I said it. Finally. To a complete stranger. In front of other strangers. Because at 31 years old I, apparently, cannot stand for more than 5 minutes on a moving bus.
Shit.
Possibly the worst day to get another “first time since…” out of the way. Taking the bus into Eastbourne for an appointment. On my own. The school’s break up today. And it’s “The Sunshine Coast”. Of course the bus I needed to get would be standing room only 🤦🏻♀️
Little things like this never used to bother me. Where crowds used to provide comfort as a place to hide, they now feel like overbearing complex mazes. Unless I was having a “bad Endo pain day”, which usually mean more dizzy spells, I used to offer my seat if someone looked like they were struggling. Now, having stood at the bus stop for 10 minutes, where the “standing seats” require more cardiac exertion than standing actually does, I was exhausted. And now I feel guilty about having to ask a foreign tourist if I could have their seat. A person who, unsurprisingly, had no idea what I meant by “cardiac storm”.
This is one of my biggest anxiety triggers at the moment: People do not understand. Of course they dont. 30-odd year olds don’t have cardiac arrests. Except they do. Sadly, a high percentage die so most people don’t come into contact with a young cardiac arrest or storm survivor. And to our wonderfully pre-occupied, often self-absorbed world, identifying a person in recovery is not obvious. So finding the right words that will not upset myself or them is a fucking minefield I find difficult to navigate.
I shouldn’t worry about upsetting you with how I phrase it. But I do. You are allowed to react when you hear the words. And you do. To begin with, it was oddly comforting, seeing my loved ones eyes as they processed the information. Love and worry, it showed they cared. Strangers I have told before looked shocked, and asked a bucket load of questions. I didn’t mind that. It helps me process. But this was different.
I got on the bus and sighed. It was full of elderly folk with walkers and trollies. “The Sunshine coast” AKA “The Retirement coast”. Except for two young(er than me) ladies at the front. Kick in overly polite British behaviour…
“Excuse me, are either of you able to stand please? I need to sit down”.
They stared blankly at me.
“Sorry..” (see, overly polite British – why the fuck am I apologising for being ill 🤦🏻♀️) “… I had a cardiac storm a few weeks ago and I can’t stand for long”
Looks exchanged between the two, shrugging. A foreign language spoken quietly.
Ooooo….Kay. The rain starts streaming down my face.
Queue my hand waving above my chest, attempting to immitate a fast heart rhythm, succeeding only at looking like I was swatting at a fly.
“Please, I need to sit down”.
They stand, looking at me like I have grown a mermaid tail. The front of the bus who were in ear shot are all staring at me. At this point I would prefer to have the mermaid tail because at least they would be able to see …
“She doesn’t look ill”
No. I don’t. You don’t look like a judgemental moron, but apparently you are.
I shouldn’t worry about whether you believe me or not. But apparently you do not. There is a difference between disbelief and not believing.
The age old “Don’t judge a book by its cover”.
And yet I have just done the same by assuming only the young ladies could have stood up for me. That they would understand my words.
I guess we are all a bit of a bus wanker in need of some more conscencious growth.
Surviving The Storm Sister 