The peach is fuzzy. Firm. Extremely unripe. The microscopic hairs tickle my fingers as I place the summer fruit back in its cardboard crate. I take a few steps, eyeing the bright red strawberries that have never smelled sweeter when suddenly, I am filled with an overwhelming desire to fall to the floor. The mild dizziness that typically lives tamely in the background fills my body in full force, panic creeping in as I quickly realize I am too weak to finish my shop. The fresh strawberries blur into scarlet spots, filling my vision with red as anxiety seeps out my body in small droplets of perspiration. My mind is racing almost as fast as my heart, swarmed with questions like, “What’s going on? What do I do, and where on Earth can I sit down?” There’s not a chair in sight. Do I leave my cart and try to make it to the car? Am I closer to the entrance or the exit? How long have I been standing here and can anybody help me? The thumping of my heart echoes inside my head as my eyes shoot open, adrenaline coursing through my veins. Another bad dream. Another POTS dream. Leave it to my debilitating medical condition to turn a simple grocery store shop into a rattling nightmare.
Not many people would find grocery stores to be frightening places, but ever since I developed POTS, my subconscious is filled with fears of getting stuck in public settings, too weak and symptomatic to walk back to safety (i.e. my car, a bench, any available chair). Normally, I can contain the fear into a small hum of anxiety, nothing more than a stream of nervous thoughts that only exist when my body is upright. But due to the months I spent debilitated with no access to the medical care I needed, these fears are rooted strongly within me, even as my condition has improved through my current physical therapy treatment. These fears are rooted so deeply within me, they’ve started to appear in my dreams.
Although my anxiety about my condition has been cultivating for quite some time, dreaming about POTS has been a relatively new occurrence. In fact, as my illness spiraled out of control last September, my sleep fantasies were actually the one place I could be normal, unscathed by the medical condition that bulldozed through my life. For a while, my dreams were where I felt healthy again, putting me back into memories and feelings I could no longer experience during waking hours. Sometimes I’d dream I was standing at a dinner party, shoulders back, relaxed on my feet, wearing high heels and tight, glittery clothing as I charmed a circle of close friends. I felt confident and cool, attentive and successful, starkly different from the person I was forced into being during the day, who laid on the couch under crushing fatigue, binging show after show and staring blankly at walls. In my dreams, I could walk without my heart racing unbearably. I could stand for as long I wanted, without having to worry about dizziness or near-fainting episodes or how much time I had until my body gave out. In my dreams, I was a full, abled person, and for a few quiet hours each night, I got to be my old self again.
The more time I spent waiting for treatment and the more disabled I became, the more my anxiety about POTS settled into my subconscious, wedging its way into those precious hours of slumber and polluting the dreams that used to be cherished. That’s when the grocery store nightmares began, turning simple, everyday tasks into large medical disasters. That’s when quietly, I began to fear leaving my house, daunted and unsure of what could spark an assortment of symptoms. There was even a period of time where I’d unintentionally designated the couch as a “safe place”, a location where I was protected and nothing bad could happen to me. When I lied on the couch, there would be no dizziness, no heart palpitations or shortness of breath, no terrible collapsing episodes that sent me to the ER. Lying on the couch couldn’t exhaust me more than I already was, and without proper medical treatment, walking was a risk I often didn’t feel like taking.
When I was officially diagnosed with POTS, the slow process of acceptance began, and acceptance meant that the illness was now a part of me, even in my dreams. It was real, confirmed, prevalent now in all hours of the day. After my diagnosis, I started dreaming about having to tell people about my condition, talking about all the tasks I could and could not do and how much of my life had changed. In my dreams, I relived my losses all over again, stepping into stories I ached to shed like snake skin. I starting having nightly visions about sitting in coffee shops with old theatre directors, having honest, raw conversations with highly influential people from my teenage years, from my life before. In other dreams, I now had limitations. I no longer dreamt about performing in musicals or belting a song on stage, unless it was it tainted by a whirlwind of symptoms. I started to have nightly visions of myself sitting alone at my kitchen table, confined within my home while all of my friends enjoyed a summer day in my front yard, basking in the sun without me. POTS invaded my dreams like a belligerent foreign army, and even in this nightly time of rest, I could no longer take a break from my unwanted reality. My illness was everywhere I looked, like enemy propaganda, brainwashing me into believing it would always consume my life.
But a few nights ago, I had a dream that I was running. I started off wandering in a field of wildflowers, taking in the sharp scent of freshly cut grass blowing in with the breeze. The sun shined down on me like a spotlight, a golden, heavenly glimmer, a ray of light pecking my cheek like a tender kiss from God. For the first time in a long time, the sunny heat didn’t bother me, my body tolerating and enjoying the warm air that surrounded me. For the first time in a long time, I felt the urge to run. So I did. My sneakers hit the Earth beneath me, bouncing with energy, strong and stable. Even though my mind was timid, filled with cautious thoughts such as, “don’t push yourself” and “take it easy”, still, I was running. In this dream, I was myself again, but I was my new self. The one who had survived years of hardship and medical trauma. The one who was stronger for all she had endured, kinder and more resilient. The one who was healing, and had found a way to live beyond POTS, pushing it into the background where eventually, it would fade until it vanished. In that dream, I was suddenly the girl who had survived, the girl who had grown, the girl I work every day to become.
A few months ago, this dream would’ve been a nightmare. It would’ve been hijacked by symptoms: head spinning, heart pounding, my lungs unable to breathe. I wouldn’t have been able to smell the fresh grass, spring with strength atop the damp Earth, or feel the sunlight gently kiss my skin, tender and with care. The beautiful meadow would’ve seemed like Hell, the heat and pollen aggravating my illness as the adrenaline convinced my panicked mind that the world was surely collapsing in on me. I would’ve woken up from the dream in a horrible mood, grieving for all I’d lost and exasperated at all still beyond my control. But this time, after this dream, I woke up feeling inspired, thinking about all the strength and knowledge I’ve gained, and how much I’ve grown from the exhausted girl I was just a couple of months ago. This time, I woke up remembering my progress, trusting my path, knowing that even if I’ve got a ways to go, with time and hard work, I’ll surely reach the end of it.
When I left school last year, I dreamt about it every night for a week. Each time I fell into slumber, I’d transport back inside my college apartment, laughing with my roommates and relaxing on the couch, or I’d travel to a practice room, jamming on a piano, enjoying my favorite thing in the world. In my dreams, I picked up right where I left off, a busy, abled college student prepping for class and rehearsals. But each time I woke from these nighttime journeys, I’d find myself back in my childhood bed again, painfully overwhelmed by another empty day before me. Believe me when I tell you there are so many better things for a young adult to dream about than passing out in grocery stores, or crying about a diagnosis. But I have faith that one day, as I heal and change, my dreams will too. I have faith that one day the grocery store will be a little less daunting and a little more of a weekly nuisance, and that I’ll get to groan about the inconvenience of long lines with all the other shoppers around me, instead of feeling anxious about the lengthy vertical wait. One day, I will run again, and it won’t be just a dream. One day, I will become the girl I dream about, and she will become me.
