So… the spine clinic. 😮‍💨 Whew. That was a lot.

But let me be real with y’all for a second. That appointment? It was the most anxiety-inducing medical visit I have ever had, and I think it stemmed from a combination of uncertainty and the weight of the decisions at hand. I was sweating, shaking, nauseous—full-on panic mode. It felt like a scared damn chihuahua in a thunderstorm, just trembling with every sound and movement around me. 🫣 For real, like not even my surgery appointment had me this anxious, which is saying something considering how nerve-wracking that was. I think it’s because I know now, that we are so limited in the options of what CAN be done, and that realization hit me like a ton of bricks, leaving me wondering if I would even get the help I need. The feeling of helplessness was suffocating, making every minute in that waiting room stretch into eternity as I grappled with my fears and the potential outcomes.

The short version: they sent me away with two new medications—one for the morning, one for the evening. I’ll share the names and more info as soon as I hear back from the pharmacy, because right now? I have no idea what they’re called. My brain was in full “overload mode” during that visit, and honestly, I’m just grateful I remembered how to get home afterward. Both of the medications are for my Fibromyalgia, numbness, tingling, and pain in my body.

And then there’s this: they want me to come back for a steroid injection into my spine.

The doctor looked me in the eyes and said, “We will put the injection directly into the extrusion where the disc is leaking and attempt to decrease the inflammation that it is causing.”

I felt my breath catch in my throat and my mouth went dry. The anxiety was building from this moment on. I could sense that this procedure was crucial, but uncertainty loomed heavy in the air.

Yeah, needless to say… I’m still sitting with that one, turning it over in my mind like a complex puzzle. It’s not a hard no, not a yes. Just… processing. The idea of a needle piercing my skin to deliver medicine directly into such a sensitive area makes me feel uneasy, and I can’t help but weigh the potential benefits against the associated risks. I find myself pondering what life would be like if this procedure alleviated my pain, allowing me a reprieve from the constant discomfort that has been my unwelcome companion.

But, on the other hand, I am haunted by doubts and fears, wondering if this could lead to further complications or whether it might not even work at all. It’s a dilemma that produces a myriad of emotions, each one battling for attention as I navigate this pivotal decision. There are many cases of people needing to have it done for long-term care, and I am not sure I am up for that. I am already on two injections, which often makes me feel weary and uncertain about adding another to my regimen; after all, what’s one more right? Yet, I find myself questioning if I truly have the mental and emotional strength to endure yet another treatment. I just don’t know if I have it in me; the thought of it all can be overwhelming. Therefore, I am going to talk it over with some people who have had it done, listening carefully to their experiences and insights, and I will also discuss my concerns with my husband. Together, we will weigh the pros and cons heavily before I make my final decision, recognizing that this choice could significantly impact my health and quality of life moving forward.

As I sat there, my mind raced with the implications of his words. I had been through various treatments before, yet the thought of this epidural injection stirred a wave of apprehension within me. I asked the doctor a range of questions about the previous epidurals I had experienced—what worked, what didn’t, and the side effects I faced. However, he dismissed my concerns with a wave of his hand, as if my past experiences were irrelevant to the current situation.

Feeling a surge of frustration, I turned the conversation toward the new issues I had been experiencing, which I suspected might be connected to my thoracic spine or the tumor on my L2. I explained my symptoms in detail, hoping to convey the urgency I felt about these conditions, but he dismissed those worries too, offering no reassurance or further exploration of the matter.

Seeming neither interested nor concerned about either, I couldn’t help but question the lack of attention to these critical areas of my health. Why wouldn’t anyone look deeper into the issues I was experiencing? Why was there an apparent unwillingness to consider the possibility that my thoracic spine or the tumor could be contributing factors? It was disheartening to feel as though my concerns were falling on deaf ears, leaving me in a state of anxiety and confusion about my future and the course of my treatment.

I left the office feeling more unsettled than ever, grappling with the knowledge that while I was seeking help, I might not be receiving it in the way I desperately needed. The questions lingered in my mind, amplifying my unease as I considered the next steps in my journey toward healing.

I literally had to sit in the parking lot afterwards with the AC on blast, trying to calm myself down.
I was on the verge of a panic attack—heart racing, hands trembling, tears threatening.
I called my mom and just sat there, letting her voice ground me until I was okay enough to drive home.
That’s the reality of navigating chronic illness and complex care—it’s not just physical. It’s emotional. It’s mental. It’s everything.

I know many of you out there get it. The medical trauma. The way our nervous systems remember.
It’s not just the pain—it’s the vulnerability, the not knowing, the being talked at instead of to.
It’s exhausting.

So I’m taking things one step at a time.
We’ll see how the meds go.
We’ll see how I feel about the injection.
And in the meantime, I’m doing what I can to rest, ground, and be gentle with myself.

Thank you all, as always, for your love, patience, and support.
I’ll keep you posted.

Much love and many blessings,
Mrs. B