As weekends go, the last one wasn’t really the best. Actually, it was probably one of the worst, in the grand scale of things. Recent bugs, a helping of stress, cold weather and general exhaustion proved too much for my useless body, so it decided to teach me a lesson I wouldn’t forget in a hurry.
When emptying the (what felt like 100th) load of washing on Friday, the room suddenly tilted so violently, I nearly fell head first into the basket of wet towels. Strange, I thought, best I sit down for a bit. By the time I made it to the sofa, everything was spinning around me at quite an alarming speed. I could quite easily have been sick there and then, but knowing the cream chair covers would require immediate cleaning proved enough of a motivation to kept my partially digested lunch where it belonged.
Feeling as if I was walking at a right angle, I slithered up the stairs (past a rather alarmed looking son) and made it to the safety of the bed. Lying down didn’t help much, in fact, it made things worse. The insides of my head were now spinning too, and in the opposite direction to my body. I felt like I was trapped on one of those horrible tea-cup waltzers.
When I woke up an hour later, it was dark, I was sweating like a beast and I needed the loo. The trouble was, however, as hard as I tried, I couldn’t seem to get up. All I could manage was to shuffle a bit and that just made the world tip. Panic set in – big time. I came to the conclusion (as you do) that I might have had a stroke. Either that or the vertigo was back with a vengeance.
For those who think vertigo is merely a fear of heights, it is not. Vertigo is a horrible, nightmarish infliction that can disrupt and ruin your life for months on end. The thought of it returning fills me with a constant dread.
Trapped under the duvet, my only option was to ring downstairs for help. Thank god for the ever-present mobile that was finger distance away. It took four unanswered calls and a feeble “help me” before the cavalry came charging up the stairs. By this stage, I was beside myself. I couldn’t sit up, stand up or walk; my body simply refused to comply. Then the weeping and wailing kicked in, and, as we all know, once you go down that road it’s impossible to stop until you run out of clear airwaves to breath through.
It’s hard to explain the range of emotions when pain, panic, wretchedness and fear collide. Feeling so utterly helpless is a scary, scary thing. Not understanding what the hell was happening, or why it had come on so fast, made it scarier still. At that point in time, I was utterly convinced it was never going to stop, or, worse still, if I went to sleep again I might never wake up.
It took a day in bed before the room eventually stopped spinning. It took another 48 hours before my body was functioning at a relatively ‘normal’ level again. Ridiculous as it may sound to some (though I know many others will certainly relate) for days afterwards I felt as if I’d undergone a major trauma. If I’m honest, I’m still slightly shell-shocked by the whole thing now, and more than a little unnerved.
I have to say, it’s at times like this that I really hate how life can be. And I worry about what exactly the future might bring.