Fifteen and Twelve: My Journey with POTS and Learning to Be My Own Advocate
My mother always said I was her little piece of heaven, a gift she and my father prayed for until I arrived in the fall of 1987. I was here, but barely—my breathing saw to that. It’d stop, just for a moment, no warning, a quiet skip that left me teetering. They gave me an apnea monitor, a clunky box that beeped with every breath, proof I was still hanging on. She’d sit by my crib in the dark, journal in hand, writing the same plea: Please just let me hold her one more day.
That monitor trailed me those early months. At six months old, on my first plane ride, it went off 20 minutes in. The air thinned, my lungs quit—lips blue, body limp. The pilot dropped us fast, an emergency landing rattling the small plane onto a rural strip. My mother held me, her prayers cutting through the noise, while a flight attendant scrambled for oxygen. Another night, my sister, eight and half-asleep, wandered past my crib. She looked in—me, blue and still, a shadow in pajamas. Her scream woke the house; my parents rushed, coaxing me back to breath. There were other moments—church pews, car seats—where that beep faltered, and they’d wait, holding their own breath, for it to steady. I made it through that year, one fragile inhale at a time.
By my 20s, those skips were a distant echo, but one morning, I woke up different. I was sick, and I didn’t know why—completely out of my body, untethered. I’d taste copper on my tongue, sharp and sour, like I’d bitten metal. Sleep would claim me for 16, 18 hours—days dissolving into a blank fog. Standing sent my heart racing—120, 140 beats—like it was running from me. Dizziness blurred my edges; fatigue sank deep. I’d shuffle to doctors, a scribbled list in hand: tachycardia, near-faints, words slipping mid-thought. Every time, the same refrain: “Probably just anxiety.” I’d sit there, quiet. Anxiety doesn’t taste like rust. It doesn’t leave you slumped on a kitchen floor, staring at a kettle you can’t reach. I was 23, 25, 27—too young, they said, for anything real. I’d leave, their words heavy and wrong. Illness doesn’t care about your age—I knew it, even if they wouldn’t see it.
It took six years of pushing—spinal taps, more blood draws than I can count, every scan, every beta blocker—before the truth broke through. At 29, after three days in the hospital, at my lowest weight, I hit bottom. I told them I’d rather not be here at all if this was what being here meant. That was what it took. They agreed to the tilt-table test, confirming what I’d known for eight years: Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome—POTS. Those four letters named my storm—my nervous system misfiring, spiking my pulse, dropping my pressure when I stood too long. I’d shift upright, and it’d hit—heart pounding, legs wobbling, vision fading. The diagnosis brought relief—a label, finally—then weariness. I’d lost my 20s to shrugs and “try harder.” Knowing didn’t fix it. It just set the stage.
Then came the cardiologist, a man whose carelessness still burns. He leaned back, tie loose, all casual ease. He tossed out a test like it was a game. “Remember these numbers: 15 and 12,” he said, smirking, like my foggy head needed a trick. I nodded—15 and 12—tucking them away, sure they’d matter. He skimmed my chart, scribbled, barely looked up. I spilled it all—faints, exhaustion, a heart that wouldn’t calm. He nodded, half-there, like I was background noise. Forty minutes later, his fix: “Eat pizza, drink Gatorade, you’ll be fine.” I blinked, breath caught. Pizza? Gatorade? For a body that failed me daily? I waited—there had to be more. Nothing. Then the sting: he forgot to ask me those numbers. Fifteen and twelve sat sharp in my mind, and he didn’t care. I walked out, stunned, a junk-food note in hand, anger rising. That wasn’t care—it was negligence with a stethoscope, a shrug in a white coat. I’d been a file, not a person. That day cracked me open: not all advice is worth taking. People—even doctors—flake. You’ve got to trust yourself.
Those numbers—15 and 12—stayed with me. Not for him, but for me. I repeat them in my head, a quiet pulse: Fifteen and twelve. I’m still here. They’re my proof—proof I’m clearer than the fog, stronger than the dismissals. They’re my pushback against every “just anxiety,” every lazy nod, every time I had to figure it out alone. I’d spent years doubting myself, echoing their lines—maybe it’s nothing—until that smirk broke it. I wasn’t falling now.
POTS calls for a slow life, and I’ve learned to live it. That pizza-and-Gatorade nonsense? It’d have wrecked me—bloated, crashing, worse off. I found my own way, gentle and true. A scoop of electrolytes in my water every day keeps me steady—clean, no heavy slump. A sprinkle of sea salt on my meals—eggs, greens—lifts me, soft and simple. Movement’s careful: a paced protocol builds me up, small and steady; Pilates keeps me solid without strain; desk pedals hum under my table, a quiet push. When my heart races or my nerves buzz, I turn to rest—yoga at night to unwind, meditations to hush the noise. Extra vitamin D when the sun’s too much, tasks in small bites—that’s my rhythm now. It’s a life chapter, not a life sentence, and I’ve written it my way.
I used to think progress was fighting through, that I only counted if I beat it back. I’d push past the faints, ignore the weight, blame myself for breaking. Now, a good day feels off—like something’s missing when nothing’s wrong. That’s POTS: thriving’s not loud, it’s quiet, mine. Those numbers, 15 and 12, tell me every day—I’ve outlasted the shrugs, the doubt, the days I barely hung on. Wayne Dyer wrote about spiritual fixes, and it lands—healing’s not just the body. It’s taking your story back when they won’t hear it.
POTS is a chapter, not my sentence. I’ve shaped it gently, my way, with 15 and 12 humming along. I think of that plane, those years begging to be seen, that hospital bed where I almost gave up. It shocks me—how close it got, how little they cared. It stings—the days I lost, doubting every ache. But I’m here, breathing, whispering: Fifteen and twelve. Trust yourself—that’s what I’d say. You’ll find what works, soft and steady, because you’re worth fighting for.
Living with POTS: What Keeps Me Going
Here’s what I’ve learned, pieced together over years—gentle, practical, proven to help:
Diet: Start at the root—get your gut checked. Digestion plays a big role; inflammation can fuel POTS. Small, frequent meals—protein, healthy fats, complex carbs—keep blood sugar steady. Avoid gluten or dairy if they flare you; try anti-inflammatory foods like broths, greens, or berries. Hydration’s key—add electrolytes to water daily, clean and simple, to hold fluid in your veins. Sea salt on meals lifts blood volume—aim for a few grams, but tune in to what feels right.
Supplements: Vitamin D when sunlight’s scarce—low levels tank energy. B12 or magnesium might help if you’re low (test first). CoQ10 supports heart function; some swear by it. Work with a functional medicine doctor—they dig deeper, look at the whole picture, not just symptoms.
Movement: A paced protocol builds stamina—start recumbent, slow and steady. Pilates or gentle strength work keeps you solid without strain. Desk pedals or short walks keep blood moving, low-key. Avoid overdoing it—rest after if you push.
Rest: Sleep’s non-negotiable—8-10 hours, dark room, cool temp. Nighttime yoga unwinds tension; meditations calm the buzz. Nap if you need—20 minutes can reset you.
Lifestyle: Compression socks (mid-thigh if you can) cut pooling—game-changer for standing. A weighted blanket settles nights. Skip extreme heat—hot baths, saunas—cool off fast with damp cloths, shade, or a fan. Tasks in 10-minute bites—rest isn’t weakness. Explain to people: “I don’t look sick, but I’m struggling”—don’t be ashamed to say no or tell them why. It’s your story; own it.
Resources: Wayne Dyer’s A Spiritual Solution to Every Problem for the soul stuff. The Dysautonomia Project by Kelly Freeman for POTS 101. Finding Freedom (documentary) or The Invisible Illness (short film) for stories like ours. Dysautonomia International’s site for forums, research—try their doctor list. Standing Up to POTS has practical guides. Ultima Replenisher for electrolytes, Himalayan sea salt for meals, Levine Protocol for pacing, Jennifer Kries’ Pilates videos, Yoga With Adriene for nighttime flows, Insight Timer with Gisele’s Heart Chakra or Sanjay Gupta’s breathwork.
You’re still here. Fifteen and twelve—I am too. We’ve got more chapters to write.