From Jell-O joints to grocery aisle sob fest. Finding humor (and hope) in the medical mayhem.

I kicked off 2024 feeling optimistic. Each morning I dragged myself onto the struggle bus, shears in hand. (coffee-free because I hate the stuff.) Juggling mom life and salon life in stretchy pants that have seen better days. Then October slid in and sucker-punched me: I woke up one morning so wiped out I couldn’t lift my head. Days later my knee puffed up like someone injected Jell-O under my skin. A week after that it was my ankle, then my elbow, and shoulder joined in. It was like they all RSVP’d to the “How can we ruin Amber’s Day?” party.

Still, I didn’t call it quits. My clients are my family, and I love them too much to disappoint them, or myself. By mid-November, though, my Achilles decided to stage a mutiny. I woke up utterly unable to stand. I hobbled into ortho where X-rays were too boring (clean). The blood-clot scan was clear. They sent me home with instructions to rest and use an anti-inflammatory. Easy peasy- except I loathe pills, I reluctantly downed a couple and the bed became my new BFF.

The joint pain eased. Then December brought round two. Painful red nodules appeared on my legs. They looked like bruises I didn’t deserve. I blamed Jax, our ancient, wobbly dog. After all, I had just tripped over him and broke my toe a few days before. It wasn’t too crazy to think I’d smacked my shins on the coffee table too.

The Monday before Christmas, I was finishing up the last-minute salon appointments. I was also preparing for the team Christmas party and finishing wrapping gifts. By the end of the day, I passed out on the couch. Fuck-I know better! I’m mid-forties! Still, I woke up with a stiff neck, and my spine felt like it twisted in sleep, and an all around sense of dread. I survived Christmas Eve on a cocktail of anti-inflammatories, and by graciously opting out of cooking anything. My body was still waving that white flag in neon lights.

On December 26th, I had a million errands to crush. Clean the house, finish shopping, pop into the grocery for some half-and-half (because, Dirty Soda Bar, yeah!!). As soon as I reached for that carton, my right side collapsed like a deflated party balloon. I crumpled to the floor, sobbing in the aisle, clutching dairy like it was my last lifeline. Somehow I managed to self-checkout in tears, then drove my own ass home, sniffling all the way. I made sure the kiddo was good, and crashed into bed. Hoping with rest it would be better when I got up. When Chris got home, he took one look at me and asked (in the most sarcastic way). “Do you think maybe we should go to the hospital?” Just like that, all plans vanished.

At the ER they discover an enlarged lymph node in my chest… and surprise, a little lung tumor that thought it would crash my party too. They confirmed the leg nodules were real-but still had no idea what they were. I was sent home with a brand-new staph infection. Five months of healing hell, and I’m still not convinced we’ve seen the last of it.

Here I remain; stretchy-pants warrior, tea and chocolate enthusiast. Bracing for whatever curve ball 2025 pitches. If you don’t find the laughs in this madness, you’ll drown in the chaos, and I refuse to go down without at least one good punchline.