. You’ll get very glad there’s a drive-thru Cafe Rio next door to your hotel so you don’t really have to think about a full meal. That’s a next day problem.

I got to explore Denver, a city I hadn’t been to in 25 years. Technology can bad for a lot of reasons, but I got to send photos to friends, showing how excited I was to learn about the history of the rock formation that became the site of Red Rock Amphitheatre³. I thought about mortality even more — how this rock is so old and has outlived different species, and who am I but a person with a finite lifespan basking in science and history and I guess waxing philosophical all at once?

ADA at Red Rocks was arguably one of the best ADA experiences I’d ever had. The first row is reserved for those who can’t go up stairs; the next three rows have significant portions dedicated for those who are limited mobility. The 70th row is also reserved for ADA, for those who want a view of the whole formation and the lights of Denver from below. I sold the ticket I got in presale in the 29th row so I could get ADA for the sake of my bones.

You mean to tell me not only do I get to see the band I had accepted I’d never see live, and not only do I get to see them at Red Rocks, but I get to see them in the front row?

It was a night of sobbing, because that’s what their music is for. I thought of 14 year old me in the back of my mind, the kid who watched a video of the band playing With Arms Outstretched on YouTube from a festival and longed to be in a crowd cry-singing along. There was the 22 year old me, wrecked from trauma and listening to the entirety of The Execution of All Things on a concerning, seemingly nonstop loop, starting to piece everything together again. Then there was 33 year old me, remembering I could be a whole person again.

The photos I took can fade and/or be lost to technology. Some of the poor planning decisions I made could be regretted⁴. The memories I have will only live in my memories. But that’s the thing — I’ll have those memories of this road trip for the rest of my time. Life is short, but I wasn’t stuck anymore⁵.

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