“Vertigo” by Cynthia Stock
I picked U2’s Vertigo for my ring tone long before I hit my head on the metal base of our floor lamp. Before I knew the hell of vertigo. What writer doesn’t love irony?
Uno, dos, tres, catorce
Send it to the back, Captain
Lights go down, it’s dark
One minute I was up, feeling tingly down my arms, but awake enough to perch my reading glasses on the bridge of my nose in anticipation of enjoying a cup of coffee and the newspaper. I put my mug in the microwave. Between shutting the microwave door and making my way into the living room, my body imploded. No warning. No slow descent. Up one minute. Down the next. Total loss of consciousness. Transport into the virtual world of nothing
The jungle is your head, can’t rule your heart
A feeling’s so much stronger than a thought
The French euphemism for orgasm is petite mort. This was no orgasm, but I felt close to that black oblivion. One minute I was walking. The next, I awakened, supine, staring at the ceiling beams, shivering and drenched in sweat, surrounded by dampness too wet to be from sweat, with Bella, my cat, cowering at my feet. What happened? Seizure? Heart attack?
Your eyes are wide and though your soul, it can’t be bought
Your mind can wander
I tried, oh how I tried to sit up. My head lolled like a puppet whose strings had been cut. My stomach lurched. I lowered my head to the carpet. “Dalt.” My husband’s name came out in a raspy whisper. No way he’d hear me from the guest room where he’d slept that night. I was too congested and coughed too much for him to sleep with me. “Dalt. Dalt.” I managed a puny holler.
Hello, hello (hola!)
We’re at a place called Vertigo (donde esta?)
It’s everything I wish I didn’t know
I recognized the back of the sofa. I saw my glasses, somehow neatly folded and intact, by the lamp base. I tried to reassure Bella. “Mom’s okay. Don’t be afraid.” She looked at me with eyes of yellow gold bisected by slits of fear. Too much knowledge from a career in nursing overwhelmed me in about five seconds. Blow to the head. Blood thinners. Covid. Respirators. Old bones. Broken neck. I moved my arms and legs.
Dalt’s crutches creaked as he crossed the living room. He had polio as a child and needed the crutches if he wasn’t wearing his brace. A strong, kind man who lost his son to a drunk driver, I didn’t think he deserved to see his ex-nurse wife flaccid, unable to lift her head without retching, haloed by a puddle of urine, stuck between a wall and the back of the sofa. But there I was, helpless.
Except you give me something I can feel
Feel
Once I heard him speaking to the 911 operator, I knew I might not end up dead. I don’t remember the doorbell ringing. The flashing lights bounced off the entryway walls through the leaded glass of our front door. Footsteps thumped. I heard the roll of the gurney. “D-Stick 165.” I never felt them poke my finger. It registered with me that 165 was too high. Someone yelled out my oxygen saturation. Someone called me “Darlin’.”
It shocked me when that word, so condescending, didn’t fill me with rage. Early in my nursing career, I sensed how an overused term of endearment devalued the sense of self. I always asked patients what they preferred to be called. Besides, I am no “darlin’” Opinionated, a loyal friend, stubborn, sometimes flexible, needing to have a purpose and to be in motion, not darlin’. In that second when life stopped feeling like a sure thing, I didn’t care what the man called me. I only knew he was taking care of me and was going to get me where I needed to be.
The night is full of holes
I lost the will to control. Control, a power I treasured above all else. Do with me what you will. Take me somewhere safe. Fix me. Dalt seemed to shrink in the scope of my vision. A faceless creature with innumerable arms lifted me over the sofa and onto the gurney. It rumbled like a grocery cart with a bad wheel. I didn’t ask if Dalt could ride along. I couldn’t think outside myself. Urgency characterized time in a way I hadn’t experienced since I retired. As the EMTs wheeled me away, I saw a miniature version of my husband looking after me, stunned, worried, speechless.
“Call Mel.” My son disguised his gentle soul with gruffness. I didn’t want him shocked if things did not go well.
And then, I was gone, from my home, my security, my love.
I came home to a world occasionally spinning out of control. My body struggled to stay upright. Benign Paroxysmal Positional Vertigo. I was told it might go away with time.
Hello, hello (hola?)
I’m at a place called Vertigo (Donde esta?)
*Italicized lyrics from Vertigo—Songwriters: Paul David Hewson, Adam Clayton, Larry Mullen, Dave Evans
Cynthia Stock was a Critical Care Nurse for decades. She pursued the craft of writing through various institutions and mentors all those years. Her work has appeared in Shark Reef, USD Kaleidoscope, Intima, The Manifest-Station, BigCityLit, and others. Her current project is Stories for Eir, a hybrid collection of fiction and non-fiction born from her career in patient care.
