Friday.

Cortisone injection day.

We arrived at the hospital 30 minutes early because apparently I now arrive early for pain. I dragged my partner with me as I’d been warned I wouldn’t be able to drive home. Dramatic already.

When my name was called, I walked into a room with a nurse, a lady doctor, a bed, and an ultrasound machine. At this point I was internally negotiating with myself.

The doctor located the arthritic spot in my thumb using the ultrasound, wiped off the gel, and calmly informed me the needle was smaller than a blood test needle.

That was the last comforting sentence of the morning.

She injected directly into the joint. It contained local anaesthetic, so my hand started to freeze. Then came the tight, building pain, deep and focused exactly where my thumb has been misbehaving for months.

And then it was over.

Except my body had other plans.

I suddenly felt sick. Then dizzy. Then, I was going to faint. I had to lie down on the hospital bed for ten minutes while my partner hovered outside in the waiting room and I tried to regain dignity.

I asked the nurse after if I should eat some sugar, the nurse suggested it was a good idea and told me to go and have a drink at Costa. Ten minutes later, I found myself marching past a perfectly acceptable shop, ignoring WHSmith entirely, and heading straight into M&S with purpose.

Chocolate eggs. Colin the Caterpillar. No hesitation.

It was weigh day. It was technically cheat day. It was medically necessary in my opinion.

We sat in the car and shared the eggs. I felt slightly spaced out and completely unbothered by calories. Got home. Slept for two and a half hours.

Injection 1. Charlotte 0.

Saturday was hard.

The pain was louder. Throbbing. Present.

I realised very quickly I was essentially one-handed. Try opening jars, loading a dishwasher, cooking, getting dressed, living… with one hand.

Humbling.

But then something small happened.

I ate a kiwi. No drama.

I haven’t had kiwi for about 15 years.

Then I ate two olives with dinner. Two.

I haven’t had olives in 15 years either.

Do you know how that made me feel?

It wasn’t about the olives.

It was about freedom.

It was about not being scared of food for a moment.

There was a slight croaky voice, so I sensibly took an antihistamine, but nothing major.

Tiny wins in a week that felt physically overwhelming.

Sunday morning, 5:45am.

I woke up bracing for pain.

And my thumb felt… better.

Not perfect. Not miraculous. But manageable.

I could type.

If you rely on your hands for work, writing, life, typing feels like independence returning.

And somewhere between the injection, the olives and the one-handed chaos, I had a bigger realisation.

I started exercise classes in July to strengthen my knee so I wouldn’t need a cortisone injection, though they told me I could have the injection after 6/12 lessons. I am now having second thoughts.

Then came another discovery.

If I don’t eat every three hours, I get banging menopause headaches.

Proper, throbbing, behind-the-eyes headaches.

I genuinely thought it was weakness. Fasting. Then I researched it.

Apparently fluctuating hormones can affect blood sugar stability. Skipping meals hits differently now.

No one tells you that part.

And while everyone seems to be on weight loss jabs losing stones, I am here celebrating half a pound a week.

Half.

Tracking calories. Turning up to classes. Managing arthritis. Managing hormones. Managing food reactions.

For a while, I thought it was me.

But honestly?

It’s my age.

It’s menopause.

It’s inflammation.

It’s a body adapting.

Half a pound isn’t failure.

It’s resilience.

Then, because my immune system likes drama, I ate half a Brazil nut.

Half.

Immediate tummy ache. Croaky voice.

That was that.

The rest of the bag is going to my parents. Nuts are off the list.

Bodies change. Hormones change. Allergies change.

Apparently so do snack choices.

Monday morning.

Back at the hospital for hand therapy.

At this point I need shares in the building.

The thumb is only slightly painful, which feels like progress. The hospital is busy and hot, and I am wearing approximately seventeen layers and regretting every single one.

While peeling off clothes awkwardly with semi-cooperative hands, I started chatting to an older Indian lady next to me.

We compared arthritis locations like it was a weather report.

“Where is yours?” she asked.

“Thumb and knee,” I replied.

“Mine is everywhere,” she smiled.

There was something comforting about that conversation. No pretending. No filters. Just two women discussing creaky joints and carrying on anyway.

It reminded me we are all just managing our bodies the best we can.

Different ages. Different backgrounds.

Same resilience.

And yes, I went to M&S afterwards.

Jelly and fruit and it was on offer!

Because bravery deserves small rewards.

Honestly though, this weekend wasn’t just about a thumb injection.

It was about perspective.

About adapting.

About choosing slow strength over quick fixes.

About eating regularly so my head doesn’t pound.

About accepting that midlife bodies don’t respond like twenty-year-old bodies.

About realising it’s not weakness.

It’s transition.

It’s growth.

It’s resilience.

And sometimes, it’s chocolate eggs in a hospital car park.