I was my Wife's date to the 2023 F1 Vegas Grand Prix
By Joe Rojas Feb 18, 2024
F1 is different for me now. I've handed it to my wife. Next to video games, it's the thing I'm most into, so it is with great pride that she's run away with it.
We will be parents
We're in Las Vegas (not for the first time), and we will be attending the 2023 Las Vegas F1 Grand Prix. It's our first race and while I'm not writing all of this after the fact, my thoughts will certainly wrap up after I've had time to reflect. Tonight is qualifying and tomorrow night is the actual race. My verdict so far? Magical... and expensive.
A metronome chirps behind medical plastic - I can't quite pinpoint where the sound is coming from, but it's close - I think I overheard someone talking to a nurse about foot surgery. The missus and I make small talk and, having just spoken with the doctors who will be performing the surgery, try and distract each other from what will take place over the next five hours. We talk about our time in Vegas and how cool The Race was. I've been given a clear draw-string bag with my wife's wallet, phone, clothes, etc. along with a form to sign indicating I have her belongings, relinquishing the hospital of all liability if they're lost. There are no outlets in the waiting room so I can't do any work. I guess I'll pace and occasionally watch Zelda speed-runs on Youtube.
I'm 40 and I know I have a lot of life left to live, and up until this trip, I've been under the impression that I've probably seen most of the ups and downs life has to offer. I've experienced tragedy and I know what true joy feels like. I've yet to enter fatherhood so I can't wait to throw my preconceived notions about everything out the window when that happens. But, being here for F1 and the excess of pomp has fully tricked me in the best way possible. I'm happy in a way I haven't been in a while, and I think so too is my wife. Those who know me know my disposition on life is fatalistically realistic - Earth's entropy is often on my mind, but being here and sharing this mutual passion with my wife has given me a mental respite from wondering where the eventual water wars will break out first. She's into F1 in the same way I'm into video games - she follows all the socials, gets wrapped up in rumors, and will often mansplain to me about driver news and team development. I've accepted that we will not share video games in our life together - that's fine - but here we are, the culmination of an interest that ultimately grew in tandem. I see a joy in her eyes that I haven't seen since our wedding day. There is one huge stylish and sexy caveat: my wife wouldn't be on this F1 journey with me if it weren't for Lewis Hamilton, the seven-time world champion - and some would say he should be champion eight times over... but that's another article.
Endometriosis is a motherfucker. It's wildly undiagnosed and when it is, it's usually a couple of years after the fact. The fertility journey we've been on is draining - not just financially, but logistically and emotionally. And I'm the guy! For my wife, it quite literally drains her physically. This new Endo wrinkle isn't entirely surprising when considering the scope of our journey thus far - six rounds of IVF, a failed transfer, and a natural pregnancy that ended in miscarriage - but it's apoplectically frustrating to wonder if Endo has contributed to our roadblocks along the way. I'm ashamed to say that, up until recently, I didn't engage with all this as much as I should have. Because my physical journey throughout has largely involved only plastic cups, I've been able to dial down the volume and disengage whenever it didn't interest me - I'm improving on this and am a better husband.
I've never wanted a full racing sim setup as badly as when I started playing EA's F1 series. Sure, playing on a controller is fine but being able to sit low and grasp onto a steering wheel that gives real-time resistance on hairpins and chicanes is something I'm just not getting in my Toyota Corolla Hybrid. These racing thoughts of grandeur, along with the Netflix series Drive to Survive, birthed my interest in F1. And since then, I've purposely chosen to not follow a team - I'm the guy in Vegas buying the F1 branded gear, enjoying things from a birdseye view. But my wife isn't here for the macro-interest of it all; she's here for #44. Lewis Hamilton is more than an F1 driver and I don't think many people would disagree with that notion, certainly not my wife. He's a philanthropist, an advocate for LGBTQ+ folks, and will often stand up for these causes especially when in petro-focused countries within the Middle East. He's handsome, he has his own non-alcoholic spirit brand, Almave, he owns part of the Denver Broncos AND he's the only black driver in F1. At an event in one of the Vegas hotels last night, my wife was in a throng of folks close to him and playfully reminded him not to be late for practice - he laughed. Immediately following this exchange between them, I caught a private moment as she left the crowd of fellow Lewis-onlookers; I filmed her and zoomed in on her face. I have never seen her smile like that.
Lewis Hamilton - F1 driver and handsome man
The cabinet beneath the sink in our downstairs bathroom is full of SHARPS containers, spare syringes, and various poky things required to administer overpriced fertility medication. My wife is my hero - she's met this fertility challenge with high executive function. She knows all the lingo, can have like-for-like conversations with her doctors, and has this super-human ability to engage with the hostility her body has waged and not panic. During her research process, she went deep into some YouTube videos that I don't have the stomach for. My wife can beat up your husband.
Lewis made it to practice just fine, and so did we. It was such a late night but I would do it again 100 times over. The first practice, FP1 (full practice one), started at 8:30 pm and lasted an hour. We walked around after the session and let the adrenaline drain before heading back to the hotel. The following night was the final practice, followed by qualifying - this is used to determine the driver's starting positions for the race. The surrounding patch of hotels all had on-theme events going on - a successful attempt at liberating spare hundred-dollar bills and card-taps from fellow F1 heads. Up to this point, the only downside was how late we got back to the hotel; qualifying didn't start until 10:30 pm so by the time we laid our heads down, it was around 2:30 am.
We must preserve fertility. This has been our unwavering guiding light and we've communicated the same to the doctors. And on this Thursday morning in December, it's not just endometriosis that we will be excising, but also a fibroid. This is our next step, a backward one, but necessary so that we can hopefully take three forward in the near future. We deserve a win. We deserve a distraction.
You haven't lived until you've heard Donny Osman sing the US National Anthem. Quite literally, he has the voice of an angel. He even hit the high F at the end of the song. Bruce Buffer, in the most Vegas way possible, introduced all of the drivers as if they were boxers, and a classic car spewed oil on the track before the start of the race, but the schedule was still kept. We settled in as the track cleared. The desert chill reminded us that it was November in Vegas and so we sat closer together and let the starting grid sounds wash over us. The lights went out and away they went, around and around for 50 laps, each one carving into the Earth an oasis of distraction for us both. I couldn't stop looking at my wife. I didn't want to forget these moments. I'm sure she didn't forget about everything that we're enduring, but it sure looked like she did.
The surgery went as expected. I met my wife in the recovery room and was given instructions on meds and post-operation care. I fed her ice chips and jello as waves of nausea crashed her return to consciousness. The attending nurse brought me a ginger ale. I drank it. Another nurse walked by and noticed the sweatshirt I was wearing - a purple crewneck with "F1 Vegas 2023" on the right arm. "Oh cool, he went to the race," I heard him say. I pretended not to hear but I smiled and squeezed my wife's foot. To my surprise, I was given photos of the surgery all of which were notated by the doctor - one said "Here's her appendix, looks great!"
Like everything else in life, she was leaning forward waiting for the next car to go by, waiting for the next appointment, ready to cheer Lewis as he topped 210 mph, ready to stick herself with another needle, ready to stand and cheer as the checkered flag waived, ready to conquer the next challenge and thoughtfully brute her way to what's next. What's next?
