Finding a Lyme diagnosis: Mystery symptoms
// Filed in: Lyme Disease Diagnosis
Excerpt from my upcoming eBook.
I wake up and roll out of bed, heading to the loo. But when my feet hit the floor, I gasp at the explosion of pain in my ankle. Leaning against the wall to keep myself from toppling over, I stand panting for a moment. I manage to lurch across the room without putting any weight on my foot.
Sitting on the toilet, ankle throbbing, I break out in an ice cold sweat. My stomach doubles over in cramps. Nausea overwhelms me. Try to think, I tell myself. I recall hearing that intense pain can make you vomit. But what's wrong with my ankle?
The nausea increases but I cannot catch my breath. My lungs will not inflate. There is no oxygen. Losing all muscle control, I slip off the toilet seat, collapsing in a heap on the floor.
Then I hear Evan’s voice somewhere nearby. It echoes through the tin can of my head. "What is happening to you?"
His face spins in front of me. He looks terrified.
I might be dying. Right now. And I don't know why. There is no bliss, no white light. No welcoming angels. I am bewildered.
But in the next moment for no apparent reason, the crisis passes. I am able to take a breath. My body temperature begins to normalize.
Evan helps me up off the floor. I still cannot put weight on my foot. He asks again. What’s happening? What’s wrong with your foot? I understand the questions, but have no answers. I ask how long I've been lying on the floor.
“Five minutes,” he says.
What? I could have sworn I had limped into the bathroom hours ago.
As he helps me back to bed, I glance in the mirror in disbelief. A zombie is staring back. My skin looks pale and lifeless, as if my face has been carved out of clay.
I wake up and roll out of bed, heading to the loo. But when my feet hit the floor, I gasp at the explosion of pain in my ankle. Leaning against the wall to keep myself from toppling over, I stand panting for a moment. I manage to lurch across the room without putting any weight on my foot.
Sitting on the toilet, ankle throbbing, I break out in an ice cold sweat. My stomach doubles over in cramps. Nausea overwhelms me. Try to think, I tell myself. I recall hearing that intense pain can make you vomit. But what's wrong with my ankle?
The nausea increases but I cannot catch my breath. My lungs will not inflate. There is no oxygen. Losing all muscle control, I slip off the toilet seat, collapsing in a heap on the floor.
Then I hear Evan’s voice somewhere nearby. It echoes through the tin can of my head. "What is happening to you?"
His face spins in front of me. He looks terrified.
I might be dying. Right now. And I don't know why. There is no bliss, no white light. No welcoming angels. I am bewildered.
But in the next moment for no apparent reason, the crisis passes. I am able to take a breath. My body temperature begins to normalize.
Evan helps me up off the floor. I still cannot put weight on my foot. He asks again. What’s happening? What’s wrong with your foot? I understand the questions, but have no answers. I ask how long I've been lying on the floor.
“Five minutes,” he says.
What? I could have sworn I had limped into the bathroom hours ago.
As he helps me back to bed, I glance in the mirror in disbelief. A zombie is staring back. My skin looks pale and lifeless, as if my face has been carved out of clay.
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