Joe,
Now I can work–but part time only, about 3 days/week, and I have to avoid the part of my job that involved sleep deprivation (night call). Unfortunately, as low person on the totem pole, I got the windowless office. I do know that I have to pace myself, and I’ll frequently sit down as prolonged standing in a windowless, fluorescent, small room can make me feel dizzy and lightheaded.
When things were bad: 2003, I could only do administrative work, and in little doses, and would be so nauseated that it was rough. Gradually I added back some clinical work.
Again, in 2003 I couldn’t shop, go to my childrens’ concerts, see a movie. Now, I’m careful to get an aisle seat and toward the back. There was one horrible event, at a university symphony performance, in a hot, crowded room, up in the front and the violinists’ bows set me off–I had to do the “walk of shame” out of there. If feels like panic, but it’s vertigo–and they get all mixed up.
I’ll still avoid plays in small theaters. Recently we got symphony tickets, and I made sure they’re in the balcony, on the aisle, near an exit row. Sad, huh?
I used to have a lovely older horse, and he died last month, and I tried to use him as a therapy horse, but riding in circles set me off. My daughter still rode him, but I just brushed him, hand walked him and hung out with him.
This dizziness has limited me: I avoided all travel until last year, and still won’t visit my family cross country. (My younger daughter who has MAV and is on nortriptyline is currently in Germany, and the anxiety about what the trip will do to her is killing me: she took her meds, and some as needed ativan, given to her by the otologist, and we’ll see what shape she’s in on return. I was against the trip, but she was adamant.)
So, Joe, my limitations are less, but still there. They’ve not been good for my social life (what social life??), but I can still work. Ironically, I work in a medical field and my colleagues, in general, are not supportive. One, who has bad migraines and another who had a stroke, are–but in general, it’s a hidden disability.
My husband has had a bit of a hard time with it: he doesn’t really understand what my limitations are, and will assume they’re both greater (she can’t do THAT) or less (why aren’t you cooking?) then they are. Any chronic problem takes its toll. I just resent the constant caution, and my instinctive reaction to play it safe, and avoid anything that I’m concerned will trigger it.
Kira