Mid afternoon: I’m slouched on the sofa drifting in and out of consciousness. Noises from outside and around the house merging and separating from random thoughts, images and dreams. I hear Maggie approaching with mugs of coffee so I sit up, stretch, drop back into the cushions and try focusing my brain.
I sit quietly, gently sipping the nectar, feeling it massaging my muscles, blood vessels and brain as the caffeine coaxes me out of hibernation.
The front door slams.
Rogan kicks off his shoes, drops his school bag with a thud that rattles the walls and stomps down the stairs, already in conversation and talking at us with energy and enthusiasm.
I watch him as he tells us about something that did or didn’t happen at school; constantly moving, animated, alive. I feel like a sloth watching a hummingbird, wondering how anything can be so active and not spontaneously combust.
Then he’s bouncing back upstairs to get himself a snack while my assaulted eyes and brain wonder what hit them.
But something is nagging me. I drain the last of my coffee and allow the thought to surface.
“Was I ever like that, before the Fatigue?”
“Most of the time,” replies Maggie.
I don’t know if I’m more unsettled by the idea I was, or that I no longer am.