Our sorry tale begins on a Friday, the 19th of July to be exact, some time after 20h. My own memory of the timeline of all the symptoms appearing is a fog, but as I wrote in my journal:

"Because of pain in my leg^[1] (and headache), I've gotten nothing done and I'm really frustrated — trying to reframe today as both a mental and physical rest day."

But alas, Dear Reader, it's about to get much

Much

Much

Worse.

The dizzies get extremely bad on Saturday. I can't stand without the room pirouetting. Leif asked me if it was okay that a friend of ours came over for dinner. Obviously I say yes, because that sounds fun! And surely I'll be feeling better if I cancel all my plans (like running, and chores and errands, and writing) and spend the day quiet and snug as a mouse in a ...house. Sadly, it is not to be. I spend the evening in the dark, in bed, trying not to make any noise, as Leif and our friend are thankfully able to watch a tv show together and still have a merry evening.

Sunday, it says I have to run at least 5km in my half-marathon training plan so I head out to run 5 km. I'm fine, it only hurts a little bit, because of the heat, but I'm not worried. I take so many anti- inflammatories to manage headaches and endometriosis and chronic pain on a daily basis that I have basically become anti-inflammatory — I can handle anything. The run goes well! I beat a previous personal record for 5km along that route. I feel relieved: like I did the right thing. I rested on Friday and Saturday, which are not usually rest days for me, and now I can get back to our regularly scheduled half-marathon training.

Monday, I am still having migraine prodrome when I wake up in the morning. Prodrome's the thing when you're having some migraine symptoms but not others, because the migraine hasn't started for real yet. Prodrome is a sneak attack that is also a master of camouflage, because you don't know if the culprit is a real oncoming migraine or just the fact that you slept a little funny last night. To be proactive, I take a bunch of medications to ward off the migraine. Take that migraine!!! I cackle, feeling wise and capable. I will not fall to a sneak attack!!!

(A note from present Gersande with 20/20 hindsight: considering I've been having achey-head-adjacent symptoms since Friday, this is not so much a sneak attack as evidence of my very profound denial of what is coming.)

Because I know for a fact that a handful of people who could be reading this have emetophobia, I will spare you details of what comes next. But even with the barest of details, what comes next is awful. From 2am Tuesday until the morning of Thursday the 24th, I could not keep down food or water and became severely dehydrated, with a side of hypothermic and maybe a hint of delirium. (I also lost hundreds of dollars in missed appointments and cancellation fees for various things I had going on that week, but that's fine, I'm not bitter or anything by the truly staggering amount of money I lose every year in cancellation fees alone thanks to chronic illness. It's fine!)

Leif and I have been eating the same food for days, which rules out food poisoning. Though I gotta say — this reminds me so much of food poisoning. The nausea is out of this world. Oh, and I'm also still having a migraine, and I can't keep down any of my medications, or any medications. Leif keeps urging me to go to the hospital, but the idea of being in a Montréal ER waiting room while urgently expelling all possible fluids from my body for a minimum of 12 hours instead of in my own safe home with working air conditioning and water (a bunch of hospitals have broken AC and water right now) is... well, to put it mildly, I don't want that!!!

Besides, I have memories of being far more dehydrated and sick from food poisoning. This? This is fine. I'll be fine! This is fine. Everything. Is. FINE. See? Still alive on Friday, so I am FINE. I AM GOING TO BE FINE. NO DOCTORS FOR ME.

Saturday, I am extremely annoyed with myself. In a fit of steely determination walk the several kilomètres in ungodly heat to the ballet studio. My watch is screaming at me that my heart rate is anomalous but that silly goose is always panicking about shit that Gordon, my adorably grumpy cardiologist, tells me to ignore. Cassandra was right, sadly, and about half-way through my ballet class I have to stop. Nausea's too difficult, and my head hurts, oh, and, probably not a big deal, but also, there is something extremely wrong with my right tibia.

Dear Reader. I might have lost my shit. Just a little. As A Treat.

I walk home. I drink buckets of rehydration fluid. I send a completely hysterical email to my physiotherapist because I would very much like her to rule out what I think has gone wrong with my tibia. My physiotherapist is one of the kindest people in the world and she can squeeze me in this week, as of time of writing, I'm seeing her soon.

I tell myself everything will be okay. It hurts to walk the dog or to walk down and up the three flights to my appartment. Oh, and I am still nauseated and dizzy and occasionally a meal doesn't sit right and I cannot keep it down.

Monday morning, again, I wake up dizzy. It's been a week since the uncontrollable throwing up everywhere began. I keep a bucket stashed under my desk. I cannot drink tea. So, I give up. Pride, everything, is too exhausting. I call 811.

The nurse is mildly concerned by everything I describe (for privacy's sake, there's a detail or three I'm omitting, but you guys are getting a pretty damn good picture here). She tells me she'll find me an appointment in a clinic today. It takes three different clinics to tell me they actually don't have the appointment the dispatch reserved, but lucky clinic number 4 has ten minutes for me. It's in an hour, on the other side of the city. I order a cab. I gather a list of my medications and my journal where I write down the amounts of medications I take. I take the folder where I keep all the papers from my cardiologist and other doctors. I never actually end up taking any of this out because doctors hate it when patients show up with paperwork, but I like knowing exact dates and these are good memory aids if my memory characteristically decides to go blank. The comforting illusion of precise data is so very important to maintaining the delusion that I am not completely at the mercy of uncontrollable, chronic, and mysterious health problems.

I get to the clinic (there is no air conditioning) and wait an hour to see the doctor (for Montréal, that's not bad at all). The doctor looks at the computer, at the communication from dispatch, as I sit down in his office. "You're here because you're dizzy?"

The nurse at 811 had warned me that they only write down one chief complaint when they put the call out.

I attempt to launch into my tale. He has a lot of questions. He looks quite skeptical by what I do manage to force out against continuous interruptions. He doesn't recognise my medications, there is a shadow of panic on his face when the word endometriosis is half-heartedly uttered. He asks me to stand suddenly, after I've mentioned that that makes me very dizzy. A few neurological tests and an Epley manoeuvre — which doesn't do anything — later, I mention the pain again, I mention the vomiting, again, I mention the dehydration, again. But this is a man on a mission, and you know what, I respect that. I am dizzy, and he has the answer: medication for benign vertigo and a prescription for vestibular physiotherapy. From beginning to end it took exactly ten minutes. That was interesting, I think as I walk, still dizzy, to a nearby bus stop. He could have told me I needed to lose weight, which was my former family doctor always suggested, so all in all that wasn't so bad. And undergoing vestibular physiotherapy could be interesting, I need all the help I can get for pirouettes in the ballet studio, if I ever make it through a full class again.

We are now Tuesday night as I spit all of this out onto the page. I am a little in shock at the last ten days I've just had, because as I wrote in the last weeknote, everything seemed to be going swimmingly. But, as I am avoiding a lot of unread messages across all my inboxes right now, I thought I could try to write all of this down. Besides, the danger of announcing a project like a half-marathon when you're me is that there's always a good chance I'll have to announce its cancellation. Embarrassing, but I'm already a very embarrassing individual sharing all these silly details about my silly life on the internet, so what's the harm of a little more nonsense? And maybe with this post, if I do end up cancelling (I need to talk to my physio before I even consider next steps), at least people will understand that it wasn't out of laziness.

I have no snazzy conclusion to offer at the end of all this except to ask the following from my ever-conscientious readers: please, please, please do not offer me unsolicited medical advice or try to pitch me to join your essential oils pyramid scheme. I might find myself forced to screenshot your pitch and make fun of you on my social media! (There is unfortunately truth to the statement that nearly every time I write publicly about anything adjacent to my health I am either thrown a ton of unsolicited advice or, memorably, asked to join Arbonne by old schoolmates.)

I hope you're having a much easier end of July than I. Remember to stay hydrated and eat lots of salt!