Something I ordered shipped Friday—just 2 hours and 21 minutes away. And yes, that’s with Texas traffic, where every freeway’s under construction and the state flower should honestly be the traffic cone.
It’s now Tuesday. Still no package.
In the time it’s taken for USPS to not deliver that box, I’ve: ✅ Gone to the ER ✅ Gotten discharged ✅ Scheduled a follow-up with my GP ✅ Mentally picked throw pillows for my suite at Hotel Harris
The boys call it that—Hotel Harris—because I’m there too often, not because I should have a private room. (Though for the record? I’ve never had a roommate. Ever. The punch card must be working.)
Sparky says I need a business card listing all my meds just to make check-in faster. And honestly, at this point I’m just waiting on: 🛏 A monogrammed robe 💉 Frequent flyer miles 🧃 And a punch card that earns me a free saline bag after my 10th stay
USPS? Still reenacting the Oregon Trail with my package. If it doesn’t show up soon, I half expect the tracking to say:
“Your order was delayed due to dysentery.”
Amazon? They swore it’d be here Monday. Now it’s “maybe tomorrow,” with all the confidence of a teenager trying to fold laundry. And now they’ve updated it to June 6 and tried to blame the carrier. No, Amazon—you didn’t get it out on time. That’s on you.
BUT THEN—plot twist. FedEx delivered today. My Tezspire order from Accredo showed up. Caught me mid-shower, in my still-not-monogrammed robe, because of course they did.
I thought someone finally got it right. Then I opened the box… and they only sent one pen. Not three.
So now I get to call the international pharmacy hotline and explain, yet again, that a full order means more than one.
So yes, Amazon and USPS are still deep in the Great Delay Games, raising rates while lowering expectations. And even when FedEx wins the race, Accredo drops the baton at the finish line.
This post is part of my Health & Healing series. If you’re just joining in, you can catch up on Part 1 and Part 2.
By late 2023, I had more doctors than streaming subscriptions—and just about as many plot twists.
It started in October with a voice. Not just any voice—a Minnie Mouse voice. High-pitched, cartoonish, and completely out of nowhere. I sounded like a helium balloon in a choir loft. My first ENT chalked it up to allergies (as if that diagnosis doesn’t already have a monopoly on my chart). But when it didn’t go away, Holly—my GP and right-hand girl—got me in with a second ENT who took it seriously.
Surprise, surprise—he knew our boys’ ENT. The very same one who had done five surgeries on Small Fry and Big Mac. That connection felt like divine reassurance. I was in good hands.
A stroboscopy in November confirmed it: vocal nodules.
Then came November 8, 2023.
Sparky and I were just sitting on the bed, talking about nothing in particular, when my heart suddenly took off like it was late to a fire. I stood up, grabbed my phone, and calmly told him, “I’m calling 911.”
That shocked him more than the racing heart. After all my years working in healthcare, I don’t throw that phrase around. But I knew. Something was seriously wrong.
Harley, our sweet, non-formally-trained service pup, was already on high alert—pawing at me nonstop, trying to get me to lie down. He knew before I did.
The paramedics arrived and guessed—what else?—anxiety. Because every woman in her 30s must just be “stressed,” right?
Nope. Try 220+ beats per minute. I wasn’t panicking. I wasn’t spiraling. I was clear-eyed and ticking like a time bomb.
At the hospital, they assumed it was a heart attack. They admitted me, ran tests, and slapped me on a low-sodium cardiac diabetic diet… which was a joke, because I’m not diabetic and hadn’t been for a while. I was pre-diabetic before losing over 70 pounds, but I’d long since said goodbye to that label.
They discharged me with a referral to cardiology, but no one really had answers. Just shrugs and guesses—maybe a reaction to the steroids I’d been given for my throat. At the time, it was brushed off as a fluke. A strange blip. Nothing serious.
The cardiologist I saw in the hospital wasn’t a good fit, so I circled back to Holly—my GP and right-hand girl—who helped me get a second opinion with a cardiologist we both trusted more. That move would matter more than I realized, because while we didn’t have the full picture yet, it was the beginning of seeing the truth clearly.
Meanwhile, the scope I had in December—an EGD—revealed silent bile reflux, which helped explain some of the symptoms I’d been living with since my VSG. That discovery led to the decision to revise to an RNY. We submitted the paperwork in early January and—shocker—it was approved the same day. That never happens, but it did. It felt like a sign.
What most didn’t know was that my immune system had already started crumbling earlier that year. Back in summer 2023, I had landed in the hospital with a severe UTI that required IV antibiotics. That wasn’t normal for me—not then. But like a lot of things in this journey, I didn’t yet realize it was a piece of a much bigger puzzle.
I thought I was in the clear. I was approved for surgery. I was on the upswing.
Tezspire, misdiagnosis, and why David’s birthday ended in surgery
This post is part of my Health & Healing series. If you’re just joining in, you can catch up on Part 1.
After months of allergy testing and being told I was basically allergic to everything but air and sarcasm, I finally got approval for Tezspire. I was so relieved to have a plan in place. A sample arrived, I was prepped, and we were finally doing something proactive.
That joy didn’t last long.
I injected it into my thigh like you would with an EpiPen. But the pain was sharp—instant—and I reflexively yanked the injector back like I’d touched a hot burner. The nearly $5,000 dose sprayed everywhere.
The wall. The sink. My pride.
There was no time to get another from the doctor’s office. I was days away from surgery, and just like that, I lost it. The shot. My composure. All of it.
From then on, we switched to the abdomen—thanks to surgical nerve damage, I couldn’t feel it anyway. Belly shots are old news when you’ve been through two pregnancies, insulin injections, and more abdominal procedures than I care to count.
I’ve had allergy issues for years. Back in 2018, I thought I was doing everything right: working out, eating clean, oatmeal every morning, lemon water, fresh seasonal fruit.
Except—plot twist—I’m mildly sensitive to almost all of that. Cashews, oats, barley, lemon, peas, watermelon, soy, fish, strawberries…
I was basically eating my way into joint pain and inflammation.
And that’s just the food list. I’m allergic to every tree in our region except the willow. Plus cats, dogs, dust mites, pollen, mold, grasses… basically, my pillow wants me dead.
So while the Tezspire drama was new, the story behind it was old and complicated. Like everything else in my medical file.
That night, the pain hit like a freight train around 10 PM. I knew it wasn’t food poisoning or acid reflux—I was warned before my VSG-to-RNY revision that the gallbladder might be the next to go. They told me six to nine months. Mine didn’t wait that long.
But truth is? My gallbladder had been on the struggle bus for years. The first major attack was in college—Kaiser called it a kidney stone. Another came on Mother’s Day 2017 or 2018. We blamed my ADHD meds. A third one hit just after my original VSG, but still: no stones, no action.
Now here I was in 2024, clutching my side and praying someone would take me seriously.
The ER ran an ultrasound—no stones. They tried to send me home. They floated “maybe it’s a virus.” I floated right back, “Maybe check my liver enzymes and trend my labs.”
And wouldn’t you know it—CT confirmed it: a very sick gallbladder. But the OR was booked, so surgery had to wait until Monday.
While I waited, May 5 arrived. David turned 13. And I was in a gown, hooked up to IVs, in pain.
Cue the mom guilt.
But leave it to Sparky. After work, he swung by In-N-Out and picked up burgers, fries, and root beer floats to celebrate with David. They made the best of it—and now, that meal is David’s birthday tradition. Every year, he wants In-N-Out and floats, because it reminds him we still celebrated. Even if mama was in the hospital.
On May 6, they wheeled me in.
The surgeon later told me they had to enlarge the incision because my gallbladder was so inflamed.
“It should’ve come out years ago,” he said. (You don’t say.)
Later, my gastric surgeon found out and asked, “Why didn’t you call us? We could’ve had you moved and done it Sunday.”
Sir, I was medicated, horizontal, and already in a hospital gown. That ship had sailed.
At this point, it feels like my gallbladder was just another item checked off the ‘what’s left to remove?’ list.
I wanted to believe this was the fix. But something didn’t sit right. The reflux was worse. I had lost more weight. I was more active, more mobile, more present—but I was still in pain. At 175 pounds, I was technically still overweight, but I had lost 110 pounds total since my highest weight.
Despite all that progress? Something was off.
This wasn’t just gallbladder drama. It wasn’t just another surgery. Something deeper was wrong. And my body was about to make that very clear.
“Turns out, the gallbladder was just the opening act. I thought the worst was behind me—bless my heart.”
People have been telling me for years: “You should write a book.” And maybe one day I will. But if I’m honest? I think I hate writing. What I do love is storytelling — the kind that’s messy, unbelievable, and holy in its own wild way.
I’m basically undefeated at Two Truths and a Lie, and not because I’m clever. It’s because my truths sound fake, and my lies can’t keep up.
A Few Things That Still Stop the Room:
🚗 I hit myself with our own car. Just once — but that was enough. Harley, our sweet but chaotic Labrador, bolted, and I jumped out to chase him… completely forgetting the car was still in reverse. As I stepped out, the door slammed into my knee, knocking me flat. The car crept across the road into the neighbor’s driveway. Harley? Climbed into the driver’s seat like he owned it. Me? I got back up — with a broken knee — and climbed back in to secure the car and check on our boys.
👶 I delivered a baby by accident. Not mine. Just me and a neighbor in crisis. No warning. No time. By the grace of God — and extremely outdated EMT training from two decades ago — I caught that baby steady. Also: probably way too much TLC, Call the Midwife, and “this might come in handy one day” medical TV. Turns out, it actually did.
🛒 I ran my foot over with a cart of banquet tables. Deeply on-brand.
🏍️ I ran over my own ankle with an ATV. Because I thought speed = height. I went flying. The ATV kept going and ran me over for good measure.
🏥 My GP sent me to the ER for a kidney stone. That’s when they discovered it had retrograded — gone back into my kidney. My urologist blinked and said, “I’ve heard of that. Never seen it.” Welcome to life with Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome.
🫃 During my hysterectomy, they found my uterus fused to my bladder. That surgery became a medical write-up. Because my body doesn’t follow the rules — it writes new ones.
It’s Ehlers-Danlos Awareness Month. And y’all, this is what EDS looks like.
Dislocations.
Fatigue.
“Mystery” symptoms for years.
Being told you’re dramatic or anxious.
Hearing “I don’t know how to help you anymore” from your doctor.
I was 39 when I was finally diagnosed. Thirty-nine years of being undiagnosed — and misjudged.
I was told to lose weight, that it would help my pain. So I lost 111 pounds — and the pain? Got worse. Because the problem wasn’t my size. It was the glue in my body — that genetic connective tissue — breaking down quietly, constantly.
EDS isn’t fixed by a diet. It needs truth, treatment, and tenderness.
Now? I’m fighting for proactive care for our son — Small Fry — who shows all the early signs. And this mama isn’t waiting 20 more years for someone to believe him.
Why I Tell These Stories:
Because someone out there thinks they’re too weird or too broken to be believed. So let me say it plain:
✨ You are not too much. ✨ You are not alone. ✨ You are not forgotten.
The grace of God has saved me more than once. Patrick and I together? That’s a miracle in itself. (His birth story’s coming soon — buckle up.)
Maybe that’s why I love memoirs. Because real life — even the hard, wild, ridiculous kind — makes the best kind of story.
No book (yet). Just battle stories. And a faith that’s still standing — even on a broken knee.
Welcome to the Things You Can’t Make Up series. Where the chaos is holy, the strength is earned, and the grace runs deep.
You belong here. Especially this month. Especially if you’re a zebra too.
This little space wasn’t built for perfection. It was built for peace.
For porch rail prayers and kitchen table faith. For sticker sheets sent with love and bread rising slow while the dog naps underfoot. For tired mamas, quiet moments, and grace that carries more than we ever could on our own.
It started with a leap of faith — a young mama with a planner in one hand and hope in the other, moving 1,800 miles from everything she knew and planting roots in Texas soil with nothing but grit, grace, and a baby on the way.
Since then, life’s been stitched together with real things:
🍞 Mornings that smell like sourdough and coffee 📚 Homeschool lessons wrapped in laughter 🕊️ Rosaries whispered between loads of laundry 🎨 A little shop built with heart and holy hustle
We live slow here. We grow deep. We let the Lord write the story.
This is a space where the sacred meets the simple. Where family comes first, faith holds steady, and messes don’t mean we’re failing — they mean we’re living.
So whether you’re here for a rhythm, a recipe, or a reminder that you’re not alone…
You’re welcome. You’re seen. You’re home.
💌 What You’ll See on the Blog
…and real life in all its sticky, sacred beauty.
Sourdough Saturdays
Faith-Filled Fridays
Homeschool Mama Life
Behind-the-Scenes of the Shop
Thanks for walking through the door. Now pull up a chair and stay awhile — this little corner of the internet was made with hearts like yours in mind.
Simple Southern Mommy 