If ever in the small hours of the night, when everyone else is either snoring or rolling over, you find yourself waking, spinning into the darkness,
staggering to the bathroom while smacking into walls, grabbing the bucket or watering can you’ve left sitting next to the tub to remind you the plants are thirsty, but then peeling off your jammies because the heat has suddenly become unbearable and sweat is dripping down your sides while your skin turns cold and clammy, using that bucket to hold your head because nothing is forthcoming, and you can wish that someone would hit the EPO on the gyroscope that spins behind your eyes, sending them skittering side to side like a manic carriage of a long-forgotten typewriter, and you also wish for a mute button to silence the incessant ringing in ears that for a time can’t hear the low frequencies of the white noise generator but can hear the higher pitch of someone breathing–only then, my friends, will you know how I feel when I have an attack of acute vertigo.
Two major twirls and one minor merry-go-round in the past month. The attacks usually last a couple of hours, but the return to equilibrium takes a day or three. Have scheduled appointments with an audiologist for a hearing test, balance tests, and an ENT. Hope to discover the cause and nip these suckers in the bud.
My posting has been (and is going to be) more sporadic, since I’m doing “real” work first, and I can never tell when the gremlins are going to take me for a spin.
I’m reminded of Virginia Woolf’s essay, “On Being Ill,” where she writes:
“Considering how common illness is, how tremendous the spiritual change that it brings, how astonishing, when the lights of health go down, the undiscovered countries that are then disclosed, what wastes and deserts of the soul a slight attack of influenza brings to light…it becomes strange indeed that illness has not taken its place with love, battle, and jealousy among the prime themes of literature. Novels, one would have thought, would have been devoted to influenza; epic poems to typhoid; odes to pneumonia, lyrics to toothache. But no; … literature does its best to maintain that its concern is with the mind; that the body is a sheet of plain glass through which the soul looks straight and clear.”