Sometimes, it doesn't matter that you bought a fabric bundle for the first time in ages because you saw a picture of a quilt using it and got a bad case of the must-haves. Because the universe had other plans.
Sometimes it doesn't matter that you're not very good at something; it can still be therapeutic and fill the hours. Because the universe had other plans.
And sometimes it doesn't matter who gave you flowers on Valentine's Day (a right loony-toon, if you're curious, haha). When the universe has other plans, it matters who gives you flowers after your world turns upside down.
Because sometimes, vertigo isn't vertigo. At all.
I've written and rewritten this post in my head a zillion or so times. I've struggled with putting this out there in the world. But we've been pals for a while, so I thought I'd share.
I was poked, prodded, scanned, scanned with contrast, scanned again, and asked for a sequence of events enough times that if they asked me again I might have said "Just read what the other person *%@#$^ wrote!!!" I had a lumbar puncture with one cranky guy ("Sit still! You're moving!"---OK, guy with a needle in my spine while I can't even sit without someone holding me up. Calm yourself). I had a very hasty neurologist fire questions at me like a drill sergeant ("What's in your left hand? What's in your right? Is this sharp? Is this soft? Come on, come on, is it soft?"). Not to mention the usual hospital antics (gowns with slits in the back, assisted bathroom breaks, being woken up every two hours for vitals, injections, and what have you). And phrases I never thought I'd say to my mother ("Mom, this is Tom. Tom gave me a bath and I didn't make him buy me dinner first").
So, after being told I don't have Lyme disease, or lupus, or meningitis, I learned that I DO have multiple sclerosis (MS). If I wasn't already on my back in a hospital bed (for almost a week), this would have knocked me over for sure.
All of the things they said can contribute to this are not present in my life (smoking, family history, harmful environmental factors like working with chemicals, etc). And there's nothing you do to cause it. You just go to bed one night like you usually do. Then you wake up feeling weird, and a week later you're sent home with a walker, and instructions on how to inject yourself.
It took almost two weeks for this to fully hit me. Each day was a struggle and a triumph. I'd feel myself getting better, and then I'd have a wee setback. But for the past few days, I've been moving along unassisted (a bit slower, and sometimes unsteady), but making good progress. After putting on no makeup and having my hair pulled back, I'm back to my normal look (including contact lenses and mascara). My vision is back to normal. And the skull-crushing headache I had for ten days has finally gone.
I'm still bewildered. I'm still not OK with this. I'm still angry. And I'm still scared.
But I'm still me. My hands still know what to do. And yarn and making things still calm me and feed my soul.
A pile of granny squares has proven a triumph. The first few felt foreign, as though my hands didn't know what that hook was for. But that wee pile there has grown even more. As I stitch, my brain ponders what it wants this blanket to look like on the flip side. A riot of color? Color muted with a neutral? Anything's possible. Because the universe might have plans, but I have other ideas.