Not Dead, Just Decorated

The one where my body taps out but Rob owes me matcha.

One of my biggest flaws is the deep, bone-stubborn need to do everything myself. I don’t just “like” independence, I wear it like a gold star. Top tier. Full ceremony. Fireworks optional but preferred.

I love my friends, truly. But asking for help? Barf.
I’d rather be duct-taped to a flaming lawn chair than admit I need something. I want to hang out with people because I miss them, not because my kidneys have decided to make me feel as if I went toe to toe with Ronda Rousey.

And worst of all?
Cancellation.
I hate canceling plans. It feels like a personal failure wrapped in guilt and glitter.

So naturally, when life hits the fan, I start doing the most rational thing possible: hand-washing laundry in the kitchen sink like it’s 1842. Meanwhile, my best friend is texting me photos of her top-tier, NASA-approved washing machine like, “Are you good? You know you have an open invitation right?”

No. I’m clearly not good. But I’m also not going over there. Because, stubborn.

If “pain in the ass” had a sound, it’d be me, hammering fifty crooked nails into a dilapidated bug house. Muddy boots on my feet, the echoes bouncing off trees while my husband just wants to nap for, I don’t know, ten minutes tops (or four hours, don’t judge him… or do because it annoys me). That rage tapping is not a red-bellied woodpecker. It’s DIY’ing instead of D-I-recovering.

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Flash forward to the actual crisis.

Rob finds me curled up like a discarded sock on the bed. I’m too quiet, which is always a red flag. He begs me to see someone but I say no. He threatens to drag me but switches gears towards a rational adult and pulls out the big guns:

Bribes.

He offered me matcha if I’d go to the doctor. A whole bribe-drink I still haven’t collected, by the way. Justice for matcha.

The cup urgent-care handed me was labeled “apple juice,” but it was suspiciously sterile, and I wasn’t allowed to leave the office until I promised to hit the pharmacy like a good patient. Meanwhile, Nikolai (who takes zero days off from being a legendary kid) wrote a whole song on the way to the truck titled “My Daddy Was Right, He Told You So!”
Rob smirked, “If you didn’t have me, you’d be fertilizer.”

Honestly? Accurate.

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Round one: urgent care.
Round two: a different urgent care.
Round three: Cipro.

Cipro, as it turns out, is my body’s least favorite hobby.

I was trying to be productive, dragging my disabled corpse to coffee shops just to write something coherent while we were still waiting for internet on the farm. (Because clearly, being near death shouldn’t affect your publishing goals.)

But instead of inspiration, I was met with that lovely, slithery heat climbing up my neck, my ears, my scalp… almost like Satan himself decided it was time to end all redheads. My breathing went sideways, and I realized:

“Oh. I think I’m allergic to antibiotics. That’s new.”
The hives took one look at my body and said, “Let’s go clubbing.”

They hit my throat, my legs, my face, and gripped my soul like it was out for vengeance. The best part? My kid smacked a sticker on my back that said DOG FOOD and I didn’t notice it until after our adventure. I mean… who needs ego when you’ve got labels and full-body histamine hell?

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Rob rearranged his entire work life—again—to rescue me. Bless him and his ever-whitening head of hair.

We hit the ER, who gave me that “you’re fine-ish” vibe and sent me home with a shrug and maybe a wave. Just in time for the pharmacy to switch my seizure medication to a totally new brand. Mid-crisis. Because clearly, I was having too calm a week.

Let’s recap:

• One raging kidney infection
• Two urgent care visits
• One allergic reaction
• Full-body hives (with throat flair!)
• Fever spikes
• Brain on seizure roulette
• And a surprise seizure med brand swap
• Plus a sticker that screamed “kibble”

At this point, my body was like, “Survival mode? Nah, let’s try chaotic neutral.”

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So here’s your update:
I’m not better.
I’m not worse.
I’m just seasoned… in epsom salts, binging murder mysteries, burning through the mint chocolate ice cream, and letting the weeds take over the dahlias because frankly, I’m too itchy to deal with it.

Life is currently a beautiful mix of trauma and unclaimed matcha bribes. And honestly? Rob needs to pay up because I’ve earned every drop of it.

So if you’re wondering how I’ve been:
I’ve cancelled all my plans. I’m not thrilled but I’m still blooming… with a rash, a fever, and possibly a tail, depending on the sticker.