I just spent 30 minutes convinced that I was dying, after being interrupted mid-way through an article by the sudden appearance of a massive blind spot in my peripheral vision. Reading was impossible; walking, disconcerting; a look in the mirror yielded the panic-inducing impression that half my jaw had completely disappeared. When I reached for the bathroom light switch, it seemed to wink out of existence; I missed it completely and swiped my hand over blank wall an inch to the right.
Looking back, I am amazed that I managed to wait a full half-hour before calling my dad in a total fucking panic.
"Is it a brown spot?" asked, after listening to my minute-long, rapid-fire gibbering conviction that I was about to go blind and die.
"No!" I wailed. "It's kind of... shimmery, I guess! And I CAN'T SEE MY FAAAAACE!"
I am also amazed that my dad -- despite the incredible unhelpfulness of my repeated hysterical shrieking about aneurysms -- managed to diagnose me within two minutes. Seriously, the man deserves an award. Maybe several.The verdict: ocular migraine.
On the upside, I am not about to go blind and die.
On the downside, I am about to get hit with the mother of all pukey headaches.
On the upside, I am not about to go blind and die. If this sort of full-body relief is what hypochondriacs feel after every self-diagnosed freakout that turns out to be nothing, I definitely get the appeal.