Nausea

In 2005 I was diagnosed with Meniere's Disease by a specialist. Some time later, a general practitioner would tell me I was too young for Meniere's but offer me no solution to the bouts of nausea and vertigo. This was written after I recovered from one of the more severe events.

Sickness in the head. No looking left. No looking right. Straight ahead in a resting position until the wave of torment is past. Pain like a leather strap binding an organ in the head, tighter and tighter still. Then it eases but only briefly, gathering strength to return, more terrible than before. Cicadas’ daggers jabbing at the head and the swimming feeling threatening to overcome. But first is the numbness, a cramp on the right side of the head like a thousand ants marching neck to brow in a sudden rush. Then they disappear, and there is dread in the following moments of peace, as the body and perhaps the soul are poised in anticipation of an attack. Each pore stands, rigid: lifted in stiff adulation of the monster that approaches. And the muscles contract to steel themselves against the inevitable. There is a twitch as the right cheek inches up in a squint to shield the eye from the blade twisting behind it. Futile as the flood of disorientation washes down, and the known world ceases to be. The space expands, and the body feels thin and frail. Then, suddenly, almost simultaneously, it rushes toward the frame that seems to swell beyond itself. Sudden sweeping actions and the head is transposed from left to right, from where it only sees itself but actually isn’t, then back to where it always was and belongs. The stomach is left behind. Top and bottom separate. The lines of the letters on the page thicken then thin, breathing and taking life from the place behind the eyes that see them in their awful waltz.

The head is full of fluid. Do not look left. Do not look right. The fluid must be kept steady, or it will spill through the ears and eyes onto the sheets and drown us all, drown us all. Then the space expands again, and the body rocks, the waters lapping against the walls of the head. They are inside; now they are out. The neck is stiff with the effort of stillness, the spine neatly, carefully stacked, a pedestal for the head full of scummy fluid, nastily swirling inside it.

The beast attacks again, hurling hatchets at the eyes, rusty blades making slits, then wobbling and sliding out on account of their own weight. Breathe wound, breathe. And the breath is shallow; life hides inside the chest where it is safe. The coward heart reveals itself in panic and confusion. Moving left. Moving right. Sinking slowly down into the surface, then rebounding and suddenly surging right. The heartbeat echoes in the ears. But they are on the surface of the pain, an escape route perhaps.

Then, it is gone. No pain, just weary gratitude and the promise of sleep. The skin is hot. The mouth is dry. The ear could be leaking the warmth of the battle within, but the water in the head is still. The pressure is slowly released, and there is calm again, at last. No left, no right, straight ahead.