Vertigo

This blog is a little late. I started to write about various things, and stalled, several times. Then my body threw me a curve ball and I’ve spent the last three days learning all about Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo (BBPV)

The first attack sent me crashing to the floor – with literally no idea what just happened.

Fortunately, I didn’t pass out and although my head made contact with the guitar case propped up in the corner, my hip & arm took the brunt. In my head it was a graceful twisting fall, a dancer’s spiral to the ground. In reality it was probably more a ‘sack-of-potatoes’ thing.

I felt fine afterwards and didn’t worry until the next morning, when I got up, stayed on my feet, but felt like the floor pitching and rolling beneath me. They say dizziness is a bit like being drunk. It isn’t. It’s a lot more like being on a ship in a high sea. I’ve done both; I know the difference.

Getting to the bathroom and back to the bedroom involved holding onto door frames and furniture and cold tiled walls. That’s when I started to worry: had I hit my head harder than I realised?

But no: still no bruising, cut, lump or dent. All the 'stroke' symptoms checked and eliminated. There is a history of stroke in the family. I do check.

Again, during the day, all symptoms eased – apart from a growing sense of anxiety. Anxiety and anxious are words that I try to avoid. They are much over-used these days and lose their power accordingly, but they are appropriate in this case. I was catastrophising more than a little, even while telling myself I was now fine.

And I was fine. A little shaken up. But fine. Tired, but fine. I’d have an early night.

Then I went to bed. What happened next was terrifying. The way the bed lurched had me gripping onto it in the firm belief that it was about to turn itself over. That felt like a long time. And when it subsided, lying down felt like a really bad idea. I could no longer ignore the fact that there was something actual going on.

I’m describing this because if someone hasn’t been through it and might at some point do so, maybe it’s helpful to know. Remember the Waltzer fairground ride? It was like that. Up and down and round a big circle while being spun within it, but nought-to-sixty in a split second. Afterwards it made me think of horror films, where poltergeists are trying to tip the victim out of their bed. That’s how it felt. I was scared, sweating and quite literally clinging to the fitted sheets in the hope that would stop me falling.

Of course, all of this was a matter of seconds. It didn't feel that way. The reason the TARDIS looks bigger on the inside, is because “time” is bigger on the inside.

Once that episode subsided, I sat up. I decided lying down was a bad idea. I put the TV on.

There's a little synchronicity right there. Until ten days ago my bedroom TV didn’t really work, I was going to get rid of it and not replace it. I never watch in there anyway. Then my aerial needed fixing and it turned out the distribution box was rubbish and the TV was fine, it just wasn’t getting any signal. A bit of a daft aside you might think, but these are the little signs that tell me the Universe has got my back. I hadn't needed that small bit of comfort noise in all the three-&-a-bit years I've been here, but it got fixed immediately before I did. Just saying.

I thought I'd stay awake, then sleep, phone the medics in the morning. That wasn’t going to happen. There is a point where I recognise I cannot handle this alone.

This is where I need to put a “shout out” for the NHS 111 Service. I know that people’s experience of the service is mixed, as with all public services, but mine was good. The original person I spoke to was calm, friendly, thorough. The clinician who phoned me back, did so reasonably promptly, checked all the information I’d given – though she was more concerned about the bump to the head, whereas I wanted to focus on the dizziness that preceded and superseded it. Maybe making you repeat the information has a sound purpose. She booked me a telephone appointment at my GP practice for the next morning.

Second shout-out goes to Wensum Valley Medical Centre – who called me immediately the surgery opened the next morning. Although they initially tried to shunt me off to A&E, they quickly back-tracked and asked if I would like to be seen at the centre. So, a same day appointment.

I am acknowledging these people because I am genuinely grateful – and also because I know they probably get more abuse and complaint than they do thanks.

When the medic at the centre apologised for the wait, I simply smiled and said "it can’t be helped; it is what it is". He heaved a huge sigh of relief. “Oh,man”. I guess I was the first person that morning (it was lunchtime) who hadn’t responded with frustration. Just accepting the situation suddenly felt like I’d done my good deed for the day.

The way I see it: we all want our appointments to start on time. Equally we all want our appointment to take as long as it needs to take. And we all want there to be more appointments available. Something has to give in all of that. Even if we could conjure up the qualified people out of thin air (how many years’ training are we talking about?) – then each & every one of them would need to be paid and all the extra infrastructure provided to enable them to do their job. Excuse me one little hobby-horse moment: if we’re not willing to pay the tax, we can’t expect the service. Simples!

And the service we get is friendlier and more helpful, if we can summon up the presence of mind to understand that we’re dealing with another human being. Because it gives them the opportunity to do likewise. It felt like having given him a chance to breathe, he came fully into the space and sat and listened. He responded to the cues I was giving, to when it was clear I fully understood what he was saying and when I was looking blank.

Diagnosis was quick. Explanation of what is physically happening was thorough (with diagrams and videos and paperwork to take away). What to do about it, and what if that doesn’t help. Result: huge relief. Still have to deal with the issue, but now I know what it is, that can be done.

And obviously, I need to thank the friends who were there in person, on the phone, on zoom, on the other end of an email or a text – just doing what friends do. I am still a little un-used to that, so it stirs a deep emotional response in me. And it’s hard to convince someone that actually you are now fine (for a given value of “fine”) when you’re weeping.

It’s been a long time since anyone worried about me. Don’t get me wrong, I have been deeply loved, but mostly in a way that assumed I was the strong one, I was the one who would always cope no matter what. As I enter this next phase of my life, I’m beginning to recognise just how big a burden that is to put on anyone. I need to look to see if there is anywhere that I might be doing something similar to someone else. We all need to be recognised as strong people who equally need support now and then.

So that’s what’s been happening. On the surface.

My next step was / is to understand what the deeper lessons are.

I believe in listening to the whispers from the Universe. I also believe that if we don’t listen to the whispers, then she will shout. Or maybe she’ll just wander off to help out someone else, but usually she gives us a fair crack of the whip first. 

This feels like a shout.

I am listening, but also feeling like I’ve still got a bit of de-coding to do. There may be things I haven’t worked out just yet. This much I (already) feel I am being told / reminded of / asked to think about...

1. Keep your own end up! That’s an expression from a friend’s family. I have been over-involving my energy in someone else’s health situation. Compassion & support are warranted but I also need to recognise where I can do nothing other than be there and wait for them to come to me. Keep your own end up, means stop worrying about what everyone else should be doing, and get on with your own stuff. So, OK, stop fretting so much about his health and wellbeing and focus on my own. I can’t help him if I’m not ok. I can only help if / when asked to do so.
   
   
2. Be grateful for getting this far this good. I sometimes forget to be deeply grateful about just how good my health is for my age. Not brilliant or perfect, but pretty damn good. I need to take time and fully acknowledge that – and that isn’t just about noticing. It is about taking time and making changes to try to keep it that way.
   
   
3. Learn to ask for help. Learn to accept it. Asking for help has never really been part of my skill-set and I’m even worse at receiving it. Other than the death of my partner five years ago, this is probably the only time I’ve ever reached out to friends simply by telling them what is happening and letting them rally or not. It wasn’t that I needed ‘help’. I needed the reassurance that it would be there if I did need it. I needed to simply feel less alone.
   
   Asking is not easy. Accepting is bloody difficult. And emotional. I have more work to do around this.
   
   
4. Be more conscious. The nature of managing vertigo requires hyper awareness of how you use your body, and it requires many movements that might previously have been sudden or extreme to be softer and slower. I need to become more aware of how I move, how I’m living generally. Be more gentle, less frenetic, less enthusiastic in some areas.
   
   
5. Slow you down. I have been transitioning into my ‘final third’ over the course of the last five years and while that’s been a whole rocky road of its own, the common theme has been the intention to simplify and to slow down. And clearly – I’ve been talking a better game than I’ve been living! Every so often, I do need to be reminded to take my own advice.
   
   
6.  You do not know. For a while I had been expecting this past weekend to be a difficult one for other reasons, but then had realised it wasn’t going to be, because there has been closure around all of that. As a follow-up I carried out a free-write exercise looking back over a given number of years (22, since you ask) and everything that had happened, or I had done, in those years. It showed me how little of that I would have predicted. So, who did I think I was trying to predict what might happen in the next 22?!
   
   The last three or four days feels like a reminder that we cannot reliably predict a week ahead, never mind a quarter of a century or so.
    

Live and learn. At the end of the day, it is as simple as that. A very good friend of mine said, a little while ago, “All we can doin the meantime, is try to live”. I want to add to that … "and to keep on learning”