The last eighteen months have been lived on a roller coaster. One of those rides with a long, slow, mountainous climb ascending to a small peak, with a second of reprieve to catch one’s breath, followed by a blood-chilling, scream-emitting, bone-crunching, headache-inducing descent into hell when the car crashes off the tracks and one is thrown headlong into an uncertain future, mistaken for a milli-second as the ability to fly. Dag nab it!
Without going into detail … No, where is the fun with no detail? Here cometh the detail. It all started in January 2017. Pack down for the southern hemisphere’s largest festival was in full swing and, being project manager for the site art and decor, one’s right index finger was on the verge of a severe case of RSI from all the pointing demanded of it. Day three of pack down, sitting in the accountant’s office going through invoices, and the room starts to spin.
Spin, spinning, spinnetty. Rumpelstiltskin would have been impressed with all the spinning. Kylie would have sung a song about it. It was as though, after months at sea, one had stepped on land. Weird. One was sent home though resumed pack down after a couple of days of the world spinning around. (Which it does. What? Spin around. What? The world spins around. Oh right, of course.) Well, after a couple of days of one’s world spinning around. (Happy? Yes.)
Fast forward to two weeks later, and queue spinning again. This time it hit as one was getting out of bed. Holding on to every wall, chair, door, and surface to move from the bedroom to the bathroom was not ideal. Having a shower was a major feat; dressing, a wobbly tap dance; walking, ah no. Dizzy when opening one’s eyes. Dizzy when moving one’s head. Dizzy when closing one’s eyes. Dizzy when sitting still. Dizzy when standing up. Dizzy when laying down. Dizzy when walking. Dizzy when not walking. Dizzy!
The next day, everything was ship shape. For an hour or so. Walking the dogs with Spouse (stage-name) and bam! Dizzy. And not only dizzy but nauseous (possibly because of the dizzy?). All energy was drained from one’s body like an unblocked downpipe. Every sound was amplified, even the wing movements of tiny flying insects. The bells of St Clements rang with gusto in one’s ears. And who turned the sunshine up to glaringly, blindingly bright?
One was trapped inside for the next few days with a cacophony of noise, light, dizziness and a general feeling of having not fared well after a few rounds in the ring with Mike Tyson. Spouse had been wonderful; helping with every movement, function, activity usually performed by oneself, though even the patience of Saint Spouse was wearing thinner than the latest panty liner.
Spouse: ‘You’re going to the doctor.’
One: ‘Nah. I’ll be okay. It’s possibly labyrinthitis. I’ve had that before.
Spouse: ‘You’re going to the doctor. You may need antibiotics if it’s an inner ear infection or labyrinthitis.’
One: ‘Alright then. Just for you. If it is labyrinthitis, I’ll possibly have to have that test to confirm it.’
Doctor: ‘It may be labyrinthitis. You will need to have that test to confirm it.’
Physio: ‘It may be labyrinthitis. Let’s do that test to confirm it.’
Physio: ‘So it’s not labyrinthitis. Get yourself back to the doctor.’
Doctor: ‘So it’s not labyrinthitis. Get yourself to hospital.’
The worst place to be when one feels unwell is … hospital, in one’s humble, dizzy opinion. The noise was relentless, the fluorescent lights were blinding, the tests were endless and the snoring! Sleep depriving! After five sleepless nights, every test imaginable (including CT Scan and MRI), and now being on a first name basis will all the hospital staff, it was official: one was completely healthy.
One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘Huh?’
Doctor: ‘It could be migraine.’
One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘Huh?’
Doctor: ‘It could be migraine. You have a history of migraine so it’s probably that. You can go home.’
One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘What the frisky turtle?’, with a little bit of ‘I’m in the wrong profession,’ thrown in for good measure.
Second opinion time.
ENT Specialist: ‘It could be either MS, Meniere’s Disease or Vestibular Migraine. You will need to have a test (and hand over your first born child as it costs a bomb).’
ENT Specialist: ‘The test results came back, though they are not conclusive. It could be either MS, Meniere’s Disease or Vestibular Migraine. Here have a script for Maxolon and Valium. Oh, and you have the hearing of a young child.’
One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘What the fried chicken?’, with a little bit of ‘I’m definitely in the wrong profession,’ thrown in for good measure.
Third opinion time.
Neurologist: ‘It could be anything. Sit over here and I’ll do some tests.’
One: ‘Okay.’
Spouse: sits quietly observing and thinking ‘Yep, definitely in the wrong profession.’
Neurologist: ‘You have Vestibular Migraine. Here’s a script for anti-depressants which will help and you’ll be on them for the rest of your life.’
One: looks at the Neurologist as though he is a life form vomited up from the centre of the earth covered in green bile and pustulating boils.
Spouse: pays for the consultation, drags dizzy partner out of the office and says ‘So, what would you say if I decided to change profession and became a doctor?’
One: looks at Spouse as though a life form vomited up from the centre of the earth covered in green bile and pustulating boils.
One does not do pills. One does not do doctors. (Well, one would if Spouse was serious about pursuing a career as a doctor. Which Spouse wasn’t. Thank goodness, as that would mean changing one’s beliefs. Back to the story…) One does natural. One does healthy. One does research.
Thrown into the mix, because life at that time was not challenging enough – as a couple, we had made some major decisions over the previous months after a job redundancy – March is here, Spouse has a new job and we’re now looking down the barrel of selling our beloved house, Matilda, an interstate move and one had to resign from the treasured project manager position with the southern hemisphere’s largest festival. Oh, and then there was prepping Matilda for sale; painting the inside of the house, fixing the drainage outside, putting in a second bathroom / laundry downstairs … easy things like that.
Whilst Spouse was interstate sorting out new role things, with some help from one’s sister who was sent to babysit (and with no help from the Valium or anti-depressants), the patootie was researched out of Vestibular Migraine. It could be caused by … or it could be from … maybe it was because … Ah no. There is no known cause and there is no known treatment. So it’s goodbye to the straight and narrow, and it’s hello to migraine-headachy, dizzy, sicky, sound sensitive, light avoiding, listless, ears a-ringing, non-driving, hermit couch potato.
Who are you calling a spud? This little french fry was quickly losing patience with VM.
Part 2: coming soon.