Death threats over what i did out partying
What Olivia Golding, 24, from Bristol, thought was harmless fun, became the biggest mistake of her life
As I clapped my hands, my little boy Parker, 3, toddled towards my mum Angela, 53.
‘He’s growing up fast,’ I sighed.
‘They do that,’ smiled Mum. I’d been 21 when I had Parker, and had split from his dad.
But having my mum and two sisters, Sam, 33, and Kate, 32, around, meant I could work full-time as a car salesperson, and I got to enjoy occasional nights out, too.
Now, on a Saturday this July, me and mates Ben, 31, Adam, 28, and Jen, 27, were off to Wireless Festival. It was the weekend I’d been waiting for.
Picking up Parker, I kissed his rosy cheek.
‘See you, little man,’ I smiled. We arrived at the festival around 4pm. It was buzzing with people. Music pounding.
We went to the bar before heading to the main stage.
When Stormzy started, the crowd went wild.
After a while, a man selling laughing gas pushed his way through the crowd.
I watched as he filled balloons with nitrous oxide from a canister.
‘£5 each,’ he shouted.
I’d had laughing gas before, on a girls’ holiday in Greece.
Some people call it ‘ hippy crack’ but I didn’t think it was a proper drug.
I remembered the lightheaded feeling it gave me.
Ben sucked in the air from the balloon and the skin around his eyes started to crease.
‘Give me a go,’ I said as he burst out laughing.
I sucked in the air from a purple balloon.
Before long, all four of us fell about laughing.
Halfway through Stormzy’s set, the man came back and we bought more balloons.
We laughed
People said I was a bad mum, sent me death threats
and danced around for ages.
A little later, I felt a weird sensation in my face and neck.
‘I’ve got pins and needles,’ I told Jen.
‘All that dancing!’ she shouted back.
The feeling spread down my back and legs. By 11pm, I was ready for bed. ‘Are you feeling OK?’ Ben asked as we all bundled into our hotel reception.
Looking down, I saw that my fingers had turned in at a really weird angle.
‘You need a good night’s sleep,’ said Jen.
Yet Sunday morning, I tried to pull the duvet off me and my arms were like jelly.
The others looked worried. I swung my legs round, put my feet on the floor.
But I struggled to stand. ‘Something’s wrong,’ I said, stumbling to the bathroom.
When I came out, Ben said he’d drive me home.
After a couple of hours on the road, he passed me a bottle of water, but I couldn’t unscrew the lid.
I had no strength in my hands at all.
Back at Mum’s, she sent me to lie down.
Next morning, I went to my doctor. She tapped my hands hard with a ruler. I didn’t flinch. ‘Go to the hospital,’ she said. Mum took Parker, while I went with Sam to Southmead Hospital, where I had an MRI.
I had to be taken up to the Neurology ward in a wheelchair and stay overnight.
Next day, when Mum arrived, the consultant came in.
‘Have you taken anything unusual recently?’ she asked. ‘Only laughing gas,’ I frowned. ‘I’ve seen this before,’ she said. She explained how the nitrous oxide had starved my brain of oxygen and my body of vitamins.
‘It’s damaged the top of your spinal cord,’ she said.
I’d thought the balloons were harmless. Like getting tipsy. ‘I’m so sorry, Mum,’ I sobbed. ‘You didn’t know this would happen,’ she said.
The days went on and my movement deteriorated.
I needed help going to the loo, couldn’t hold a toothbrush or a glass of water.
I couldn’t even give Parker a cuddle.
‘Mummy’s in the happy hotel,’
I told him so he wasn’t scared.
After two weeks in hospital, the consultant explained that I’d developed Lichtheim’s disease.
‘It’s a degeneration of the spinal cord,’ she explained. A life-long condition.
I was devastated.
One moment of silliness would affect the rest of my life.
Three weeks on, in September, I left hospital in a wheelchair. I quit my job and went to live with Mum. She had to help me with everything.
I decided to post on Facebook what had happened to me.
You may think laughing gas is harmless, but I’m living proof of the damage it can do, I wrote.
It was shared over 100,000 times. While some people were supportive, I got a lot of abuse.
People said I was a bad mum and sent me death threats. As if I didn’t feel bad enough. Now, the only thing keeping me going is Parker.
Every day he asks, ‘Is Mummy better?’
Doctors are hopeful that I’ll walk again one day. I’m having physio and I’m on medication.
And thanks to me and others speaking out, laughing gas has been banned from events and websites have stopped selling it.
The message is slowly getting through.
Though, sadly, it came too late for me.