Echoes by Dana

Unchained. Unmasked. Unfiltered. Unapologetically me.

Author: Echoes by Dana

  • When the Leaves Fall Quietly

    I’m officially out of office today. Tomorrow is my birthday, 43, though honestly, I don’t feel like celebrating. This year has been… how do I put it nicely? A dumpster fire wearing a birthday hat. A bad dream with a sequel nobody asked for.

    Chronic illness has a way of fast-forwarding the body clock, I may be 43 on paper, but my joints are out here celebrating 90 like it’s bingo night.

    Still, I had a good breakfast. My spirits aren’t tragic. I even bought myself a cake and candles, there will be people singing, smiling, taking pictures, and I’ll do the same. Because sometimes you celebrate not out of joy, but out of habit, making appearances while the inside of you feels strangely quiet, like joy has gone on vacation without notice. Tomorrow, I plan a sauna day. I’ll call it “melting away the trauma”, self-care, but make it poetic.

    This morning, as I took the dog out for her royal morning pee, I looked at my apple tree, the one I always see through my office window while working. Its leaves are falling fast, carpeting the ground like a golden resignation letter. It’s preparing for winter. And of course, my brain, the overthinker-in-chief, starts drawing analogies again.

    Chronic pain feels like this moment: the tree stripped bare, every leaf (every ounce of energy) gone. No strength to bloom, no light to chase. Just standing there, exposed, in survival mode, waiting for something to shift. I mourn the spring I once had, when things felt lighter, and the summers that tasted sweet, like my own apples before life decided to throw worms at them.

    But maybe, just maybe,  this is how healing works too. Maybe winter isn’t the end, just the intermission. A quiet pause before something green and stubborn decides to grow again.

    So yes, this birthday feels bittersweet, more bitter than sweet, but still edible. I’m learning to sit with that. To rest like the tree. To trust that even when life feels stripped bare, there’s still something alive under the bark, quietly preparing for spring.

  • Herx & the Hangover

    Some people get hangovers from tequila. Mine come from killing bacteria.

    It’s the day after a Herx reaction.

    At this point in my Lyme treatment journey, I could practically write The Idiot’s Guide to Herxing, I’ve had so many since February that I know the drill better than my own Netflix algorithm.

    Still, every time, this disease finds a new way to surprise me,  a fresh little plot twist in the “How Much Can a Human Take” series. Somehow, it always manages to pull a new trick, a fresh symptom, or a slightly different flavor of chaos, just to remind me who’s boss.

    And yet, every time it does, I learn a bit more about my own resilience.

    Physically, my body’s doing its best. Despite the antibiotic cocktail shaking things up inside, it’s hanging in there like a champ. I’m giving it the care it needs to stay in the fight, because beating this thing isn’t just medical,  it’s personal.

    And that’s why I remind myself: there’s nothing I cannot do. Before this, I could move mountains to achieve my goals,  and that fire is still burning, just steadier now. My spirit hasn’t lost its fight; it’s only learned strategy. The force is still there, quieter maybe, but wiser,  pacing itself, breathing through the storms, refusing to burn out before the finish line.

    Yesterday, though, the Herx hit hard. For the uninitiated, a Herxheimer reaction is like your body’s way of doing spring cleaning: the bacteria die, your immune system sweeps through, and everything gets stirred up. It can feel messy for a day or two, but it means progress,  your body is getting back on track. Basically, all your worst symptoms decide to throw a reunion party in your body,  uninvited. You’re chained to the bed (or couch, if you’re fancy), while your spirit flaps uselessly around the ceiling screaming, “I had plans!”. It’s like being in a mental hospital run by bacteria.

    So yes, I was supposed to have a productive week. There was a team lunch on the calendar, some neat tasks to tick off,  but instead, I got front-row tickets to a 24-hour coma on my couch. Even my sausagedog had to skip his usual afternoon cardio session (aka the reluctant walk).

    Today, the shackles are off. My muscles still ache, my body still whispers complaints,  but I’m determined to rejoin the living. I’ll start small: a decent breakfast, a quick garden pit stop for my dog’s royal morning pee, and maybe let the rain remind me I’m still alive.

    If all goes well, by tomorrow it’ll be like it never happened.

    Just another page in the saga of Me vs. Lyme: The Unwanted Trilogy.