Driving down the West Side Highway, on my way to theater with my father; were about to see The Glass Menagerie, big-ticket Broadway. Beautiful evening; a weather front over lower Manhattan, coming nearer, red-light sunset in the sky behind us. Right about 96th street, I get a whopping attack of vertigo. Whopping. Like the sky is turning in one direction and the road in another, and the cars are moving around me, and wtf am I gonna do? Well, keep driving -- I have just passed the 96th St. exit, theres nowhere to get off. By 79th St, its over. Thank god. Except it isnt. By 56th, its back, in spades, and brings its friend, Big Time Nausea, with it. At which point, I say to Gene, I have a problem. I turn off onto 48th St, pull over, and he takes over driving. Turning off onto 48th is one of the most difficult things I have ever done. I literally do not have any reliable depth perception, and when the cars and streets squeeze in and out and go in circles, just making an effing left turn across the highway is, um, challenging. I get out; I do not fall face down into the street (win!); Gene takes the drivers seat; I get in; he realizes we are not going to theater. Heads home. We head back up 12th Ave to the West Side Highway, when I suddenly know that Im about to vomit. The highway is backed up for miles. Gene pulls off onto some side street in the 50s; we look for a bathroom, although Im quite prepared to vomit in the gutter. This is NYC; I wouldnt be the first middle aged woman to puke in the street, and when I feel this bad, I have no dignity left. Zero. 12th Ave is not exactly lush with bathrooms, but theres a man standing outside the doorway to some storage unit on the side street. I ask if he knows where I can find a bathroom. This ANGEL OF MERCY leads me up a short flight of stairs and through the hallways of the storage unit -- which are pulsing in and out, the ceiling and floor are whirling, I have no idea where to put my feet and am ridiculously grateful that my father brings his cane with him wherever he goes, b/c I NEED THAT CANE -- and leaves me in the most beautiful bathroom Ive ever seen. Yeah, its dirty, and industrial, but it works, and after twenty indescribably miserable minutes, I make it back to the front, through the nightmare/horror movie, twisting, bucking hallways, where the caretaker takes me out *in the elevator* so I dont have to negotiate the stairs. I will be forever grateful to him, whoever he is, the Angel of 50th St. Storage. Ill draw a curtain over the rest of the ride home, and how uncomfortable it is to vomit all over yourself in a moving vehicle, and what an effing mess *that* was. And just mention that I got out of the car at home, could not make the 20 feet to the bathroom and hurled one mo time right there, outside the back door. My poor father. No Broadway show, a sick kid, and basically nothing he can do for me. Another angel of mercy, handing me a wet paper towel to wipe my face. Never been so grateful for small things. Finally drag myself up to bed. Rest, rest, rest, rest, rest. Fluids with electrolytes. More rest. More fluids. And most of the vertigo is gone. Which is a damn.good.thing. And that was my Thursday night. Hope yours was better.
Posted on: Fri, 18 Oct 2013 11:49:48 +0000
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