The Hellish Handbasket Blog

  • Being the primary caregiver in my own life

    I’d like to forget my conscious self exists in a physical body (see previous rants). Alas, alackaday, woe is me, ’tis not to be. As previously mentioned, yada yada blah blah blah. The year before Medicare, I got an inkling that all might not be well. Cholesterol medication was the unwelcome harbinger of what was to come.

    Aside from the vertigo, I’ve always been healthy. Well, a bout of walking pneumonia laid me low for several months, but so far that was a one-off. Other than allergies and the aforementioned, I’ve been remarkably healthy. Not even a broken bone.

    After Medicare, though, different story. Is it true ignorance is bliss? I’ve never actually experienced bliss, but I consider myself an expert in ignorance. In my case, not knowing my physical health was declining was emotionally less stressful than knowing.

    I wrote (whined) about my various maladies in the former incarnation of the Hellish Handbasket (no longer available), so I’ll just summarize briefly here: high cholesterol, high blood pressure, osteoporosis, vestibular paroxysmia, vestibular migraine, and a heart condition. Plus, I’m 20 pound heavier than I want to be. It’s that last one that bums me out. When I look in the mirror, I see my mother but three sizes bigger. It’s depressing (but not enough for Prozac).

    All this palaver is leading up to my commitment to be the primary caregiver in my own life. I finally accepted the fact that no one else is going to take on the job. It’s not their responsibility, and anyway, they don’t care. Everyone is ultimately concerned about their own lives. Plus, I’m (ostensibly) an adult. The job of taking care of me is mine.

    So, tomorrow I’m driving into town (11 miles) to meet my new opthamologist (cataracts, glaucoma watchlist). The following day, I will make the trek to meet my new dentist (it’s been a year since my Tucson dentist tortured me).

    I’d like to ignore the whole health thing, like so many people do (my father, my younger brother) and pretend I don’t have any issues, that I can just lift weights or eat pizza and every malady will magically heal itself. Sometimes I wonder how I would be doing if I hadn’t slogged to the healthcare providers even when I didn’t want to. Probably dead of a heart attack. Or dead from a broken hip followed by a heart attack(my father) or dead from a gut aneurysm (my mother). Dead is dead.

    Modern medicine is a marvel, for sure. On the upside, doctors can catch potentially silent killers (heart attack, stroke). Unfortunately, they haven’t yet figured out some of the invisible diseases (vestibular disorders) but I am sure if the U.S. ever regains a robust healthcare system, doctors will stop blaming the patient and finally look for the cure.

  • Happy 11th anniversary to my vertigo

    I don’t actually remember the day I first experienced benign paroxysmal positional vertigo, commonly known as BPPV. It was 2015, I remember that. My mother was contemplating a move into an independent retirement community. That was the summer my Ford Focus emitted its last puff of toxic smoke. After we moved her in, I walked home in hot sun, feeling so light, so free. I thought, now finally, my mother is safe and reasonably happy in a place of her choosing. Maybe I can get my balance back.

    Alas, ’twas not to be. BPPV dogged me no matter what I did. I got in the habit of shaking my head to keep the ear crystals from settling. Unlucky for me, by the time COVID wrecked our lives, my malady had evolved into something else, something that my increasingly desperate Epleys and Carol Fosters could not cure.

    2020 was a bad year for all of us. I’m fortunate I didn’t have to deal personally with illness, other than facemasks, bleach wipedowns, and fear of running out of TP. However, my cat died in January of that first terrible year. The heat in my apartment gave up. Black mold outpaced my efforts to hold it back with bleach. My vertigo and rattling ear took on a one-minute rhythm. I started counting: How many seconds of torture (15), how many seconds of relief (45).

    My mother died in January of 2021, not from COVID but from an ordinary blowout in her gut. Old age catches up with us all, if we live long enough. I moved to Tucson four months later. April 24 would have been my 5-year anniversary in the desert.

    As is often the case, wherever we go, there we are. My head went with me to Tucson. The new ENT couldn’t help me. I was sent to vestibular testing. Nobody knew what was wrong. I did my own research and found a name: vestibular paroxysmia. I was referred to a vestibular neurologist. I had a brain MRI/MRA. Was there a vestibular nerve problem? The results were inconclusive. I was diagnosed with vestibular migraine. I started taking a drug for both illnesses, just in case.

    More than ten years later, my rattling ear and recurring dizziness are a part of my life. I still shake my head, even though that habit doesn’t do anything but strain my neck. The medication helps with the vestibular paroxysmia. However, when the barometric pressure changes, up or down, the vestibular migraines kick in. The pressure in my head can be intense, and the rattling in my ear ratchets up to intolerable.

    If the weather stabilizes, my ears adjust. Sometimes I feel close to normal. Normal for me means I can tune out the noise. I can stand upright without fear of falling. Spring weather in the Pacific Northwest is volatile, so these days, I’m toughing out, hoping summer will be better. If it gets really bad, a nap is the only remedy.

    All this rehash of years of blogposts is preface to some trivial news: I bought some special earplugs. They were designed to help with pressure changes during airplane flights. They are also recommended for migraine prevention and mitigation of symptoms. They weren’t expensive so I ordered them, and I’m wearing them now. They are a pleasant shade of lavender. They look like corkscrew-shaped silicone earplugs but the documentation says don’t immerse them in water or they won’t work, so maybe there’s some magic in there. I can hope. Like I hope unicorns exist.

    Do I notice a difference? Is the placebo effect real? Does a bear crap in the woods? I can’t say for sure, because I’ve never seen a bear crap in the woods, but it’s possible I feel a little better. Even if it’s just my brain trying to fool me.