“In Motion”
Eli Inkelas

The world is spinning. I know what is happening but I refuse to admit it. I sway into the kitchen for a glass of water, then fall back into bed, paralyzed under an immense, invisible weight. Subduing a sense of growing panic, I tap out an email to my program’s director. The world pulses behind my phone screen.

Hi Ken,

I woke up this morning with vertigo. I don’t think I want to pursue medical care. I’m determined to not let this be a big deal, but that’s obviously not entirely within my control.

The Czech ultimate frisbee national championship is in three days, I realize. Ken calls my Czech cell number, interrupting my ruminations. Those nauseous minutes had been enough to change my mind. I need to go to the hospital. I will myself upright, closing my eyes as my head careens through space, miles away from the rest of my body. Can’t this wait another week? Once out the door, I lean heavily on the banister and stumble down the stairs past Dr Dvořák’s apartment. Though my neighbor bears no relation to the composer, his placard always reminds of the great Czech maestro. Antonín Dvořák is my favorite composer, I had written in my application to study abroad in Prague. It was true. Three days after my first episode of vertigo, almost two years earlier, I willed my way through a performance of Dvořák’s New World Symphony, violin tucked under my chin. I nearly collapsed from the exertion. It was a matter of weeks until I could run again. I feel my life spiraling in tandem with my head.

In cases like mine, the sensation of vertigo is caused by the misalignment of calcium carbonate crystals in the inner ear. The vestibular system, which is responsible for sense of balance and positionality, depends on these crystals. This miscalibrated system convinces the brain that the body is moving in a way it ought not to, causing the deeply uncomfortable sensations of spinning and falling. Physical discomfort is greatly amplified by fear. I was not afraid, now, but I had been during my first episode. I had no explanation for my unceasing dizziness and nausea. Eventually I found myself in the ER, where a doctor moved my head through a careful progression of movements known as the Epley maneuver, eventually easing my discomfort. He offered a diagnosis of vertigo.

This felt less like an explanation so much as a description. Was something wrong with my brain? Was this a sign of something more serious? His response amounted to a shrug. Over the subsequent weeks, my acute symptoms – intense dizziness, nausea, and so on – faded, but migraines, occasional wobbly spells, and a constant feeling of disorientation persisted long after. I came to learn that physical discomfort is also amplified by stress. A headache was no longer just a headache. It was a symptom. I saw a wide array of specialists. None of these visits yielded any answers. I did not feel at home in my body, and I did not feel in control of my own life.

I sit on the sidewalk, hugging my knees to my chest, until Ken arrives. We drive to the University Motol hospital in the outskirts of the city. The hospital is the last stop on the green line, an easy commute from the metro strop beneath my apartment, but the descent into the underbelly of the city can verge on vertiginous even on a good day. The night before, I had taken the green line to an ultimate practice with my classmate Nariah. We had finally been guaranteed spots on the same team, bound for nationals. At this thought, I am instantly bitter.

Nariah and I had long fantasized about playing for a Czech team. Though this goal grew more and more far-fetched as nationals grew closer, it was still within our reach. When you Google Nariah Sims, you get results on college nationals, U24 world championships, and elite club tournaments. This coverage and acclaim, which Nariah backed up with her play once we made it to practice, was enough to get a foot in the door just a few weeks before the end of the season. Over the span of a week, we ran ourselves into the ground, practicing with a new team almost every day. Each practice was a tryout, and there was always a snag. We’ve already submitted our roster; we don’t have spots for any more women; we just don’t think it’ll work out.

Ken and I sit in a waiting room at Motol. It has been almost an hour now. Ken is grading papers– perhaps mine is in his pile. All of this time to think only sends me into a deeper spiral. While vertigo is far from pleasant, the ripple effect it can send through one’s life is even less so. After my first and second episodes, I missed classes, deferred finals, cancelled travel plans. I recall the months of anxiety I spent the summer after my first episode, the constant diagnostic interviews, the terror I felt listening to the MRI clunk and whir as I lay motionless in its cylindrical chamber. Anxiety growing within me, I let my mind slip back into memories of practice the night before.

One of the titanic figures in Czech ultimate is Honza Novak. He played for an elite American club team a decade earlier and wears his knee braces and arm sleeves as badges of honor. The smirk he wears by default is interrupted only by a wide-eyed expression of disbelief that plays across his face when anyone breathes a word of disagreement. Honza captains Yellow Fever, a mixed team that had already offered Nariah a roster spot. We found ourselves at the final practice before nationals, held under stadium lights but with none of the associated glamor. This tryout was all on me. Honza and I warmed up together, hurling a disc across the turf field in a display of raw strength that was never a contest. Honza stands a powerful 6-foot-2, his black hair tied back in a bun and his bulging calves framed by half-length athletic tights. He had more power in his wrist than I had in my whole body.

Just play your game, I had told myself before arriving. Meaningless, but something to cling to. With every errant throw, every botched defensive assignment, I felt the spotlight shining on me. Most players probably barely noticed me, but I could not shake this feeling of constant scrutiny. As we de-cleated after practice, I asked Honza if I could come with them to nationals that weekend. He had been watching me all practice, he confirmed. He had just been discussing my abilities with a teammate – in Czech, of course – but he had decided unilaterally that I could have a spot on their roster. Nariah and I bounced happily back home, sharing war stories and basking in the glow of our imminent trip to nationals.

Eventually it is my turn to be seen at Motol. After a wheelchair ride to another wing of the hospital, I am granted substantial relief in the form of a well-executed Epley. A specialist takes my head in her hands. She sits me up and lays me back down, directing my gaze first at the wall, then the ceiling, then the floor. I know the crystals in my inner ear are slowly tumbling back into place. She stares into my eyes, her thumbs pressed softly behind my ears. She is watching for traces of nystagmus– an eye spasm that accompanies my churning field of vision. After several repetitions, my eyes grow still and my head’s gyrations ease. Though unsteady, I can stand again. Ken shuttles me home, and I mope for the rest of the evening, head propped up against the vinyl couch in my apartment.

I feel sure that the next days, weeks, months will be lost to a whirlwind of appointments and overwhelmed by incessant self-monitoring. It is not the vertigo itself so much as this ripple effect that I now fear. I wallow, briefly but deliciously, in self-pity. The next morning, after a sleepless night, Honza sends me a message on Facebook. There is an impromptu men’s practice tonight, he tells me, and he thinks I should come. My mind races. He sees potential in me. I can play so much better. Then my mind stalls and draws to a lazy halt. I can’t even walk in a straight line. I message Honza back, tell him I am not feeling well, but I’m that I can’t wait for this weekend. As if, I think. Maybe I can come and watch.

I think back to the accelerated recovery from my second episode. I needed only two weeks before I felt comfortable running again, down from a month the first time. Short of hurting myself by falling over, I have no reason to think I’m in any danger. This belief was one of the few takeaways my numerous visits to specialists. If I could manage two weeks, why not two days? I grow angrier, more stubborn. I decide that vertigo will be no obstacle. This is mind over matter, even if the matter I am overcoming resides within my head. I tell Honza I’ll be coming after all. Alarm bells ring in the back of my mind. I choose to ignore them.

I wobble my way to practice, suppressing my nausea and pretending I don’t feel dizzy. Honza asks how I’m feeling. I’m great, I tell him. I feel great. I will myself through warmups, refusing to empower my senses by believing them, even as I struggle to stay upright. We take a water break. I resent this moment of inactivity. It forces me to check in with myself, to honestly evaluate my physical condition. I should stop. I know I should. I don’t want to. I won’t.

We begin to play. Honza releases the disc, and my team of seven runs down the field. I pump my legs, driving through the balls of my feet, accelerating as I feel the wind flow through my shirt and envelop my body. I feel myself falling, feel my head throb, but the field pitches and reels with me, my heart thumps in tempo with every drumbeat in my head. The line that separates total autonomy from submission to forces beyond my control blurs. I accept that I am in a space my brain does not believe I can occupy. I am perfectly in sync with my surroundings even as my vestibular system is in disarray. I run, and run, and run, and run, and run. The world around me is in motion. But I am in motion too.

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