Yay! … and nay.
I did something I haven’t done in about 9 years recently – and I was SO excited!
… until my POTS came along and dropped a steaming turd all over it, that is.
Day Disco
It was a friend’s hen do, and we’d bought tickets to one of those ‘Day Disco’s’ – which, for anyone who doesn’t already know, is nightclubbing – except, in the daytime – for the over 30’s. It’s designed for folk who, before old age, children and responsibilities – used to love a drink or ten and busting out their bestest shapes on the dance floor, but who can’t hack the late nights anymore – or being the token geriatric amongst all the tweens.
So … people exactly like me.
… Well, maybe not ‘exactly’ like me; I imagine it would be something of a washout, with ambulances and worried family members on standby – if EVERYONE had to be chronically ill, as well as over 30. (I do realise that 30 is still very young by the way – just not young enough to be schmoozing on the dancefloor with a bunch of glow stick wielding drunken tweens, without looking like a dodgy old perv.)
Nowt to worry about
Anyways. Some of you may remember I had my first night ‘out out’ since getting sick back in February; a night I’d worried extensively about beforehand, as although I really wanted to go, I just didn’t know how my ME and POTS would cope. Those of you who remember this, might recall that overall, it went really well and I was absolutely buzzing afterwards as I’d FINALLY done something I used to love doing before getting sick: letting my hair down, dancing like no-one was watching, singing at the top of my lungs, and having a right old larff with my mates. It was epic. (I wasn’t stupid or careless though; I sat down regularly and drank a LOT of water).
So, fast forward 5 months, and I was ready to large it up again. Only this time, I wasn’t worried. Because, a) it was in the daytime (I’m a bit rubbish in the evenings as that’s when my body has usually suffered enough for the day), and b) my health coped well last time (obviously with increased ME symptom payback, but nothing I couldn’t handle, thankfully) – so my health would cope fine again this time. There was no reason to work myself up into a massive ball of anxiety again. No; this time, I could just be ‘normal’ and let myself get excited for once.
… Or so I thought.
It started off great; all seven of us girls got on the train, cowboy hats at the ready. Oh, by the way – not only was it a day disco … it was a country-themed day disco. Yeee-haaaw! The train was fine; I got a seat and drank water on the way there whilst enjoying a good chat and a giggle with the girls. Then the walk from the station to the club was fine. More chatting. Then – after a short queue, our hands were sufficiently ‘tramp-stamped’ as we gained access to the club.
Side note – I didn’t get ID’d to prove I was over 30, which I found rather strange. Maybe the bouncers didn’t see me properly, because I’m sure my inner 21-year-old would have dazzled them blind through all my age-defying and financially crippling face products.
(Little did I know that shortly after this, they most definitely would be seeing me properly.)
The club was in a crowded basement, making an already warm day that much hotter. But the tunes were banging, and I was raring to get the party started. The choices at the bar were extremely limited, drinks-wise, and they didn’t sell anything I like. Or at least, nothing my middle-aged self likes. They did however, sell drinks my 18-year-old self used to LOVE. Which is how I found myself – a 45-year-old woman – in a basement nightclub at 4pm in the afternoon, drinking a tropical VK whilst dancing to Shania Twain. And fucking loving it!
… By the way, I don’t know when they changed it from WKD to VK – and I’ve never known what any of these letters stand for. All I know is, I ordered a Tropical flavoured one because that flavour didn’t exist in my misspent youth. If I’d ordered a blue or orange one, I fear it might have triggered a PTSD response in my gut, and I may have started vomiting on the spot. Probably all over the feet of all the drunk wannabe line-dancers.
Anyways, as you can see in the first two pics (bottom of the page) – I was feeling rather chuffed with myself. I was ‘out out’ and enjoying every second of it. Only other chronically ill people can truly understand how this would feel, after so many years of my body forcing me to stay ‘in in.’
Fucking POTS
I danced. And I laughed. And I tried to ignore the fact that I currently have a bad knee, which really didn’t want to play ball with my enthusiastic dance moves. And then I tried to ignore that familiar feeling of light-headedness as my blood started to pool from the heat, the standing, and the alcohol (albeit I was only on my first drink). Followed by the dizziness and nausea, as my heart raced – trying and failing to adequately pump blood back up to my organs and brain. Followed by that ever-so-familiar feeling that this is NOT going to end well unless I sit down. Like … NOW.
I’d only been there one hour.
Fucking POTS.
The club was jam-packed, so I went upstairs in search of fresh air and a seat. I found the fresh air, but all the outdoor bar seats were taken too. So, I told the bouncer my predicament, and he kindly found me a chair and put it next to the entrance. I was very grateful, since it was either that, or I lie down on the ground there and then … which I’m guessing wouldn’t be good for business. But still, I felt really disappointed.
Scrap that; I felt like a kid who’d just had a day at Disneyland cancelled and replaced with a trip to Tesco. Deflated, and feeling very grim indeed – it took all I had not to cry, sitting outside the club all alone like a Billy-fucking-no-mates, waiting for what felt like an eternity for my body to regulate itself enough to go back inside and have another crack at this amazing experience I’d been so looking forward to with my friends. I busied myself on my phone, making myself as invisible as I could to passers-by.
Murder … on the dancefloor
Eventually, I felt able to go in and try again. My legs were unsteady on the stairs, but I managed not to fall on my face (always a bonus). I found the girls; the hen had started looking for me as I’d been gone so long – which I appreciated. But still, when I saw what a great time everyone had been having without me, I felt sad all over again that I’d been missing out for all that time I’d been outside
Nonetheless, I tried really hard to find the excitement that I’d had earlier. I discovered the utter delight that is Tequila Rose – which certainly helped (each shot followed by a large glass of water, of course) … but my POTS attack had left me feeling pretty bleh, my knee hurt pretty bad by now, and I couldn’t dance like I wanted or like my friends were, because of the pain.
At this point – my mojo curled itself up in a ball, and died. On the dancefloor. Murdered – Sophie Ellis-Bexter style.
BUT …
I don’t want to end this post on a Debbie Downer, because I’m still glad I went. So, let’s look at the positives:
I went ‘out out’ for the second time this year – which is fucking amazing! Not just this year, but the second time in nearly 9 years overall. And no, it didn’t go as I’d hoped. But YES, it was still lovely to spend time with my friends, doing something different (watching them drunk-dance to country music is definitely different!). It was a shit-tonne more than I could have managed this time 6 years ago when I was housebound and my ME/POTS was still Severe – and I am so ridiculously grateful for that.
After the club, we went to a bar (btw, it is SO weird, rolling out of a club at 7.30pm into broad sunny daylight!), where we ate a LOT of pizza, and I finally got a decent drink before a few of us caught the train home together.
I learned something from this whole experience: I learned that one successful night out 5 months ago does NOT automatically mean I will always be okay going ‘out out.’ And I learned that even if I’m not okay … I’ll be okay (if that makes any sense?!). Learning things is a positive in my book. So, in the grand scheme of things – this experience was still a success; just not the kind I’d thought it would be.
Also, it could have been a LOT worse. … For example, I could be as deluded as the DJ, who seemed to think the ‘Venga Bus’ by the Vengaboys now qualifies as country music. Oh dear. 🤠🤣🤦♀️
