The Night I Fished My TENS Machine Out of a Toilet at a Gig
There are two versions of me at a gig.
The first is the one I grew up being, arms up, squashed against the barrier, absolutely feral with joy, not thinking about my body once. The second is the one I am now, at 25, quietly negotiating with my body in the venue toilets while my boyfriend waits patiently outside wondering if I've been swallowed by the floor.
Both versions still love live music with every cell she has. That part hasn't changed.
Last night I went to see The Beths in Wellington, and I was genuinely so excited. They're one of those bands that make you feel like everything is going to be okay, which, when you're someone who spends a lot of time managing chronic pain, is basically medicinal.
I'd spent the day being careful. Resting, eating well, not overdoing it. The whole strategic pre-event routine that I've slowly built up and that my younger self would have absolutely mocked me for. I timed my arrival later than I used to, getting there just after doors so I'd make it through the night without burning out before the first song even started.
I had my TENS machine on. For anyone who doesn't know, a TENS machine sends small electrical pulses through your skin to help interrupt pain signals. Mine lives on my back and my lower pelvis at gigs. Is it glamorous? Absolutely not. Does it mean I can actually be present for the music instead of spending the whole night grimacing? Yes.
So there I am, having a perfectly managed chronic illness moment, feeling quite proud of myself actually, and I go to the loo.
And the bloody thing falls in the toilet.
I'd like to tell you I handled this with grace. I did not. I stood there for a solid five seconds in disbelief, then rolled up my sleeves, fished it out, tried to dry it off with toilet paper (which, as you know, immediately disintegrates into a thousand wet fragments), and waddled back out like nothing had happened.
My boyfriend, bless him, had been waiting the entire time.
The thing is, we made it through the whole show. The Beths were wonderful. I was present, I danced (strategically to actually help pull through the stiff pain that comes with standing for a while), and I stood there in that crowd feeling like the slightly older, slightly more medically equipped version of my younger self, and it was enough. It was actually more than enough.
Living with adenomyosis and endometriosis means that doing ordinary things, things that most people don't think twice about, sometimes takes a bit of extra planning, and occasionally a bit of toilet-related humiliation. But you still get to do them. You just do them differently.
I grieve the version of me who didn't have to think about any of this. She was 16 and she was invincible and she didn't know what a TENS machine was. But I also really like the version of me who shows up anyway, wires, contingency plans, and all.
You're allowed to still be the person who loves the things you love. You just get to be that person with a few more accessories.
A Few Things That Help Me at Gigs
Not medical advice, just stuff that's worked for me.
Arrive at a time that means you can make it through the whole show.
TENS machines are genuinely a game-changer for pain management. Wireless ones exist and are worth looking into, I think there’s even heated ones too.
Rest intentionally beforehand. It's not losing the day, it's banking energy for the night.
Tell one person you're with what you need. You don't have to explain everything, just enough so someone's got you. Hard but worth it.
Know your exit. Standing near the side or back means you can slip out if you need to without the panic of being trapped in a crowd.
It's okay to leave early. Getting there and being present for even part of it still counts.
The Quiet Support Project | thequietsupportproject.com
