In our ohana (family), many an ordinary aloha Friday translates into comfort food and a goofy family movie. On island one company called Maui Brewing makes a tasty root beer, syrupy sweet in the right ratio, the ideal indulgence beverage to complement several slices of pepperoni pizza baked at home, fresh from the grocery store freezer and its box. On this early evening, I also serve us extra-large bowls of Rocky Road ice cream to pull the drawstring closed on my emotions, eating to soothe them. Makes sense that the drawstring ties less easy around my waist, though.

Those damn pesky interior emotions launch a one-woman pity party as my inner fuhleeeelings wear spiky cone hats and blow festive noisemakers. Reason is that my left knee is now so swollen I cannot walk using that leg. Most of my decades into this gifted life, I have been quite physically active: athlete, landscaper, and parent. All these require a constant skip, hop, and jump throughout the day, sometimes, all at once.

This evening my left leg rests on a chair while the rest of my body stretches out on the sofa. My knee still connects to my body yet feels like an unknown entity. What is happening? A bag of ice sits on my kneecap, a specific health recommendation from the more frequent doctor that I visit—meaning quick tips from Google. Another health suggestion is that I rest and I am not so good at that.

So, I start throwing other random health strategies at my swollen knee for the insta-fix. Stocking up on vitamins at Longs Drugs, I pump pills over the weekend: Vitamin C, Turmeric/Ginger, Vitamin D, Calcium, Glutosomine/Chondroiton, and B12. And I am trimming from the aloe plant in the driveway. Once clipped, I peel back the outer skin to remove the pulp inside then massage onto my knee. Next, I buy minty smelling muscle ache ointment. Then I invest in a hot water bottle, alternating from extreme heat in the bottle to extreme cold with ice packs and this seems to help.

At night I place several pillows under my left knee, which reflows some fluid so that by morning my left ankle is less puffy. Fluid around my ankle has been puddling during the day, maybe the size of a large lemon. Seems my swollen knee blocks free-flowing blood passage to my ankle.

How I react to the unexpected knee dilemma resembles some familiar paths in sobriety. A problem arrives and denial kicks in for months at a time. Since March my left knee had been making funny clicking noises and experiencing small collapses in that my left leg buckled, so I almost “tripped” and fell. Since they began in early spring, I have ignored the signs. As I sit on the sofa in pain this start of July weekend, a feeble acceptance kicks in that I coulda, shoulda, woulda addressed the trouble early on. But no.

After denial, the next passive-aggressive “action step” is to micro-manage—meaning lean into demonatrix mode (can anyone spell control freak?). Quite common dynamic in my life, or anyone’s, yet most vociferous for us with addiction temperaments, a condition that begins in biology—our one gifted human body.

In AA recovery one key defining that happens is an allergy. Have you ever been tempted to drink eight cans of Pepsi, one after the next? Unlikely perhaps. Yet for those with alcoholic genetics, we do that. Simply exchange Pepsi for Pabst Blue Ribbon, especially when the frugal budget grabs extra tight. In other words, my physiology has an allergic reaction to alcohol so even one drink can trigger my biology to drink more and more. Hijacked again, honey. When will my body learn? For this reason, and I guess I did learn, I choose to never drink alcohol and, I believe, I still enjoy a damn good life.

Mainly because as I approach 12 years in AA recovery, I am willing to continually practice and cultivate some pause methods, which are evolving as daily tools. I pray and meditate. And even as I start to micromanage the knee pain (if only I can control freak this away), at the same time I am wondering about the new body message that kicks in, or, rather, inflames into my life.

Happy news is that one sobriety strategy is an adventurous curiosity or seeing problems as blessings. For folks missing the alcoholic or addiction predisposition, the method to see challenges as positive might come easy. But for AAers we love to dwell on doom and gloom, often sipping from that cup rather than the actual liquid. This is the control freak psychology that accompanies an alcoholic biology. Quite predictable when you meet one of us. Even more happy news, probably fantastic, is that during night’s journaling after living the day, the perspective switches over to perceive adversity as welcome lessons. Just before sleep, as we reflect on the last lucky 24 hours, we in AA apply the 10th step.

Could I have treated others more gently? Do I owe an apology? Did I contribute service in the flow of life that day? These are some recovery questions we tend to before resting. Turns out that addiction’s core vinyl record, spinning round and round on the record player, can grind the needle into angst. Was I good enough today? Am I, as one happy lesbian in recovery, solid enough given mainstream American expectations? Uncertainties can spin.

The physical allergy that can lead to guzzling alcohol does create deeply grooved patterns of doubt, even self-hatred for the alcoholic drinking. Good news always remains that in recovery we can reflow that same riverbed, where alcohol gushed, with a healing current to regroove the path. Hence the name recovery—getting back to healthy pacing. Rather than biology running our lives, we choose mindsets during the day to keep the day in steady flow.

Many selections abound: AA literature reading, phone call with AA friend, attending a meeting, doing step work, making a service visit, taking a service commitment, recovery journaling, and on and on. In this way, recovery life becomes a “sufficient substitute” to pouring alcohol into our bodies. The phrase is from the essential text called the Big Book. Pretty much right away what AA provides in teaching is foundational self-acceptance.

Yet when we view those close to us still in throes of addiction, seems nigh impossible to apply this radical empathy card. Luckily, in recovery we learn how. If we wish and choose so, the practice for you and I—whether you are in recovery or not—becomes seeing beyond the addict’s self-loathing. Witness one anecdote distilled from the two decades while living in San Francisco.

More than a few years ago, I owned an apartment on Moss Street in downtown San Francisco. Urban sidewalk space has its fair share of street folks living outdoors and SF is not immune. For a month or so, the same inebriated, beard stubbly, urine perfumed street dweller asks me for money. A friendly hello, enjoy the day, and walk away are my tactics. One morning a brainstorm arrives that I at least attempt to ally with the guy. I fear the disdain I have for him could be shown to me, knowing as I do, that I am also an alcoholic. We simply look different. After a few greetings for the pleasant morning so far, I ask him if he will return the money I share with him. He confirms that guaranteed he will pay me back. I float him $10 cash.

And then I do not see him for three months or so. Just disappears. Sure enough, one early morning as I leave the apartment around 7:30 a.m. I spot him way down the street. Clean shaven, still in disheveled clothing, he seems less drunk. Not quite sober, just more level. Nonchalant and with all the confidence in the world, he reaches into his pocket for a crisp $10 bill. After he pays me back, we stay and chat for 15 minutes or so, and I thank him for the lesson on trust. He smiles and shakes my hand. Even though I do not see him again, that gentleman dude is a reminder. For those who are on drugs, and for those who watch loved ones on drugs, the more simple, positive gesture can influence change, the return to health.

What an ego snag, though, to not just bring snippety anger for those over-loaded on either literal drugs or extreme behaviors without actual drugs or alcohol (what we call a dry drunk in AA). After all, one kindred spirit stands before me as in another human doing the best he or she can. Still, takes real work for me to be patient with others. Written in 1939 and read initially by mostly a homogeneous group in race, class, and gender, the Big Book today appeals to diverse millions around the world, and admits, still, that “we are people who normally would not mix.” Meeting the street dweller happened a decade or so ago yet the encounter reminds me to always shows another addiction sufferer kindness. And be compassionate for myself by tending my own health, first.

By Monday morning, only a few days since Friday when the swelling began, my left knee hurts like hell. A constant throbbing as if some tiny elf resides in my kneecap tapping a malicious hammer. Swollen skin on the kneecap and ankle skin stretches too tightly, pulling uncomfortably. On a scale of zero to ten, probably a six most of the time and sometimes dabbling in the eight to nine zone.

These are the numbers I give them when they ask the question in the hospital when I arrive 11 a.m. to the Queen’s Community Hospital in Waimea, the ER room. On a scale of zero to ten, how would you rate your pain? I am alarmed and our usual health support, the Kohala Health Clinic, suggests going, so to the ER I go. Early July is still a summer month for my son, so, free from school, he goes, too. He needs to bunker down in the car since Covid times mean only the patient is allowed inside.

Several hours later that includes more than a few hobbling visits to our family car to pamper my son while I am injured, the fantastic health care team had taken an x-ray, conducted an ultra-sound, shared soothing comments, and looked directly at the varicose veins that might twist blood flow. Common for many folks. Yet the hospital folks seem less sure why the swelling happens. They run a blood test to detect unusual blood count trends in there. All fine.

In a way, the inebriated street dweller, or gentleman dude, and I are similar since the hospital staff showing me kindness started the healing process, the confidence that I could take independent measures to regain a healthy functioning knee. As I shared kindness with him, so they carried the kindness forward to me. Placing my self-doubt aside through the hospital staff’s confidence, a type of them loaning me $10 hoping I would pay them “back” by focusing on my health, is where the knee experience took a positive twist. Not too sudden since my leg still hurts bad, and I must wait a few days for more help. The street guy and I are from completely different walks of life yet share the addict’s temperament. When others show us small doses of proactive kindness, we respond well, owning up to our own kuleana (responsibility).

The ER capacity has its limits and they have reached theirs in terms of being able to diagnose further. Next, they refer me to a Waimea osteopath, where I can make an appointment in a few days.

And that is the problem. A few days. In sobriety, a few days can feel like or translate into seeming like weeks, months, and years when really just these few days. Time warps in recovery so that where we started in the morning could little resemble how lunch time looks and then rocket to a different planet by dinnah. Odd yet true that alkies have extra energy. Every day is a retraining on how to slow down, not force life, or become angry that my over controlling demonatrix machinations do not work. After a long angry phase, which I indulge, adding one layer of self-absorption, over my failing health condition—I give in and truly accept. Suppose this is the point when recovery starts, for real.

Now, I am a woman who cannot bend her left knee and has an aching right knee, probably from over relying on this side, which slams me into humility. I am on crutches. And from that first Friday afternoon with my leg propped on a pillow, I have taken 600 milligrams of Ibuprofen every six hours, one control method that works yet I complain as I predict the pill taking will be lifelong. Another mindset is a fatalistic humility that I will need to be less physically active from now on. Maybe a smidge of victimhood in there, for good measure. Mostly doom and gloom.

But I am clear that I need to learn how to walk again. At 5 a.m. when pitch black dark is the early morning color, I take a few steps. A five-minute stroll happens—with crutches along, just in case. As my own physical therapist, I am in control again. That inside view feels great for a short while. The knee hurts like hell, but my spirit rallies as I can do something, anything.

The osteopath appointment arrives in just a few days (read: an eternity), and the doctor eases my anxiety quickly through medical talk that describes my condition as a familiar one. Knee inflammation happens. In the professional medical language, I take refuge. For the first time during all my denial and attempts to control, I exhale. This simply is a new life phase that if I can accept help—the most persnickety difficult action to take in sobriety—maybe some progress, even grace will kick in. Maybe not “kick in,” compromised knee health and all. Start to appear is what I mean.

The doctor schedules an MRI to learn what could be occurring that the other inquiry methods cannot see. Yet this treasured appointment in the world of America’s for-profit medicine means a one month wait. Which is a long time, and not just in my skewed world view of one, sometimes looooong day at a time.

That the appointment is so far away and nothing else can be done by others, I get quiet and go inside on how I can change. In sobriety, when we stop looking to blame others or expect a rescue, we initiate kuleana (responsibility) on our own behalf. Not in isolation without help—simply through momentum of listening proactively to self through 12 step work, aided by a sponsor (sobriety mentor), and absorbing HOPE, the hearing other people’s experiences in AA meetings.

For example, on August 21, 2010, on a Thursday, I began my first 30 days in recovery by eating healthy, walking everywhere (the state of California kindly removed my driving privileges after a Driving Under the Influence (DUI) ticket), and mumbling invented prayers to conjure up an attitude of gratitude. Alcoholism did not kill me. I was alive. I am alive. Every day since those first 30 days, I try to emulate this practice: eat healthy, go for a walk, and pray steadily. The rest is extra. Which ain’t an exaggeration if you recall the lively anecdote on chugging eight consecutive Pepsi sodas, which is the normie (how we kindly call folks not in AA) version of the story, compared to my account of endless Pabst Blue Ribbons whether I want to or not, given my allergy to alcohol thing.

Somewhat predictable that after several years of cruising on the comfortable life AA gifted me, I cut corners. Fewer meetings and more packs of cigarettes equate to less health in sobriety. And I gained 20 pounds beyond the 186 pounds that the scale told me I was for five years in a row. At 5’5” the additional weight meant I was more than big boned.

Flipping back a few pages in my AA rolodex of memory, I recall the first 30 days of recovery action steps and apply them to my current health, hoping to ease the knee pain. Start with the basics. I am still taking Ibuprofen since the pain sometimes wakes me up in the middle of the night. And I need crutches to start the day as I tap, tap, tap the metal sticks to reach the bathroom. Attending our HALT in sobriety is the starting point. What level of hungry, angry, lonely, and tired are we? For me in this moment, Ibuprofen and crutches are pre-HALT, the steps before the recovery steps, in a way.

Eating healthy becomes the focus as I drop all processed sugar, flour, and meat. For breakfast, a tall salad piled high with sprouts, spinach, beets, avocado, bell pepper and more is the morning routine each day. Some veggies or fruits are what I eat every three hours—7 am, 10 am, 1 pm, 4 pm and that is all for the day. In a few weeks, I drop ten pounds without “trying” at all to lose weight. Not being able to bend my left knee simply scares me into eating this way. Within a few days the inflammation on my ankle reduces. Maybe my take on the world that one or two or three days is loooong, has some validity.

In one week of eating this way, and early morning exercise—albeit very light—I can stretch the hours between Ibuprofen dosages to eight sometimes ten hours. The 5 a.m. walk for five minutes has elongated into 15 minutes and up a slight hill, too. Walking back down takes sure footed stepping, and hurts, yet becomes possible. But I do slow down on vitamin popping when one morning, instead of smooth exiting feces, a small brick attempts to exit my gluteus maximus. Constipation disappears as I continue eating healthy fruits and veggies that keep me regular in all ways.

Those early morning walks at 5 a.m. become the focus. Week two with lame knees and I still wonder, even wake up scared in the pitch-dark morning, uncertain if I can walk today and if so, how well. Pop goes the Ibuprofen, and a muscle ease kicks in, a palpable warm stretchy feeling. Blasting through earphones are two motivational songs on my iPhone. “You Know My Name” by Tasha Cobb and “You Raise Me Up” by Josh Groban ease my anxiety as I figure out how to lace my tennis shoes without bending. For a few minutes, I simply sit, sip strong coffee, and listen to the music. Then I swing a leg this awkward way, and at that peculiar angle, and the shoes are on, somehow. Each morning I walk further down the street.

Interspersed in the health regime, or more accurately, because of staying very active in AA regimen such as daily journaling, work with sponsor, attending meetings, focus on specific prayers, and meditation, all these create a recovery cocoon. The spiritual has real influence on my biology.

Into week three of this health change, the MRI appointment arrives. Resting on a slab this Friday afternoon, the hospital lab tech totally encases me in a clinical plastic tube so that only my head and upper shoulders appear, a locked in helpless state. A picture of my insides is being taken, an image that experts need to relay information to the patient. All the clinical dynamics are alienating in a way, methods that separate my intuitive spirit from my physical flesh.

Instead, relying on my nutrition intuition has worked as I am walking for 30 minutes in the morning. Not always at a steady clip, yet each day brings improvement. Eating dark-red beets at breakfast gives me a reliable bounce. I cook them halfway, so they arrive to my plate sort of raw and crunchy, and the water they cook in becomes my sipping juice during the day. To the veggies and fruits I go so I can walk again. During these four weeks I am not eating any wheat, dairy, meat, or processed sugar. The radical nutrition change works—comparable to the so simple, yet not always easy, transformative changes started in early recovery and continuing since many AAers have taught me so well the last 12 years and, clearly, I still need to practice every day.

One month after paying attention to my knees, the walking process can be tentative, swift and sudden pinches and pulls around the left knee are happening, yet a regular gait returns. The experience reschedules my life seven months after the knee pain began. Most mornings these days, I wake up in the pitch dark, make coffee, stay close to prayers that are memorized mantras I chant to myself while I prepare, and that first kick on a robust morning walk is nearly one of the best feelings I have ever appreciated in life. I gained the weight back yet keep eating healthy while also adding back some dairy, flour, meat, and processed sugar treats—simply far less. Frozen pizza and dairy rocky road ice cream are on the dinner table much less often.

The stars in the clear Big Island Hawai’i night sky are so bright at 5 30 a.m. Staring directly into them feels like when I began in recovery. In your guts, you know deep down that a new path has begun, and the job is to stay on track one early morning walk at a time. As dawn light starts to appear, my walking pace energizes even more and on knees that are far from perfect, yet quite capable these days, I move forward.