Vertigo In the Rear-View
2024
For the past six years I begged, scratched, and plotted for relief from the debilitating symptoms of Meniere’s disease. For the past eight weeks, I’ve been recovering from major surgery to treat the vertigo attacks and hearing loss symptoms. Now, I’m trying to metabolize what it all means. This is an essay to bring my Meniere’s story full circle—and then I’m putting it to bed! If you don’t know about my Meniere’s journey and the devastating consequences of this disease, maybe start with The Thin Edge of the Wedge and then jump back in.
In early November ’23 I had a Labyrinthectomy: a surgeon removed the vertigo source (vestibular mechanism) in my right ear—essentially my ability to balance—and then inserted a magnetic cochlear implant into my skull to replace my hearing on the right side, which was at 0% capacity. (I have 100% on the left.) Post-op I had severe vertigo for ten days and I needed a walker to move very slowly. On week two, under my own steam, I walked ten yards, and then challenged myself to go further each day. Several nauseously weaving walks later, I finally made the one-mile loop around my ‘hood—with my Pals flanking me—on week three. Week four my recovery momentum started to build quickly, and I was riding my fat bike in the driveway (I thought it would take me four months to be able to do this); and I could do regular gym workouts. It was ugly, but I even went to Bikram hot yoga on week five. I got on a plane and traveled at week six. To me, this was all nothing short of a miracle given the forecast I had received about the recovery arc for this type of surgery.
While these procedures are not a cure for Meniere’s—there is none, and it could happen all over again on my left side—these treatments are allowing me to reclaim my life and reset my nervous system so that I can live more freely, without fear. I’m sharing my story because the themes are universal, and it’s my miracle. I’m spreading the magic of true healing with my loyal readers because your loving support and compassion throughout this ordeal continues to be essential to my recovery, and I thank and love you all for every text, email, note, and kind gesture that reminds me daily that I am not alone.
‘We do not learn from experience we learn from reflecting on experience.’ —John Dewey
Here are a couple of reflections from my recent experience:
1. Vital Relationships are EVERYTHING. Over the past six years my shelterbelt of supporters—family and friends—has been incredible. Somehow, they have managed to maintain a kind awareness of my limitations and sporadic sufferfests, but they refused to allow the challenges to define me. That’s a fine, compassionate line to walk, and it’s probably the reason I was able to remain relatively stable and sane on the roller coaster-from-hell that is Meniere’s. We all struggle silently with something, and life is not a competition about who is suffering the most. If you have a friend who is managing a challenge, whatever that may be—never, ever underestimate the power of a kind gesture, compassionate comment, or acknowledgement of the struggle. I spontaneously begin to cry when I think about this.
2. At its core, food IS love. I was reminded again of the power of connected community when I underestimated my need for a meal-train or visitors post-op. My doctors couldn’t predict what it would be like for me, so I vacillated about the type and amount of support I would need or even want. When I decided to opt-in, our middle daughter flew in from Tahoe for ten days to support me and Stealth, and her presence was a huge, loving bonus both physically and psychologically for us. Pal JV organized an 8-week schedule of meals from friends (every other day with optional visits depending upon my mood). I can’t tell you how much fun it all was—like an early Christmas! Delicious food deliveries where I could taste the love and care from my cooks, simple cards, funny gifts, delightful chats one-on-one with my favorite people, and little luxuries every day. It made a world of difference, and I will never again question or underestimate the power of food, community, and love when they join forces.
3. The body is a Wonderland. At sixty-six I have always trusted my body to take care of me just like I take of it. Even during six years of scary vertigo attacks I always knew that, ultimately, I’d be okay when ‘the hurricane’ would finally pass. What astonished me post-op was how I could actually feel my body, in real time, craving to heal itself. It was calling for protein and rest. I was liberal with both, and it worked magically. I have not always been generous with self-compassion or comfortable with being in a vulnerable state, but I lived there deeply for several weeks. It was both a humbling and beautiful place to be, and I will carry that feeling in my heart forever. Attitude is the difference between an adventure or an ordeal, and while this experience was both, I think my deep desire to recapture a state of wellness was the magic sauce. The body is genius at recovery and resilience, and it is always, always striving to return to a healthy homeostasis. I think by recommitting to basics like nutrition, exercise, connections, laughter, aspirations, and lots of rest we can go a long way towards honoring our divine, ultimate gift.
4. Soul Searching. I had a lot of time to be with myself in an uncomfortable way. The first ten days I could do nothing except lie on the couch. I was in full vertigo, exhausted, and couldn’t tolerate light, conversation, eye movement, aroma, audible tapes—nothing. This was the worst point, where I literally thought I might die of boredom (or a panic attack.) I have never been bored in my life; it felt so strange to do nothing but think, and even that was unreliably groggy. Still, as a world-class Overthinker, I managed to make mountains from my molehills, as we are all wont to do.
The ‘Spotlight Effect’ is relevant here. Science says that we overestimate the degree to which other people are noticing or thinking about us. Basically, we think people care way more about us than they actually do. Combine that notion with an exhausted body and mind and a few days of prescription opiates (which tend to make one paranoid) and that’s quite a lot of molehill to play with. When we are hyper-focused on something mammoth going on for us, we tend to infect that rational onto others. Add to that, our brains are wired for the negative to ensure protection from pain. My delusional wondering sounded like this: ‘Why are my people, who I thought were my people, not showing up for me?’ (They were.) ‘Why hasn’t my surgeon called me, aren’t we best friends?’ (No, Kim, you are not.) ‘I expected So&So to text me by now, doesn’t she care about me?!’ (‘Don’t be an idiot.’) I learned that by tuning out my monkey mind, remaining calm and distracted by many silly movies, and leaning into the art of chilling the ‘efff out, it went a long way to retiring my ego and speeding my physical and emotional recovery.
When I am in judging mode it does not define who other people are, it defines who I am. Most people you love will show up for you in spades, but we cannot control how others express their concern, love, or commitment to us. It’s not on a schedule, and it’s not a mandate. Most people will meet our modest expectations and some people will even surprise us. It’s an irony of being human, but one of our biggest blind spots is to the plethora of blessings in our lives. Learning to let go of the scorekeeping and embrace the gratitude for what actually is happening in real time, is probably one of life’s hardest skills. It’s worth noting that once I got physically moving again the silly mind games didn’t haunt me anymore and I made sure to exercise outside every day.
"Most humans are never fully present in the now, because unconsciously they believe that the next moment must be more important than this one. But then you miss your whole life, which is never not now." —Eckhart Tolle
On week #8 I could cross country ski! When I saw this trail marker I took it as a sign that all will be well.
Right now, my cochlear implant sounds like I have a nest of bees in my head all tuning to their own individual radio stations. The static and buzzing is mind-numbing—like someone tapping me on the shoulder all day long. While it’s not going to bruise me, at the end of each day I have one shredded, dangling nerve of patience left. (A combination of stoicism and gratitude are keeping me out of jail.) My medical team reports that I have achieved 40% hearing in my right ear, and that will likely reach a max of 60%; I am very encouraged, and every day is improving over the next twelve weeks. I actually heard the sound of my neighbor’s voice from a direction I could detect afar the other day, and it literally stopped me in my tracks with wonder.
My hierophany—my personal manifestation of the sacred—has flawlessly come through in the form of relief and rehabilitation surgery; it’s my own miracle, for which I will be forever grateful. The entire experience these past several months has been All. Green. Lights. With vertigo in my rear-view mirror, I am moving forward with my renaissance, and I am asking myself three questions:
1. What do I want more of?
2. What do I want less of?
3. What is my potential now that I am whole and vibrant and feeling less fear?
My answers:
1. I am choosing to spend more time creating and being delighted (adventuring, writing, art, cooking, laughing, connecting, playing, learning—and most of all, loving.)
2. I am choosing to stop thinking for others (fixing), judging, and people pleasing.
3. I know that my purpose in life is to be a human hearted connector, fully honest and wholly human as I manage my strengths and success, my faults and failures. But I am still wrestling with what my potential is for the Third Age of my life. What do I want to experience, accomplish, create? I don’t know the specifics just yet. I guess that will be part of a new adventure of discovery as I seek the super and the natural. Stay tuned!
I’d love to hear from you—feel free to send your comments to me. Please share this post with a friend :) and thank you for reading!
‘Bubble’ Photo Credits: Barb Kennedy
Improvement
The optometrist says my eyes
are getting better each year.
Soon he’ll have to lower my prescription.
What’s next? The light step I had at six?
All the gray hairs back to brown?
Skin taut as a drum?
My improved eyes and I
walked around town and celebrated.
We took in the letters
of the marquee, the individual leaves
filling out the branches of the sycamore,
an early moon.
So much goes downhill: our joints
wearing out with every mile,
the delicate folds of the eardrum
exhausted from years of listening.
I’m grateful for small victories.
The way the heart still beats time
in the cathedral of the ribs.
And the mind, watching its parade of thoughts
enter and leave, begins to see them
for what they are: jugglers, fire swallowers, acrobats
tossing their batons in the air.
by Danusha Laméris
