December 2, 2011

Me, not the movie.  Readers, I’ve been dizzier than a Hitchcock blonde. And more nauseous. And more headachy. And sleepier. And…you get the point.

I’m also dingier than a Hitchcock blonde, because I’ve had these symptoms for a month now.  I just figured that my immune system sucked–it is virus season, right? And ear infection season? Of course, now that I think on it, throwing up daily (or more) for a month every time you try to read, write or drive for more than a five minute duration should have been a clue.  But I didn’t connect the dots staring right at me.

I’ve been as cuddly as a pit viper; not just because of the wonk stomach and head, but because two of my favorite things–reading and writing–are out.  I’m pretty cranky without those things.

This Thursday, after I threw up in my own lap as I drove Miss M. to school, the lightning bolt struck. Vertigo. Dangit. Of course. Ack, I feel so stupid. I came home and made some phone calls, and Monday I have a date with a neurologist and his big, radioactive sardine can. I’m hopeful that after they look at my addled brain, I’ll have some kind of plan of action.

I’m sorry I haven’t been visiting any of you, or writing. Well, not writing for more than 5 minutes, anyways.  I’ve been trying to, in little barfy snatches, but it takes Hella Lotta little snatches to make a coherent post.

So please bear with this dingbat. I miss you, and hope to be back soon. Don’t have too much fun without me.

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