A vivid memory
I remember vividly the day I stopped living.
It was Mother’s Day, 2017.
My mum came to visit me in Leeds – where I lived in the city centre at the time – for some Mother’s Day weekend fun. We had so much planned. Lots of shopping (our favourite thing to do together), fancy meals out, a trip to the theatre, a day trip to York … and she was going to meet my new man – Pete, for the first time.
Only problem was … I felt like utter shite, and had done all week. Not in a ‘bug going round’ kind of way. More of an, ‘uuugh I feel nauseous, exhausted, and I really don’t know what’s wrong with me, but it really doesn’t feel good’ kind of way.
Mum arrived on the Friday; I managed to power through our fun plans that afternoon/evening and we did enjoy ourselves … despite me feeling rather grim. However, on the Saturday, I found myself secretly popping anti-nausea pills and paracetamol in the toilets of a wine bar like they were fucking Reece’s Pieces.
… And then washing them down with a cocktail back at the table, while my lovely Mum remained blissfully unaware. (She used to be a nurse, so there would have been some serious finger wagging over my extra little ‘cocktail’ on top of my actual cocktail if she’d known.)
Oh, that reminds me – never take health tips from 2017 me. Tips in utter stubbornness and denial – yes, absolutely … I’m yer girl. If you’re not feeling well, and really want someone to throw a load of medication and cocktails at you, whilst very sweetly suggesting you ‘man the fuck up’ … then 2017 me is always happy to oblige. (Fair to say I’ve learned a lot about listening to our bodies since then!)
I did manage to push through and enjoy most of the afternoon, despite the relentless nausea and fatigue. After our cocktail, we mooched around lots of pretty shops, and then went to the theatre (the show was terrible, but my broken body was just so relieved to be sitting down by then).
Game over
We had reservations at a fancy French restaurant that evening … which is when I couldn’t power through any longer; I was VERY unwell by this point.
And how did I know this for certain?
… because I couldn’t face food or even wine. It was just water for me, and maybe a bread stick.
You know there’s something seriously wrong when I can’t face a nice steak and massive glass of rioja (my two favourites in life). Sadly, what I needed most at this point – was to go home and die.
And, unbeknownst to me at the time … that pretty much DID mark the death of me. Well, me as I knew it. I went home to bed, and I haven’t been well ever since.
… It’s been 8 years, and counting.
We had to cancel our plans to go to York on the Sunday as well as our meal reservations for mum to meet Pete that evening, as I was so poorly. I didn’t even have the strength to get dressed, let alone leave my flat.
Of course, this was a golden opportunity for Pete to make a fantastic first impression on my mother. And, like any decent prospective son-in-law wanting to get in her good books – he seized the day! He came over to my flat, looked after me impeccably, and then cooked us all a chilli con carne that made such a good impression on my mum, that she wanted the recipe, and to be grandmother to his next-born child.
… Fuck, that was a good chilli.
The beginning of ME/POTS
As anyone with ME/POTS knows … this was just the beginning. I went from bad to worse, and was signed off work temporarily for two weeks. Two weeks soon turned into a year. And instead of getting better, I continued to get worse – until I was housebound and in a wheelchair (for the rare occasions I could leave the house) for three years. I often couldn’t speak, and even the sound of cutlery on plates was too much for my body to handle; I existed primarily in isolation and silence.
It also became clear that I would never work again. Or at least, not until seven years later, with extreme limitations on what I can do – and certainly not in the profession I’d studied so hard for and had enjoyed immensely.
Still, I’m one of the lucky ones. After three years with Severe ME, grieving a life that was so cruelly snatched away, my condition started improving – and gradually, I got to where I am now: Mild ME (which is still bloody hard, but a massive improvement on Severe).
A new purpose
The darkest years were grim to say the least. However, there was something that came along during that time which shone brighter than any of the darkness that ME/POTS could ever throw at me. Something that made my heart sing like it’s never done before:
… my baby, O.
He gave my life purpose at a time when I was struggling to find any, and brought me joy in ways I never knew possible.
Mother’s Day took on a whole new meaning once I became O’s mum. Instead of me simply being forever grateful to my own mum for everything she is and does for me each year … I now have a little boy making me homemade cards with hearts on, in gratitude for my own presence in his life.
Anniversary
Mother’s Day isn’t just the anniversary of me getting sick anymore.
I might not be the mum I’d hoped I would be when I was healthy. But when O looks at me, he doesn’t see someone who can’t always play with him. Or someone who can’t always go out and do fun stuff. Or someone who CAN do loads of fun stuff one day, but not the next. He just sees his Mummy. One that can always make him smile. One that can always kiss it better. One that loves him fiercely and unconditionally – forever. One that will be there in every way that matters.
And that is enough. I am enough. And O helped me realise this.
Mother’s Day may always be a reminder of the day I stopped living. However, Mother’s Day will always be a reminder of who brought me back to life: my beautiful O.
(Okay, maybe not literally. It probably had more to do with luck, pacing, and medication to help manage my POTS, thus placing less strain on my ME. But that doesn’t feel QUITE as fuzzy and heartwarming as saying it was O now, does it?!)
