Dear Inner Ear
A letter from a vertigo sufferer
My vestibular therapist tells me you’re the size of my smallest fingertip. I try to imagine a roller coaster of three twisting ear canals in such a small space. You’ve got a lot going on in there.
I don’t understand how one tiny “crystal” made of calcium can find its way into your deepest workings — and get stuck or lost there, too. Maybe you don’t know either. Even my vestibular therapist says there isn’t a clear explanation.
I’m sorry this little crystal (or possibly more than one) has broken loose and come to trouble you. I can feel your distress: it becomes my distress as I wait for the room to stop spinning.
Neither you nor I can perceive our position or motion in space. We’re confused. We’re adrift. It’s like a black-and-white movie of a telephone operator trying to manage a bunch of crossed wires that a trainee operator left for her to untangle.
You and the brain are trying to communicate through static, and the eyes keep getting involved and moving every which way. I feel tired just talking to you about it. I’m sure you must be exhausted, too.
The vestibular therapist explained that your canals aren’t like some kind of smooth plastic pathways. They’re bumpy and imperfect, like everything human. She’s doing everything she can to…
