Lessons I've Learned from Vertigo

(Tim Mossgrove: Photo Credit)

From day one, we learn, right? The sounds of our parents' voices. How to roll over. How to crawl, then walk, then run. We learn not to touch hot things. That the feel of cotton sheets is beautifully cool when you slip into bed, and so many other things.

So. Many. Things.

Then, there are those things we need to re-learn.

I'm not fresh off the turnip truck, and my version of re-learning is often from the perspective of going down a well-worn path, taking the easy route. No need to reinvent the wheel, right? Except, that so often, I don't tend to relearn those things best that I don't do the hard way.

This last week, I relearned something the hard way. Not by choice at all, mind you, but the hard way nonetheless. Want to know what it was?

Let me tell you.

Five days ago, I got hit by a Mack truck with a hood ornament called vertigo. Now, most of us have experienced dizziness—may even know it well—that light-headedness you feel when you get up too quickly or even when you're off balance enough that you can't stand up safely. I thought that was vertigo, but I learned something new the first time I had it. Vertigo feels like somebody's detached your head from your shoulders and thrown it in the washer on spin cycle. And the fun part for me? I don't get a warning.

So what did I learn from the spin cycle? Maybe how happy I was when I could lie still and focus on simple noises from my family in the other room. I definitely learned more about myself—that I like control. A LOT. And, like getting hit by that Mack truck, I had indelibly branded in my head the fact that I have no control over certain things. I already knew that, but when you can't get your eyes to stop moving because they're trying to follow the room that's spinning, you begin to realize on a different level what having no control means.

Ultimately, after the last few days, I've relearned gratitude. Gratitude for the ability to process thoughts, for sitting upright with a clear head, and for the opportunity to tap away at a keyboard again. I am honestly so thankful to be a writer and the flexibility of my own calendar that just didn't get filled this week.

I'm so happy that I get to do this job—my dream job. I'm a writer whose vertigo has recalibrated her to realize that cotton sheets and giggling from the other room are gifts—gifts I get to write about another day.