The condition, not the Hitchcock film.  It struck last Friday morning.  I felt light headed, but I dressed anyway.  I sat in the big family room chair for a few minutes coaching the girls through their get-ready-for-school routine. When I stood, the floor shifted. Each step produced a personal earthquake.

I called Bacon at work. Thank God for speed dial. Bacon found me on the bathroom floor.  Lifting my head felt like riding the Tilt-a-Whorl on my junior high band trip. An alien being took up residence in my body and slung me from one place to another.  

Bacon drove to the emergency room and carried me inside. When I emptied the contents of my stomach on the hospital floor, the triage nurse was convinced a gurney was necessary, forgoing both waiting room and paperwork.

Three days, two MRIs, and a million needle sticks later, all the dreadfuls were eliminated. I hadn’t suffered a stroke, a brain tumor, or a heart attack.  As the internist and the neurologist appeared in the floating nebula of my hospital room, inanimate objects traveled of their own volition across flat surfaces. My perception emulated a pickle jar with the lid opening and closing. Everyone contorted to the left, and then, to the right.

Finally, a nurse slapped a seasick patch on my neck.  While I couldn’t have passed a field sobriety test, I felt better. The ENT diagnosed inner-ear inflammation. The problem creates false perceptions. I can’t drive. As I type, the letters are rearranging themselves on the screen. At least I’m home, and I have good help.  

The dizziness is supposed to go away with time. I wish I had something philosophical to say about the experience, but for today, it’s enough to walk across the room on my own.