The Macarena Years

Seven years of daily injections — and how I kept my roots steady.

When I was diagnosed, I was handed a mountain of information about medications — all designed to stop disease activity and keep it at bay. They even sent me home with DVDs to watch.

After sifting through the options, I chose the one I thought would be the gentlest on my system, which was already so fragile at the time: a daily injection made from three amino acids.

For seven years, I gave myself that injection every single day — seven days a week, at roughly the same time, without fail. I was completely compliant with the protocol. Even though I had stopped other medications in hopes of easing certain symptoms, I knew these injections were essential. To heal, I first had to stop the current flare and keep everything as calm as possible.

Anyone who has ever had to self-inject knows it’s not easy — and, over time, it gets harder. I rotated injection sites like I was doing the Macarena on a weekly schedule: Monday, one upper arm; Tuesday, the other. Wednesday, left abdomen; Thursday, right abdomen… and so on.

Eventually, my skin became dented, puckered, and tough — like trying to push a needle through cardboard. Not fun. But every day, it became part of my routine, as automatic as brushing my teeth.

While the medication was doing its job internally, it was wreaking havoc on the outside. My skin became extremely sensitive to light. I developed rashes and could barely tolerate the sun. Fatigue, rash-covered skin, and heat intolerance became my daily companions. And remember — I live in Texas, with two young daughters whose activities were often outdoors.

So, I adapted. I bought an ice vest — a snug, fitted vest with interior pockets for frozen packs. I became a walking beer cooler… just without the beer. I also stocked up on large, lightweight silk scarves to drape over my shoulders and wore big hats everywhere.

In yoga, there are poses that feel impossible at first — the kind that make your muscles tremble and your breath turn shallow. But the secret isn’t in forcing the body; it’s in calming the mind. When you soften the jaw, slow the breath, and let your focus settle, something shifts. The pose doesn’t become easier, but you become steadier within it.

Those seven years of daily injections felt like holding one of those difficult poses. The discomfort didn’t disappear, but by breathing through it — physically and mentally — I found my own kind of balance.

I wish I could tell you that I was comfortable and “living the dream,” but nothing about that season of life was comfortable. I often reminded myself of something my pastor once said:

“Comfort and growth do not coexist.”

Each injection, each ice vest, each sweltering afternoon under a wide-brimmed hat was another slow mile on my road back — like tending to a tree in the harshest weather, staying rooted through the discomfort so one day I could stand tall again.

Share the Light.

Christi

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