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How did I get here? Part 2

We had a deadline to meet. Spouse was moving interstate to start the new job in April. We had to have the interior painting of the house near completion by then. We had two weeks and yes, we were painting the place ourselves. Why wouldn’t we? We love painting. Right? Don’t we? Well, yes … when we’re able to function.

Maybe it’s caused by … Or perhaps it’s to do with … It’s probably because of … We eat healthily, we exercise regularly, we rarely drink alcohol, we are non-caffeine drinkers, we are non-smokers, we live in the country with an abundance of fresh air … what could be causing the VM?

Because straws were being clutched, one had assumed the vestibular migraines were triggered by hormone fluctuations as there had been synchronicities with cycle / migraine / hormones previously. So, after discussions with a doctor of the female variety, thought to try hormone replacement therapy. This would definitely fix one! Ah no. (It may have worked if one had bothered to read the back of the packet for the correct sequence in which to take the pills …)

Feeling completely useless does not sit well with one, particularly when there is work to be done. So, the first step to overcoming the Vestibular Migraine symptoms (also known as episodes): stop hanging on to everything when walking. Yes, the motion sensors (eyes) send repeated ‘danger danger warning warning’ messages to the brain which releases the adrenalin valve and floods the body with panic, but by focussing on one point and walking slowly toward that point, things can be reprogrammed with perseverance.

Step two was to focus on one small task; walking to the bathroom or getting dressed without holding on to anything. These were very small, teeny tiny baby steps but they did move one forward; within hours one had a paint brush in hand and was focussing on cutting in around the lounge-room walls. Day one of dizzy rehab was a success; two hours of doing something constructive with no episode – yay! Day two, three hours, another success. Day three, four hours, and the ladder climbing was not a good idea – who knew? A major episode ensued lasting over thirty hours.

Start again. Baby steps, and no ladders. Rehab and reprogramming were working. By the deadline one had been episode free for five days – success! The painting was almost done. Ladders had been climbed. The drainage had been fixed. The new bathroom was being built. The cure for VM had been found. Spouse could move interstate to start the new job less worried, coming back each fortnight until the house was sold.

One forged ahead, painting the nook, painting the kitchen, painting the new bathroom. No episodes for days. Life was good. Life was grand. All drugs were flushed down the toilet before open home inspections after Easter. One was headed to an annual music festival in Byron Bay with a girlfriend. What could go wrong?

Da da daaaaaaahhhh … Where is the worst place to be when having a VM episode? No, not a hospital. A music festival! And there were four days of it. One was devastated. One thought one had found the cure. One loves music. One had spent some dollars on the ticket and accommodation, and had driven for the first time in months. One spent the next four days having the worst time at the music festival one loved and had been going to for ten years. One was done.

One was assaulted by five mammoth migraines and VM episodes; one after the other. Smash! Crash! Bam! Take that! And that! The complete and exact opposite to a multiple orgasm. Furry Shitzus! Perhaps it was caused by stimuli; noise, light, movement? Maybe it’s from … Or it was because of … Ah, we’re back to that old chestnut. Queue the nausea drugs, the HRT (taken correctly this time) and the rehab / reprogramming. Oh, and days, weeks, months of having the house look pristine at all times – blah, blah, blah – and Spouse in one State and one in another (in both senses of the word ‘state’) – blah, blah, blah-hitty, fuzzy sheet ballasts blah.

July: the house was sold, the garage sale held, the downsizing done, the worldly remains packed, the car filled, the people moved, the episodes like the tides. Though on the plus side, there was a physiotherapy practise specialising in VM close by. Appointments were made and treatment was had. C2 and C3 move over to the left putting pressure on nerves in the spine causing the VM. Yay! An answer! After eight visits, one was VM free … again. Wahoo!

Months passed and things settled. Some freelance work, some exercise, some job hunting, some South African holiday planning, some music producing, some writing, some cooking, and no more drugs. A visit to the physio on the rare occasions episodes reared their insidious heads. Months passed … and then in May, for reasons unbeknown to anyone, it was back. 

C2 and C3 were on the move and were not coming back! Physio did not work this time around. Episode and migraine, migraine and episode; days spent in one’s dark and quiet bedroom, getting up only for the bathroom and physio appointments. FRENCH FRIES! FRIED CHICKEN! FRISKY TURTLES! FURRY SHITZUS! FUZZY SHEET BALLASTS!!! It was hell! But never fear – one’s quest for answers had not been extinguished. Hope flickered like a torch with a near-dead battery.

Research! In between battering rams of migraine and episode, one picked up the laptop and went to work. If physio worked initially on C2 and C3, perhaps C1 is misaligned which is pushing those two left? Ah ha! One was on to something. Atlas Orthogonal. Appointments were made and treatment was had. No more migraine! Wah-the-forklift-truck-hoo!

Now, for the episodes. We’ll fix your little red wagon train caboose thingy magiggy! Whilst researching C1 alignment, one came across some information on TMJ (temporomandibular joint) – the jaw bone’s connected to the skull bone, the foot bone’s connected to the ankle bone, let’s hear the word of the … hmmm … – one had been noticing soreness on both sides of one’s jaw, so one thought: dentist. 

Appointments were made and treatment was had. Apparently one is a grinder (Well, thank-you. I do like a good dance.). A teeth grinder. (Oh. Um. I still like a good dance.) One had ground one’s teeth down so much one’s bottom teeth were touching the top of one’s top teeth. That is not supposed to happen. Anyone need a human pestle and mortar? So, after two very long appointments, four fillings, bite balancing, teeth whitening and splint (mouth guard) fitting, and the selling of the three children and two kidneys (we’d already sold the house, remember) …
One: ‘Huh?’
Spouse: ‘Definitely in the wrong profession!’

Which brings us to mid-August. The episodes are gone. The migraines are gone. The splint is the miracle cure! Yes, yes, we’ve thought other treatments were the miracle. And one should not get one’s hope up too high. Fast forward to late September and the splint is still staving off episodes. To give the splint (nicknamed Slob) credit; no other treatment would have worked on our South African holiday – with the African massage received on safari, the hours and hours of flying, the various beds and pillows slept on, the rubber necking when sight-seeing.

Slob is a miracle! (Queue bright rays of sunlight and angelic choirs.) Back to applying for jobs …

(Ed note: Vestibular migraine is awful, insidious, vicious and relentless. Being on the receiving end, I can only describe an episode as feeling as though one’s body is going into shock, a sensation sustained for hours and hours on end. It plays havoc with thought processing, attention, memory, functioning. Having it for months on end does impact on mental health: feeling depressed, anxious, stressed and/or helpless. What worked for me may not work for you, but keep searching for relief: it is absolutely worth it.)

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How did I get here? Part 1

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.