Day 196-352 (Part 7): I Miss The Old Me (But She'd Probably Tell Me To Stop Being So Dramatic)

7 hours ago
4 min read

One thing nobody warns you about when you’re diagnosed with a chronic condition is that you don’t just lose your health for a while.

You lose little pieces of yourself.

Not all at once.

Not dramatically.

They just quietly disappear.

One by one.

And before you know it, you wake up one morning and realise you’ve become someone you don’t quite recognise.

That bit…

That bit has been harder than I ever imagined.

I miss being spontaneous.

I miss saying, “Fancy going out?” without first checking approximately seventeen different things.

What’s the weather doing?

How far is the walk from the car?

Will there be somewhere to sit?

Is there air conditioning?

How long are we going for?

Have I packed enough Hydrava?

Have I had enough water?

Too much water?

Have I got salty snacks?

Have I remembered my compression socks?

Have I remembered where I put my compression socks?

Honestly, going out now requires more planning than D-Day.

People think I’m exaggerating.

I genuinely wish I was.

The worst part is that I look perfectly normal.

Well.. Most of the time anyway.

That’s the really frustrating thing about invisible illnesses.

Nobody can see your nervous system throwing an absolute tantrum.

Nobody can see your blood pressure disappearing on its tea break.

Nobody can see your heart behaving like it’s warming up for Tomorrowland while you’re literally standing in a queue in Boots.

All they see is…

Me.

Standing there.

Looking absolutely fine.

Which is exactly why I spent months convincing myself I was making it all up.

Because if you look fine…

Surely you must be fine?

Wrong.

Very wrong.

There have been days where I’ve managed to look like I’ve got my life completely together.

Hair done.

Make-up on.

Nice outfit.

People have said…

"You’re looking really well!”

Thank you.

That’s the mascara.

Underneath, I’m running on approximately three percent battery, one electrolyte sachet and pure stubbornness.

It’s amazing what concealer can hide.

One thing it can’t hide…

Is how much my life has changed.

Take holidays.

I love holidays.

Actually…

Loved.

Past tense.

Give me a beach.

Cocktail.

Music.

Sunset.

Perfect.

Now?

I’m looking at weather forecasts the way people check crime statistics before moving house.

Twenty-eight degrees?

Absolutely not.

Thirty?

I’d rather lick the inside of a fan.

Honestly, I’m seriously considering Scandinavia as my next holiday destination.

Not because I’ve suddenly developed a passion for fjords.

Because I might actually survive long enough to enjoy them.

Who becomes scared of sunshine?

Me apparently.

The same woman who used to complain every single summer that Britain wasn’t hot enough.

Well…

Congratulations, JABatha.

You got your wish.

Now your body responds to warm weather like Dracula on a beach in Benidorm.

Then there’s walking.

Remember when everyone used to say…

“Just go for a nice walk. It’ll make you feel better.”

Lovely advice.

Except now a “nice walk” feels a bit like Russian roulette.

Some days I’m absolutely fine.

Other days I get halfway round the block and start wondering whether that garden wall would be an acceptable place to have a little sit down.

I’ve become weirdly knowledgeable about benches.

I know where every single bench is within about a three-mile radius.

Honestly, I could probably write a Michelin Guide.

⭐️⭐️⭐️

Excellent view.

Comfortable seating.

Strong potential for recovery after walking uphill.

Highly recommended.

The shoulder hasn’t exactly been helping either.

Can we all just have another moment to collectively roll our eyes at that absolute diva?

Remember the steroid injection?

The miracle injection that was supposed to solve everything?

Yeah…

About that.

It worked.

Briefly.

About as briefly as a British summer.

Then it decided its work here was done and buggered off.

Now I’m waiting for MRI results because apparently there’s a chance I’ve been treated for the wrong thing all along.

Honestly, my body’s becoming a plot twist.

Every appointment seems to end with someone saying…

“Hmmm… that’s interesting.”

No.

No it isn’t.

I don’t want to be medically interesting.

I want to be boring.

I want doctors to look at me and say…

“Nothing to see here.”

Instead I seem to be providing educational opportunities.

At one point I genuinely considered asking whether there was a loyalty card for hospital appointments.

Surely after this many visits I should at least get free parking.

And through all of this…

There is my other half.

Honestly…

Can we just talk about him for a minute?

Because I genuinely don’t know how the man hasn’t run away.

If we’d met six months ago and I’d written an honest dating profile, it would’ve gone something like this…

Wanted: Boyfriend.

Must enjoy discussing blood pressure.

Must be willing to inspect feet on request.

Experience applying cooling towels desirable.

Knowledge of electrolytes an advantage.

Ability to distinguish between “I’m a bit tired” and “I need to lie down immediately” essential.

Must accept that all holidays will now be judged primarily on average annual temperature.

Own transport preferred.

Honestly, he deserves a medal.

Or counselling.

Maybe both.

Most couples spend their evenings deciding what takeaway to order.

We’re discussing my circulation.

“Babe…”

“Mmm?”

“Are my feet blue?”

Every.

Single.

Day.

Poor bloke probably hasn’t looked at another woman’s feet this much in his life.

He’s become so good at recognising when I’m starting to struggle that sometimes he notices before I do.