Attack

It was a Monday morning and I awoke to the sound of my alarm. I had been sleeping well at night-time, for the past month or so, yet continued to wake up feeling drained. I was exhausted. I began to make my way through my morning routine, without the need to think about my actions. I methodically put the kettle on; took two mugs out of the cupboard (one for me and one for my boyfriend) and dropped tea bags into them; took out my water bottle from the fridge; and put a green tea bag into my flask, ready for work. I then headed to the bathroom to continue my habitual preparations for the day ahead.

Whilst in the shower, for a few moments I appreciated the feeling of the water on my head and body; washing away some of my sleepiness. Just as always, I began to cycle through the components of the advancing day in my mind; pondering over tasks to be completed during this time. And then it happened. Without warning, my eye-sight became blurry. I started to feel hot. Within seconds my surroundings inside the shower cubicle were spinning. I felt an uneasy disconnection from my body, similar to the feeling of unsteadiness that comes from drinking an excessive amount of alcohol. I could feel myself becoming short of breath. My ears were full with the feeling of pressure; causing a sharp pain. My legs started to feel weak, and I rapidly pushed my hands flat against the shower cubicle as I supported the weight of my body down towards the tray; moving into a crouching position. I needed air. I awkwardly forced the shower screen open. Then the nausea hit me; one last blow from the attack. I crawled to the toilet and allowed my head to bow heavily over the bowl. On my knees, my elbows pressed against the hard plastic of the toilet seat, I shakily positioned my arms upwards; enabling my hands to cradle my head in position. I stared wearily at the toilet water as it seemed to whirl around erratically.

After what I guess was about five minutes of extreme body weakness and breathing deeply into the toilet bowl to stabilize myself, I managed to crawl across the floor to where I had earlier dropped my night clothes. I was able to dress myself in my vest top and shorts and I slowly grasped the bathroom door handle; carefully testing the strength in my legs as I started to stand up. I began to walk the 15 or so steps towards the sofa. I was still feeling fragile. My body felt like it was in a continuous fall against the wall which I leant on with all my weight; shuffling through the kitchen into the living room.

I sat on the sofa and stared at my mobile phone. I couldn’t focus properly. I didn’t want to have to make the phone call. I didn’t want to have to call in sick again. I had only been back at work for a month since the summer holidays, and had already taken 2 days absence due to illness. I started to consider whether I could go to work. Could I cope with the motion and the crowdedness of the Metro train? Would I be able to walk up and down the stairs at school? Could I tolerate the classroom noise? Of course I couldn’t.

After making the call, I made my way to the bedroom, continuing to support myself with my hands against the wall. My boyfriend was still sleeping, as I slowly and carefully pulled my body onto the mattress and wrapped myself in the covers. I was cold. My boyfriend’s hand began to touch my hair, as if examining it with confusion; somewhere in the midst of sleep. I realized my hair was wet. I didn’t know whether I had finished washing it before the attack had happened. I didn’t wake my boyfriend. His alarm would be going off soon.

I spent the day on the sofa and slept away the hours. The reality of what had happened didn’t really occur to me until I woke up later that day.

Even though I often experience dizziness, I hadn’t had an actual vertigo attack since the day of my hearing loss; two years ago. This new attack brought the difficult times I had dealt with during the past two years, to the forefront of my mind. In the past, I’d been given numerous possible diagnoses to explain my hearing loss: Meniere’s Disease, Cochlear Hydrops, and Endolymphatic hydrops. Irrespective of the ultimate diagnosis, there was no escaping from the ramification of the abnormal fluctuation of fluid in my inner ear. Like a big slap in my face, this new attack forced me to comprehend the reality of my situation. I was never going to be able to get away from this. It wasn’t going to get any better. I was, in this moment of contemplation, emotionally back to where I was 2 years ago: scared at the prospect of living with this unpredictable condition.

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