Vertigo runs on both sides of my family, particularly my father’s. They say it’s caused by crystals forming in the inner ear, and I’ve employed the Epley Maneuver with a mild degree of relief on a few occasions. I usually have a debilitating case of vertigo strike, on average, twice a year so bad that I don’t walk or drive. I never know exactly when it is coming, but I often feel it building and know immediately on waking that it’s here for the day, until I sleep it off through a full night. There is no silver lining in it, either. It’s not the type of sick day where reading a book by the fire or taking the dogs out for a quick walk or doing a load of laundry can happen. I can only close my eyes, rest my head, stay still in bed (with a small trashcan within reach) where I’m safe from falling. I thought I felt a vertigo visit building early last week (the left eye pressure happens), but it never manifested itself full force, thank goodness. My gratitude that it did not come calling inspired today’s poem – a sonnet.
Vertigo Sonnet
on mornings of verge-of-vertigo
when all the world's a tiny boat
I go into chupacabra mode
(just not the kind that blood-sucks goats)
the world's on edge~ my left eye throbs~
this mystic creature no one sees
my dizzied nausea sunshine robs
flailing T-rex arms, buckling camel knees
it starts up in the corner ceiling
my room's a whoosh of tilts and spins
an onset of a monstrous feeling
this day's a wash before it begins
only one way back to life: go through
float this dinghy 'til day is new
Common Threads 