Day 196-352 (Part 6): Welcome To My New Life… Featuring HYDRAVA, SMURF Feet, Compression Socks And A Complete Betrayal By Summer

9 hours ago
4 min read

Ok let's talk about it. So I officially have PoTS.

Excellent.

Now what?

This is the bit nobody tells you.

Getting a diagnosis feels like crossing a finish line.

You spend months trying to work out what’s wrong with you, finally get an answer and think…

“Right… brilliant. Now fix me.”

Except…

There isn’t really a fix.

There’s management.

There’s learning.

There’s trial and error.

There’s discovering your body has become more high maintenance than a Range Rover.

Nobody actually sits you down and says,

“Congratulations on your diagnosis. Here’s your starter pack.”

Because if they did, I’m fairly sure it’d contain:

• Three litres of water.

• Enough salt to season the Atlantic Ocean.

• Compression socks that could double as medieval torture devices.

• A fan.

• Cooling towel.

• Electrolytes.

• A therapist.

• And a small certificate saying…

Congratulations. Standing up is now a hobby.

Honestly, I’d never thought about standing before.

Nobody does.

You just…Stand.

It’s one of those things your body quietly gets on with while you’re busy thinking about more important things.

Not anymore.

Standing has become an event.

A carefully planned activity requiring preparation, hydration and occasionally a risk assessment.

I now stand up the way pensioners get out of armchairs.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

One hand on the sofa.

One hand on the table.

Brief pause halfway.

Tiny internal prayer.

Then…

Maybe…

We walk.

Honestly, if anyone watched me getting off the sofa they’d think I was ninety-four.

The irony?

I’ve lost over 2 stone.

I’m wearing clothes I could only dream about fitting into two years ago.

Yet physically…

I feel older than I ever did carrying the extra weight.

That one really messes with your head.

Then came…

The heat.

Can we all just agree that British people spend eleven months a year complaining it’s too cold…

Only to lose their minds the second the temperature reaches twenty-four degrees?

“It’s gorgeous!”

“No, Sharon.”

“It’s attempted murder.”

Honestly, the weather presenters have become my mortal enemies.

Every evening I’d put the forecast on hoping to hear…

“A lovely cool seventeen degrees tomorrow.”

Instead…

“We’re expecting another glorious heatwave.”

Glorious?

FOR WHO?

Certainly not for me.

Everyone else is dusting off the barbecue.

I’m dusting off another fan.

People are buying Pimms.

I’m buying electrolyte sachets in bulk.

Families are heading to the beach.

I’m heading for whichever room in the house resembles a walk-in fridge.

The funniest part is listening to everyone else.

“Oh, isn’t it lovely?”

No.

No it isn’t.

I’m approximately three degrees away from lying in the freezer next to the frozen peas.

Heat and PoTS apparently have a little arrangement.

Heat says…

“Fancy ruining her day?”

PoTS says…

“Absolutely.”

Teamwork really does make the dream work.

Then…

There’s my new obsession.

Hydrava.

Ladies and gentlemen…

Can we all just have a moment of appreciation for Hydrava electrolytes?

Honestly…

I deserve commission at this point.

If you’d told me a year ago I’d become emotionally attached to a sachet of electrolytes I’d have laughed.

Probably while drinking wine.

Now?

I panic if I’ve only got three left.

Three!

Normal people panic when they run out of milk.

I panic when my Hydrava stockpile drops below emergency levels.

I’ve got them in my handbag.

Kitchen drawer.

Work bag.

Car.

Bedside table.

Honestly, if anyone burgled the house they’d think I was running some sort of underground electrolyte distribution business.

Forget jewellery.

Take the television.

Leave the Hydrava.

They’ve genuinely become part of my daily routine.

Wake up.

Tablets.

Hydrava.

Water.

Salt.

Repeat.

I’ve become the sort of person who gets excited about sodium.

Imagine telling twenty-year-old me that one day I’d be reading nutrition labels thinking…

“Ooh… that’s got a decent amount of salt.”

She’d have thought I’d completely lost my mind.

Then there are the compression socks.

Can we have a quick chat about those?

Who designs them?

Seriously.

I have questions.

Firstly…

Why do they require the upper body strength of an Olympic rower to put on?

By the time I’ve wrestled myself into them I’ve already done enough exercise for the day.

Secondly…

Why are they so unbelievably unattractive?

Actually the cheap ones are - I get mine from SNOX and they are amazing and beautiful!

And yes, of course I have some with CATS!

My poor boyfirned.

The things that man has seen.

Most couples spend Sunday mornings going out for brunch.

We spend ours discussing whether my socks have left adequate compression marks.

Romance really has evolved.

He’s also become unexpectedly brilliant at spotting when I’m starting to struggle.

Before I even realise it he’ll say…

“Sit down.”

Or…

“Have you had your Hydrava?”

Or my personal favourite…

“Your feet are starting.”

My feet are starting.

Like they’re a lawnmower.

Apparently they now have moods.

Sometimes they’re perfectly normal.

Other times they quietly transform into something resembling a Smurf convention.

The first few times it happened I panicked.

Now…

I just sigh.

“Oh…

Here we go again.”

Honestly, I spend more time checking the colour of my feet than I do my face in the mirror.

I never thought that would become a sentence I’d write.

Life is weird.

Really weird.

And just when I thought I was beginning to understand this ridiculous condition…