Walking through last week’s white fluff several inches deep (a foot deep in some places) to reach a feed trough, it occurred to me that I did not quite feel attached to my feet. It seemed they had a mind of their own, though luckily, they had a mind to stick with me and go where I was going.
At the time, I thought, “Out-of-body experience.” That isn’t quite the right description. It’s more of a detachment.
I found I didn’t mind it. I’m familiar with the feeling; it happens all the time. With vestibular migraine, my ear doesn’t quite connect to my brain in the right way. There’s also a nerve that connects from ear to knee. Thanks to my ear and that nerve, when I experience a trigger like sudden bright light or a moving crowd, my knees can buckle or my feet land akilter while walking.
So when I experienced that in the snow, it was a lot more fun than if I had had a migraine.
And I say “has been” and not “was” because there are still two weeks left: two weeks in which to celebrate the holidays with family, take some time to reflect and relish in candlelight, to soak in the sweet pine smells, to enjoy music filled with hope and joy in Christ’s coming.
Yet, I am constantly being told by media and others around me that we should say, “Good riddance, 2020,” or “There was nothing good about 2020,” or “This was the worst year ever.”
I had tried to stand next to the sink to brush my teeth, but something came over me. I wasn’t really lightheaded, and I didn’t black out–I just ceased to be a participant in my ability to physically function. I became merely an observer. Continue reading “A Fall”
When I poise my fingers over the keyboard, I squint, trying to focus on individual letters. Instead, words swim in front of me. Sometimes, my hands weaken, and I can barely move my fingers. My typing speed is slower than usual.
Sitting upright, bookcases drift right and left, and the kitchen table jolts backwards and forwards. I feel nauseous.
I try standing, but sometimes, I need help to rise from the couch. Walking means lilting to one side, crashing into door frames, stumbling, losing sense of reality, and nearly pitching headfirst into the side of the car.
I briefly tried medication, but it sent me into a mental spin, and I couldn’t make it past the first hymn last Sunday morning. We left the assembly and drove home.
I’ve barely driven for the last month and a half, relinquishing the steering wheel after dizziness advanced so suddenly during one trip to town that I couldn’t see the road. I pushed myself to drive through the woods to a safe pull-off overlooking the West Union Covered Bridge and sat in the shade for 45 minutes, nervously scrolling through Twitter to take my mind off of what had just happened.
After a month of this, double vision set in. Mysterious leg pain I’d previously attributed to wearing old work boots crept in again. I was convinced to go to the emergency room.
They say the second time going through anything is the hardest part. We know what happened the first time and hold what we didn’t like firmly in our minds. We anticipate and cringe, wondering, how am I going to make it through this one?
After my first session of chiropractic care, I had gone to my grandparents’ house, where my grandmother heaped frozen bags of small potatoes and vegetables on my shoulders (gently, of course) and back. A soft blanket was draped over my lap, covering my toes. I watched one of my favorite TV shows on my phone while eating supper and, relatively speaking, felt amazing for the first time since my wreck.
Two days later, after the second session, it was a different picture.