Please get off my eighth cranial nerve

I cleared out of Bugville on Monday. On Tuesday morning, I arrived at the neurologist's clinic two hours early for my long-anticipated 8:00 a.m. followup appointment. I made coffee on my camping stove in the parking lot. No way was I going to be late. Or uncaffeinated. 

The Tucson skies were blessedly cloudy. Clouds meant higher than normal humidity; clouds also meant relief from the sun, which turns my car into a stifling hothouse. 

Just as I finished forking over my copay, the doctor's assistant called my name. She led me through a maze of hallways to the doctor's office. I sat in one of the visitor chairs. The doctor was already seated behind her big mahogany desk. She pointed to a young woman in scrubs sitting at a laptop by the window.

"This is Sheena. She'll be our scribe today."

"Hi, Sheena," I said. Old 12-Step habit, hard to break.

I sat in the chair, feeling numb and disconnected. I pulled out the 3-part script I'd prepared at the suggestion of my doctor friend. The remedies you prescribed were ineffective. I would like to try an antiseizure medicine now. Which one would you recommend? That's it. Two statements and a question. 

It didn't go as smoothly as I'd hoped. The doctor scanned the report from the physical therapist. I could tell by her snippy tone that she wasn't happy with what she was reading. 

"I didn't ask her to diagnose you," she snarled. "I asked her to treat you for BPPV."

"As I understand it, she found nothing to treat," I replied. "She gave me some good balance exercises, though. And she did the hyperventilation test again. You can see her results didn't match yours."

"You don't have vestibular paroxysmia, you have BPPV and vestibular migraine."

"The NIH literature seems to show that the hyperventilation test is not 100% confirmation of the presence or nonpresence of vestibular paroxysmia," I said. "The sample sizes were small, but not all the patients who definitely had vestibular paroxysmia showed evidence of nystagmous."

She looked at me like I had two heads. At least, I think she did. I for some reason was having a hard time making eye contact with anything but the floor. I was kind of on my last nerve.

"Would you be willing to do the hyperventilation test again?" 

I followed her to the exam room. She put the goggles on my head and led me through an abbreviated version of her battery of tests, which consisted of her grabbing my head firmly in both hands and shaking it repeatedly from side to side and up and down. I knew she was watching on her monitor to see how my eyes responded. I'm guessing they didn't. Because I don't have BPPV. Duh. 

"Okay, breathe fast for 40 seconds." She panted to demonstrate proper panting technique. "I'll stand in front of you so you don't fall."

I held onto the exam bench, blinded by the goggles, and panted fast for 40 long seconds. I ignored her warm backside pressing against my knees. 

"Okay, stop." 

She took the goggles off my head. For a few minutes, she didn't say anything. Then she muttered something about a mild left downbeat, and I knew then that she had seen what the physical therapist had seen: possible evidence of vestibular paroxysmia. Yay, I thought. Finally. At last.

"I'll write you a prescription for lamotrigine," she said. "It addresses both vestibular migraine and vestibular paroxysmia. 

"Great. Can you have it sent to a different pharmacy? I'm going to be dogsitting in Scottsdale for a month, starting the day after tomorrow."

Her eyes lit up. For a second she looked human. "You are a dogsitter? It's so hard to find a good dogsitter. I have two big dogs. It's so hard to get away."

"I just dogsit for my friends," I said. I didn't say it: you aren't my friend. 

"We need to look at your most recent bloodwork."

We went back to her office. Her assistant pulled up my labs. 

"January? Where's the WBC number? It's not showing. Can you get this for me? After you get me that number, I'll send the prescription to your pharmacy. Call me when you get it."

I went out to my car, turned on my computer, and found an electronic copy of the January lab report. The WBC value wasn't showing because on the original it was red, indicating an abnormal number. Bummer. Still, it was only one number shy of being in normal range. I still had hope at this point that I would finally get some relief from the freight train going round and round in my head. I called the clinic and left a message with the phone answerer to tell the doctor the WBC number. Then I made my breakfast and ate it. It was 10:30. 

My phone rang. The neurologist said, "You had an irregular heartbeat the first time I saw you. Did you ever contact your cardiologist?"

"No," I said.

"This drug can negatively affect your heart. We need to talk to your cardiologist first. And you need to get more recent labs."

"Okay. Do they need to be fasting labs?"

"Yes."

I searched for Scottsdale appointments at the preferred chain of labs. The earliest I could get was a week away. While I was pondering what to do next, my phone rang. It was the neurologist's medical assistant, asking for some more information. In the course of our conversation, I found out I could get my labs done at the lab on the premises. She also told me that the prescription for lamotrigine had been sent to my pharmacy. Hallelujah!

First thing the next morning, I was sitting in a chair outside the lab at the neurology clinic, head in hands, starving and uncaffeinated, waiting for the phlebotomist to arrive. She was a few minutes late. When you want coffee, even a minute can seem like an eternity. I left bandaged and bruised but feeling so hopeful I went to Denny's for breakfast. It was either Denny's or IHOP. I chose the closest one.

Somewhere during that day I called the cardiologist's office and left a message. Sometime later someone (not my cardiologist) called me back to ask me what the heck was going on. Apparently they had received multiple messages from my neurologist. 

"Sorry for the confusion," I said. "Basically I want to know, will this drug kill me?"

"I'll leave a message for your doctor."

Later I visited the pharmacy. The pharmacist looked up the new prescription. "I have to call your doctor. This makes no sense," she said. "The instructions aren't clear. And I can't put all that on a bottle." After that, I went to the mall and sat in the air conditioning, surrounded by the din of screaming kids riding tiny motorized cars around the food court. When the sun went down, I chose a parking lot to swelter in for the night, and the next morning I left for the air-conditioned haven in Scottsdale. 

Yesterday I was interrupted three times during a Zoom call by a persistent caller whose number didn't appear in caller ID. Finally, I put my Zoom call on hold and answered it. 

"I never heard back from your cardiologist," the neurologist said. "I can't prescribe anything. Your WBC, hemaglobin, and hematocrit numbers are too low."

So here I am, back where I started. Again. I'm trying to feel grateful that the neurologist cared enough not to prescribe a drug that might kill me. I wonder if she realizes how tempting it is to . . .  nevermind. Not going down that road yet. 

Here I am, back in the present moment, bludgeoned by textbook vestibular paroxysmia symptoms in my head and 110°F heat outside the house. The washing machine in my head revs up for its 15-second cycle once per minute, day and night. For about 45 seconds I'm merely dizzy rather than falling over. I lean to the right if I'm not watching where I put my feet (yikes!). Monsoon is coming. I can feel it in my bones and in my head. I will sit it out in Scottsdale, try to stay hydrated, and let you know how it goes. 

Reading the signals

My new friend Bill at the trailer park has taken a shine to me, it seems. Last week, we rode bikes in companionable silence in the gloaming. I knew it wouldn’t last. What is it with guys? Why can’t friendship be enough? Along the ride, Bill invited me on a date to see the Beach Boys in November at some casino thirty minutes south of here. I said I would think about it. When we got back to the trailer, I put the bike into the back of my car.

“Whoa, muscles,” he said. I ignored the comment. He continued, “I was wondering, why do you wear your hair so short?”

Part of me suspected Bill was consolidating his possession of me but I didn’t want to acknowledge it openly. Wouldn’t I feel stupid if I came right out and said, “Hey Bill, it seems like you are coming on to me. Is that what is actually happening?” and he said, “What? No, what gave you that idea?” and then I would be like, “Oh, sorry, my mistake.” Instead, flustered, I lamely explained my hair challenges.

“Oh, I thought you might have had cancer.”

“No, no cancer.”

He couldn’t help himself. He had to try again. What is with guys? He said, “Say, have you ever considered wearing glasses with smaller lenses?”

At that point, I began to exit my body. Ever mindful to maintain the polite veneer, I tried to explain my eyeglass and vision challenges. Meanwhile, I regressed to age eighteen, imagining I was hearing my father’s voice suggest in a perfectly reasonable tone, “Why don’t you wear some of those nice Ship ‘n’ Shore slack outfits?” The implication was clear: nobody will love you if you look the way you do.

You probably don’t know this about me. I used to be a fashion designer. I was an artist and a writer from a young age but I also had an interest in clothing as a form of self-expression. In elementary school, I applied the sewing skills I learned in 4-H to make A-line skirts and cotton jumpers. In high school, I adapted Butterick patterns to make hot pants and prom dresses. In college, after my art school friends convinced me painting was an obsolete art form, I switched my major to graphic design, which overlapped into fashion illustration. My interest in clothing design led me to Los Angeles in 1977.

I went to fashion design school in Los Angeles and learned to make patterns. I opened a funky custom clothing studio in West Hollywood. Even though I despised the tedium of sewing, for ten years, I made all kinds of clothes for all kinds of people. I made costumes for television commercials and sitcoms. I made costumes for movie characters you have never heard of. I dressed a few stars . . . Alice Cooper, Jon Anderson, Madeline Kahn. I made suits and hats. As Rome was burning, I made prom dresses, wedding dresses, and bridesmaid dresses, and then in 1989 it all imploded in a fireball of unsecured debt.

You would not know it to look at me now but I once had style. Oh sure, most of the time I dressed like a slob. I hate to sew, remember? However, when I needed some fancy outfit for an event hosted by my nouveau riche quasi-inlaws, I somehow managed to conjure up outfits that garnered surprised compliments. Oy, that goyim can really sew!

Now that I’m older, I don’t care how I look, which is a much more peaceful way to live. In addition, I am used to living alone, taming my hair with hedge clippers and eschewing bras. Nobody cares. My friends appreciate me as I am. That is why Bill’s comment caught me off guard.

Now I face a dilemma. How much do I want Bill’s friendship? Should I laugh at his jokes, listen to his stories, and gaze at his overbite with charmed admiration? Should I ride in his car to the Beach Boys concert, throwing Covid caution to the wind and ignoring the fact that I am in an unfamiliar city with no easy way to get home if the date goes sideways?

Bill talks about himself but has yet to express any interest in me. Not once has he asked me who I am or what I believe in. I would have thought his kids would have Googled me by now to let their father know what a creative wackjob I am and if I’m likely to be out to get his money.

I don’t need another friend, not that kind of friend. I’ve had friends like that, the ones who do all the talking and none of the listening. I hate to assume he’s just a lonely horny old man looking for a companion and eventually a caregiver, but it’s a possibility. I hate to say it could just be a guy thing. He’s of a certain generation, almost old enough to be my father’s generation. I don’t think anyone who knew my father well would say he treated women with true respect and equality.

When I was younger, I didn’t know how to say no. I didn’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings. I got into some sad situations because I just wanted to be loved. Now I don’t care. I know I’m loved. I also know I was not put on this planet to meet someone else’s needs at the expense of my own. Not my job. And what the heck! I am not in dating mode. Been there, done that, don’t see myself doing that ever again.

Looks like I need to muster my courage for the talk. Let’s see, how should it go? Bill, when you suggested I should consider wearing glasses with smaller lenses . . . I want to say, what the hell were you thinking? Where do you get off, judging my appearance, as if you have jurisdiction over how I look? Bugger off, you and the saggy old horse you rode in on.

Oops, no, I would not say that. Let me try again. I could say . . . gosh, Bill, it sounds like you have an opinion on my appearance. Perhaps you think I would be happier if I looked different in some way? Because of course I know that you want me to be happy, and being different is not the path to happiness, is it? Maybe you think a woman’s place is to . . . No wait, my blood is starting to boil. Dammit, I wish I could say this stuff no longer has power over me, but clearly I would be lying.

No, let me try this again. Bill, when you suggested I should consider wearing glasses with smaller lenses, I may have missed an opportunity to tell you about myself. It’s true I wear short hair because it is convenient and I wear these glasses because they are what I have. But Bill, if you want to be friends with me, you will need to accept me as I am. I like to be different sometimes. Tomorrow I may show up bald with even bigger glasses. If you want to be my friend, you need to be okay with that. Because true friendship is not based on appearances. And oh, by the way, in case you were wondering, I’m a lousy cook and housekeeper, I hate to be touched, I eat onions and broccoli for breakfast, and I pick my teeth with toothpicks. Just so you know.

Something like that. What do you think? I’ll work on it.

Here’s an update from tonight. I just got home. I’m a bit peeved. First, I am chagrined to report, I failed to have the talk. Bill invited me into his trailer to receive more CDs. I sat hostage at his breakfast bar and slowly suffocated from the smell of laundry detergent as he told me story after story about his experiences being anti-racist and pro-Don’t Ask Don’t Tell in the army back in the 1990s. The overpowering stench assaulted my nose and clogged my lungs. Outside the wind was picking up. I could hear thunder over the Santa Catalina Mountains. Finally after a particularly loud boom, I hopped up and said desperately, “Do you want to ride bikes before it starts raining?”

Mid-story, he stared at me in surprise. I apologized and whined something about being allergic to the smell of laundry detergent.

“That’s Lysol,” he said. I can differentiate the smell of laundry detergent from Lysol. It hardly mattered. Either way, I was busting a gut trying not to cough all over his kitchen. I grabbed my stack of CDs and went outside to find clean air and a fantastic sunset.

We rode bikes once around the park as the wind picked up. My hat stayed on my head. Bill’s went flying. Pedaling into the wind was a challenge. I coughed and laughed and pedaled and admired the sky as the rain began pelting down. Rain doesn’t fall here, it pelts, like the sky is actively trying to nail you with giant orbs of cold water. The storms here never fail to impress.

Back at Bill’s trailer, I loaded his wife’s bike into the back of my car while he put his in the shed. We stood not too close to each other and watched lightning bolts shoot from the tops of the clouds to the ground, seemed like just over the next ridge.

I knew what was coming. I can still read the signals. Even after all these years being single, I know when a guy is making his move. Bill was just unsure enough to give me a warning sign: He started to spread his arms out toward me. And he asked permission.

“Can I give you a hug?”

My body answered for me. Before my brain could engage, I had backed off and put my hands up in front of my chest in a defensive posture. I shook my head babbling, “No, I don’t think so, no, sorry, not for me, no, sorry.”

He is a tall man but he’s thin as a stick. I am sure I could deck him, especially when adrenaline and anger take over my brain. He would be a puddle on the ground before I had a chance to apologize for my unladylike behavior. However, politeness is an insidious disease. When taken to an extreme, politeness—the overwhelming desire to avoid giving offense—can cause me to exit my body and hand over control of it to someone else. I simply float away. This must be avoided. I’ve spent too much time in my life hovering near the ceiling while icky things happen. 

No hugs.