I didn’t mean to turn The Snarky Sprout into a health blog. Truly, that wasn’t the intention. I wanted to talk about chickens, compost, peonies, feral children, and questionable life choices. But health and homesteading go together like coffee and middle-aged women with opinions — if you don’t have one, you sure as hell can’t maintain the other. And this past year has been a masterclass in “Oh, we’re doing THAT now? Fantastic.”
It all started with the shopping cart incident.
Have you ever seen Jackass? You know how you watch those stunts thinking, “Nobody is that stupid in real life”? Spoiler alert: you may be raising one who is. Truly, from the bottom of my heart, this is the kind of incident that prompts warnings of “don’t try this at home.” (or in a garden center):
My sweet, allegedly intelligent 9-year-old decided—completely unprompted—to wedge his hand under the wheel of a moving shopping cart. Why? Truly, I think God keeps that answer from us so we don’t lose the rest of our sanity. I told him to pick his hands up. I told him again. And then again. But kids operate on two frequencies:
- Ignore Mom
- Continue ignoring Mom until a small disaster occurs
The aftermath was straight-up horror movie content. Blood, screaming, slow-motion panic, the whole scene. Two different ER visits (because the rural docs were’t equipped to handle such a situation), multiple doctors, consults, X-rays, a surgery, and somehow my child walks away fine — physically, anyway. He came out of it no worse for wear, which is more than I can say for my blood pressure. However, a healthy fear of cart wheels is now in place. Thankfully.
Then the universe said, “Alright, Mom. Your turn.”
In July, I woke up with the kind of back pain they warn you about in medieval war documentaries. The nausea, the vomiting, the crawl-across-the-floor inability to stand. For the first time in my life, yoga made it worse — which is how you know this was officially demonic.
I did everything I could because, listen — I am not leaving this farm unless it’s in a coffin. And you can’t farm if you can’t walk…
X-rays, MRI, surgical consults…endless appointments ensued. The spine surgeon looked at me like I’d grown three heads and said point blank, “What do you expect me to do?” His only answer was to offer a full spinal fusion from T1 to S1. Basically: “We can turn you into a metal fence post.” Diagnosis: my spine was FUBAR.
Absolutely not. No thanks. Hard pass. Check the no box on that one.
So we did what any sensible person in my position would do. We converted our bedroom into something between a physical therapy center and a questionable kink room- Inversion table center stage. Stall bars mounted like we were hosting the CrossFit Olympics. An ARP taking up precious real estate on top of the dresser. I joked that anyone walking in would assume we were into some “advanced marital activities.”
Then, by the grace of God, a dear chiropractic friend stepped in with weekly acupuncture, gentle adjustments, and finally shockwave treatments. Together, with near daily ARP treatments, inversion, stretching, and schroth breathing exercises, the pain has slowly backed down to a manageable simmer.
But I had to take control of inflammation — fast. Enter genetic testing to see which genes are clocked out permanently and which are still showing up for work. Specific supplements were ordered tailored to my specific genetic results, and then an allele allergy test to figure out the five foods I’m allowed to eat without spontaneously combusting. Turns out my diet now resembles a rabbit with anxiety.
But hey, it works. With strict treatment and a stricter diet, I’m about 90% pain-free.
And then — because apparently my body wasn’t done being dramatic — hello darkness, my old friend…
Somewhere between pain management, homesteading chaos, and the emotional aftermath of the Year of Everybody’s Medical Emergencies, depression slipped in. Not the dramatic kind — the quiet, dark, stubborn kind that just hangs out like an unwanted house guest who refuses to leave.
So I picked up crochet.
One hook. One skein of yarn. One YouTube tutorial…just one…
…and then? dear God… it has bloomed into a full-blown addiction.
There is yarn everywhere. Tangled, stacked, stuffed, and multiplying like gremlins after midnight. I have piles — literal piles — of patterns because every time I see one I say, “Ooooh I should totally try to make that,” and suddenly there are 19 pages printed and scattered across the house like confetti.
I now have “emergency yarn” in my glove box. Don’t judge me. You never know when the urge to crochet will strike during a rogue waiting-room situation. I have bags of yarn stashed around the house like a doomsday prepper but for coziness. I crochet at night. In the morning. In the five minutes between chores. I’ve become one minor inconvenience away from joining a crochet cult.
But you know what? It kept my hands busy. It soothed my brain. It rebuilt a little peace in the middle of the chaos, and it’s a lot more productive than trolling people on Facebook.
So maybe The Snarky Sprout isn’t a health blog. Maybe it’s just a life blog — honest, messy, chaotic, and full of yarn.
And honestly? That feels pretty on brand.
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