My younger brother used to be able to shoot down house flies with rubber bands. That takes some real skill. I don't have that skill. I resort to a spray bottle of alcohol. That used to work well on the house flies in Portland, even the great big ones.
Speaking of exit-seeking, I had my first appointment with the physical therapy suggested by the neurologist. We got off to a rocky start—I had failed to notice that one of the three pages I was supposed to fill out had more information on the back (in my defense, the other two pages were blank on the back, and I hadn't eaten anything since evening the day before, fearing she might be putting me through some shenanigans that would motivate me to barf.) Anyway, I think my OCD desire to finish filling out the form mollified her somewhat. She could tell I was a good student.
I was with her for almost two hours. I answered her questions as best I could. She did tests on my vestibular system (obviously not trusting the neurologist's diagnosis), and I'm glad she did her own tests, because as it turned out, she reached a different conclusion. Or rather, she reached no conclusion.
Finally we sat down in opposite chairs. She tapped my knee. "You don't have BPPV," she said. "Your eyes are steady. No nystagmus."
"Okay," I said.
"And I don't think you have vestibular migraines, either," she continued. "Vestibular migraines come like an attack, triggered by something, like food or bright lights. You don't have attacks."
"No, mine is more like waves," I agreed. "Every minute or so, with the ear crackling. Like a downed powerline in my head."
"In my eighteen years of therapy practice, I've never seen anyone like you."
"Oh," I said, feeling both special and bereft.
"I can't treat you for BPPV," she said. "However, I have one more test I'd like to do, if you will come back one or two more times."
I nodded, picturing my calendar, which had two PT appointments per week for the next month.
When I mentioned the schedule, she sighed. "The scheduler that day was new. Somewhat overzealous." Then she tapped my knee again. "I don't think you are crazy."
"Uh . . . "
"You aren't making this up. This is a real thing."
"It is to me."
"Besides the vestibular paroxysmia, there's one other possibility. You might have Triple PD."
Having read all the literature, real and fake, I knew that PPPD is a catch-all diagnosis that practitioners use when a patient has had a vestibular trauma and can't seem to shake it off. Over time, the patient develops anxiety, fearing the onset of the next attack, and the anxiety seems to keep the vestibular system constantly on edge, leading to chronic imbalance.
"That is treated with antidepressants," I said. I was thinking to myself, I don't have anxiety, but some of the medications the neurologist mentioned were both antidepressants and epilepsy treatments. Maybe something could be negotiated.
"I agree with you, it makes sense to try the antiseizure drugs to see if they work on the paroxysmia. It's too bad this neurologist is new," she added (news to me). "It's so hard to get other doctors to read reports sometimes."
I'm guessing my future self is going to have to do battle with the neurologist, or maybe try to find a second neurologist who might be open to prescribing antiseizure meds. However, it helps to think the PT might be in my corner. We can hope.
Meanwhile, I'm out on BLM land in a place called Red Rock. The saguaros are incredible. The flies I've already described. The wind knocked over my solar panel, my little outdoor table, and a half-gallon of water, and now it's trying to pry off the blue tarp I bungeed to my car to block the blazing sun. From the inside, it looks like I'm inside an aquarium, except for the incessant flapping noise. I was hoping the wind would die down so I could leave the tarp up all night, but I don't think I can sleep with that going on, so wish me luck, I'm going out to battle the flies, the wind, and the tarp.
See you next week.
