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Over the last few months I’ve been having these ‘spells’. There is no other way to describe them. Vapors. Not exactly. Although I have swooned a few times, and not in an erotic way either.

These ‘spells’ start out as headaches. Headaches turn into “my God my skull is going to explode,” pain. Then comes the nausea, vomiting, and not being able to stand up. Soon followed by passing out, or pretty damn close to it.

Although, I had one sudden onset, no warning, world spinning and everything going black episode, the other day at the movies. It only lasted for a few seconds. But it was a little disorienting and frightening.

At least twice I thought I was having a stroke. The first time was at work. They sent me to the ER. A cat-scan of my head showed absolutely nothing. Stop laughing. Not nothing in there, just nothing obviously wrong with what was in there.

The EKG was normal. My blood sugar was fine. Lab work okay. In fact the only thing that seemed out of whack was my blood pressure was a little high. Not stroke level high. Just a little high. And of course I am fat.

The second time, was Saturday night. I threw up on my daughter. Every time I stood up, I threw up. I thought I was going to die.

Finally I took two Darvocet, went to bed, and woke up in the middle of the night feeling fine. Actually I feel fine between ‘spells’. Fine for me, that is. My knees always ache, my neck always hurts, and I do have a history of migraines. The ‘spells’ are like migraines on steroids.

There’s a part of me that wants to write the ‘spells’ off as stress. Trust me I have plenty of stress in my life.

Like tonight for instance. I woke up around eleven P.M. to a dark house. I like the house dark when I’m sleeping. But it usually means that no one else is at home.

Myriah should have been home around ten-fifteen. Ian was playing ball, somewhere, but he was with his dad, so I didn’t really worry much about his whereabouts.

I went into panic mode because Myriah wasn’t home.

For those of you who don’t know my history; my oldest daughter, Mayree, was killed in a freak accident, on her way home from work, when she was seventeen. She died, October 10, 1992, two months before her eighteenth birthday.

Myriah will be eighteen, October 14, 2006.

That means that this year my younger daughter, who is thirteen years younger than my older daughter, is the same age now as my older daughter was when she died, thirteen years ago.

I’m not superstitious. But that 13 is blaring me in the face. Which doesn’t hurt at the moment, but is attached to the head that has been exploding in random intervals for the last few months.

Stess? Vapors? Spells? Abnormal obsession with death?

Who knows?

The truth is, I am amazed every day that I’m not in a little padded cell somewhere banging my aching head against a padded wall. Which would explain the aching head. Maybe I’m more delusional than I think.