Today, I went to the doctor, and then I went to school, and then I went to an after school club. At the club, we play games. 45 minutes in, I started to get really dizzy. This is normal for me. I have a medical condition called Post Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome, POTS for short, that makes my heart rate skyrocket, and my blood pressure drop.
45 minutes after the first 45, the club ended for the day. My head was spinning and my brain was so foggy I couldn't remember peoples names, people I have known since they were born, without thinking about it first. It was an atrocious POTS attack. When I stood up, the world around me spun as my vision went black. I was a few seconds away from passing out.
In front of everyone.
And then, the abled body people took their bags and left. Some asked if I was okay, some did not. Then, it was myself, a good friend, and the two teachers who run the club, Mr. H and Mr. B. I don't mind showing weakness to my friends, but I do mind showing weakness to my teachers. I have formerly been or currently am taught by both of these teachers.
Leaning on my friend, barely supporting my own weight, I hobble out the door as Mr. H notices that something is wrong. I dont make it very far, as 10 paces later I need to sit down. I send my friend to get the keys to my car while I rest against a set of lockers.
The eyes of the two young male teachers are fixed on me.
"I'll be okay, I tell them," as my head is full of fog and spinning like a tilt-a-whirl. "This is relatively normal for me."
And with POTS, this is true. On my worst days, this kind of earth shattering dizziness and brain fog thicker than a bowl of pea soup is normal. But usually, people don't see me on my worst days.
My worst days are when I'm at my most vulnerable. Some days it means several joint dislocations, leaving me exhausted and in pain. Other days it means being so dizzy I can barely move. My worst days are what really single me out from abled body people. And that's part of what makes them so hard.
And today, at games, I had a worst day.
"Do you mind telling me what's going on?" Mr. H asks.
It's a reasonable request, considering I'm stuck on the floor, alone with two teachers who have fulfilled their contractually obligated hours for the day, but are still, staying with me until my friend returns so I am not alone.
After half a seconds hesitation, I explain POTS to Mr. H, and to Mr. B as he's standing right there.
As I explain POTS, both teachers pay close attention and appear horrified at how it affects my life.
"Im not healthy" is the phrase with which I finish. I go on to explain how often I miss school, and I see a flash of understanding in Mr. B's eyes. I was in his class last year, and was frequently absent.
Today, these two teachers, who I respect very much, saw me at my worst. And that's really really hard. Because it means dropping the facade. With a few minor exceptions, my illnesses are invisible and I don't think the world sees on a regular basis what I go through. Because I don't want them to. I don't want people to feel sorry, I don't want to see the concerned look in their eyes, I want to be looked at and treated like everyone else.
But today, that didn't happen. And I think, that these two teachers because of it, might understand. Understand if an assignment is occasionally late, not as well done, if I answer an easy question with a stupid response. I think now, they understand it's not that I don't care, it's that sometimes I just can't. And sometimes for someone, especially someone you look up to, to understand, it can make the load you carry feel so much lighter. It can make your life so much better.
