“There are a lot of nasty viruses out there,” my doctor told me recently. I was in her office because I had one of them. “Every morning before we come to work, we take a deep breath to prepare ourselves for whatever we might be facing that day.” When I told her how much I appreciated her, I cried.
I partly blame my blubbering on my illness. And partly because, well, that’s me. I’m a blubberer. Sad, happy, grateful; in my world, all strong emotions trigger tears. Plus, the medical profession has taken a big hit from the trauma of the Covid years, and I’m so glad my PCP is still there for me. Many others have retired or fled.
But back to my diagnosis: Labyrinthitis. It sounds kind of mystical and magical, doesn’t it? I’m in a labyrinth, a maze of sorts, a fantasy world where anything could happen. In truth however, it is not mystical or fantastical. Not in the least. It is clogged up ears (did you know you have a part of your inner ear called a labyrinth? Now you do), plus dizziness, inability to focus, and for a few horrible, hellish hours early on, vertigo. It started with a bad cold, one month ago today. The plugged ears came a few days later. They still haven’t cleared.
“It could take weeks,” my doctor told me. “Possibly even months.” When I Googled it, I was assured that “most people fully recover within a year or two.”
I am not completely deaf, but the world is exceedingly muffled. It’s like my head is underwater at the same time I’m trying to navigate my way through a world of cotton batting. I mostly stay at home, trying to rest and recover, but now and then I venture out, trying to feel “normal,” and feel dismayed because I can’t fully depend on one of my critical senses. (Apologies again to the woman in the grocery story I backed into because I had no awareness that she was behind me. As I stumbled away, embarrassed, that made me cry, too.)
It is hard for me to do any writing in the labyrinth. It is hard to make art. In general, it is hard to focus on anything. Coloring books help. When I’m feeling particularly woozy and lethargic, I watch TV with close captioning to while away the hours until I am better. My favorite show lately is “The Great Pottery Throwdown.” But when that sweet British judge Keith gets choked up over someone’s work, I cry too, and Lord knows I don’t need to generate any more moisture in this noggin of mine.
A glimmer of silver lining: As a result of this diagnosis, I decided it to do some research into Labyrinths. Being of a spiritual bent, I am intrigued by the potential of labyrinths as meditation tool. At the moment, I don’t know of any outdoor, actual labyrinths to walk near me, but the research is uplifting, and I’ve enjoyed printed-page labyrinths that I’ve traced with a pencil. Although the goal is to meander to the center of the labyrinth and then back out again to contemplate how the journey has impacted you, it didn’t make sense for me to leave. And so I remain there, in the center.
Sometimes it’s a lovely, quiet, restful place. To count the many blessings in my life. To empathize with others who find themselves suffering from hearing loss or simply a need to rest because of physical challenges. Still, I look forward to the day when I can find my way out of the labyrinth and see what I have learned from the journey.
Does anyone reading this have a labyrinth story to share? Either of a literal labyrinth, or an experience that has felt like this? I would love to hear from you.
In the meantime, I send greetings from within the labyrinth.
or 
cal armistead 