It’s a Saturday night, I’m 22 and I am sitting on the back of a friend’s bike, whizzing through the centre of Amsterdam. I’m in a big group of friends and we all have cans of beer in our hands. BVOtjes as the Dutch call them. A ´Bier voor Onderweg´ (a beer for on the way). Everyone is singing and laughing pretty raucously. We are on the annual “Kat is Actually 22 not 69 Night Out” where I try to be young while living in the body of an old lady.
I’m hanging on tight to the bike going through a mental checklist in my head:
- Two weeks of full body rest beforehand – check
- A full but healthy dinner – check
- Food prepared for the next few days -check
- Re-hydration salts – check
- Compression stockings on – check
- Excited and ready to party – almost!
Tonight just so happens to be a night when one of my, much cooler than me friends, is DJ-ing at a queer bar in the centre of Amsterdam. I missed their first DJ set, and their second and third, but I am excited to see them. Excited but also very nervous, because honestly, would I still remember what to do in a club? Do I know how to dance? Will it be fun enough to justify how sick it’s going to make me?
But there is no time for nerves and my friends pull me into the club and head straight for the bar to order drinks. There is nothing I hate more than holding a drink whilst dancing (well maybe my illness let’s be real), so I don’t order anything. Instead, I take full advantage of the fact that my friends are excited that I’m joining for once. “Can I have a little sip please?” *Continues to take a large slurp*. But no one really minds and they happily pass their drink over.
At first, I feel incredibly self-conscious. Dancing never was my strong point. But as the drinks begin to roll and we all start dancing I can feel myself relaxing and enjoying the loud music. I get this added experience of every beat of music feeling like intense pain in my body. It does not sound nice. However, when you are tipsy and having fun it adds an interesting, bodily dimension to the experience. And at some point, the alcohol kicks in enough to have the best experience yet – I stop feeling my body properly. Now that is a luxury I never get.
At some point, however, my friend deems that it is time to leave. I’m elated and not ready to go yet. But sadly I don’t own a bike or enough money for a taxi, so I have to catch my ride home. But leaving a club with a big group always takes time. So I stand outside as friends gather coats, take last-minute toilet trips and light up for a smoke.
I can’t contain my excitement any longer and rush up to one of my close friends.
“Kamielje, Kamiel… guess what I’ve just realised”
“What?”
“I think I’ve finally done it… I think my illness is cured”.
And as I watch his face, fully expecting him to be excited, a little wave of sadness crosses his face, before it is swiftly replaced by a fake smile “That’s great Kat”.
And in my drunkenness, I don’t understand why he isn’t more excited that I’ve finally got rid of the illness that took so much from me.
I guess maybe he is grumpy and tired after clubbing, so I run up to another friend to share the joy.
“Steff, Stefffff…. it’s over… I’m cured”.
And again, instead of joy, I see this flash of sadness and the fake “good job Kat”.
I’m beginning to think that maybe my friends like the fact that I was sick and didn’t want to see me cured.
On the back of the bike, I have one last attempt “Marten, noone else seems to care, but you care right? I think I’ve cured my illness”.
I can’t see his face because he is cycling in front of me, but I don’t feel the excitement I expect when declaring such great news. He answers “Oh no, we care, we are happy for you”.
And I give up on sharing the good news. I’m a little surprised that the people closest to me don’t care. But the joy of finally realising you are cured of your illness is hard to curb, and I’ve just had a great night out for the first time in ages. So I still go to bed fairly happy.
I won’t get out of bed for the next month. It was at that point I realised that perhaps my friend’s reactions were not that they didn’t care. More likely they care a lot about me getting better. They did however, also know that being drunk is not the same thing as being cured!
This blog is part of a new series I am writing about the everyday moments of having a chronic illness. Sometimes these small, everyday moments illustrate the experience of living with a chronic illness better than any informative blog post.
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