2025: A Year in Which My Body Ran Its Own Escape Room

After starting this Blog very enthusiastically, I had to take a break.

But let's close out this shit show of a year with a post.

If this year had a theme, it would be:

“Please wait while we try to locate the problem.”

It all started the beginning of last year, after a business trip to the US, quietly, with exhaustion.

Not the charming kind you fix with a nap or a strong coffee. The permanent kind. The kind where your body feels like it’s permanently buffering.

Long COVID, they said.

Or maybe Hashimoto’s.

Or stress.

Or menopause.

Or burnout.

Or a mystery.

Doctors lined up like well-meaning contestants on a game show, playing Pin the Tail on the Donkey, except the donkey was my fatigue and everyone was blindfolded.

Blood tests. Referrals. Shrugs. “Let’s keep an eye on it.”

My body, meanwhile, had already checked out.

While we were all busy not knowing what was wrong, life decided to speed things up.

At some point, one of my dogs headbutted me with the enthusiasm of a linebacker. Result: my front teeth crowns were broken.

No dramatic buildup. No symbolism. Just wobbely, loose teeth..

And thus began the dental saga.

Dental Implants, it turns out, are not a quick fix. They are a journey. A long, slow, paperwork-heavy pilgrimage involving healing periods, waiting lists, temporary solutions and a lot of nodding while people explain bone density.

In the meantime, I eat with plastic teeth. A rental set. A placeholder smile while I wait for implants in April. Because why not add dentistry to the bingo card.

Which is exactly as fun as it sounds.

Spoiler: it’s not. Food becomes a negotiation. Apples are enemies.

Crunch is a memory.

June arrived with another plot twist.

Breast cancer.

Just like that. No buildup. No warning music. One appointment and suddenly your life splits into “before” and “after.” Surgery in August. Radiation in September. You learn new words. New routines. New ways of measuring time. Everything becomes “before treatment” and “after treatment,” like your life has been refiled under a different category.

Somewhere in the middle of all that, October. Braces!

Oh, and while we were at it, someone took a long, thoughtful look at my mouth and said, “You know what this needs after 53 years? Braces.” Lower teeth only. Because they are apparently attacking the upper ones. Even my teeth are fighting each other.

And then, to close out the year with a flourish, came today.

Not a routine gynecology appointment.

This was about Tamoxifen, the hormone therapy I now take after breast cancer, and my IUD realizing it does not want to coexist with it.

A compatibility issue.

A union dispute.

Internal HR escalation.

It started innocently enough. A doctor’s appointment. One of those “in and out, nothing to see here” situations. The kind where you wear your good socks and pretend your body is a cooperative teammate.

Somewhere between “you might feel a little pressure” and “please relax,” my body decided to audition for slapstick comedy.

The next second physics files a complaint.

The speculum exits my body like it’s late for another appointment.

Full launch. Zero hesitation.

Somewhere between a champagne cork and a SpaceX test failure.

Time slows. We make eye contact.

The speculum does not care.

It lands. Silence fills the room. My soul briefly leaves my body.

The doctor blinks once. Twice.

Cut to me lying there, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this is how you get banned from a medical practice.

After a beat, we both start laughing.

The kind of laugh that says,

“Well… that’s going in the career highlights folder.”

After a pause, my doctor says,“Don’t worry. That’s not even my weirdest Tuesday.”

And just like that, the room resets. No shame. No drama.Just two adults, one escaped speculum, and a shared understanding that bodies are feral.

If you can laugh with your gynecologist, you’ve unlocked premium healthcare.

In closing:

So yes. Breast cancer aftermath. Hormone therapy. Reproductive system negotiations. Projectile medical instruments. Plastic teeth. Future implants. Surprise braces. And through it all, the slow dawning realization that my body is not broken. It’s just… extremely expressive.

Somewhere between the absurd appointments and the endless waiting rooms, I noticed something else. I laughed. A lot. Sometimes out of disbelief. Sometimes out of pure defiance. Sometimes because if I didn’t laugh, I might scream, and screaming is frowned upon in medical settings.

Humor became my oxygen mask. Not to minimize what’s happening, but to survive it without losing myself. Laughing with doctors. Laughing at my own ridiculous resilience. Laughing because my body may be chaotic, but it’s still here. Still trying. Still showing up, even if it occasionally launches equipment across the room.

This year didn’t break me. It didn’t soften me either.

It taught me that grace can look like snorting laughter on a gynecology table. That strength sometimes wears braces and plastic teeth. That dignity is overrated and honesty is lighter to carry.

So I’m ending this year not polished, not healed, not “back to normal.”

I’m ending it real.

Still standing.

Still laughing.

Still deeply unimpressed by the universe’s sense of timing.

And honestly?

That feels like enough.