Of all the factors contributing to my walking difficulties--loss of balance, loss of muscle tone and strength, loss of coordination---the biggest contributing factor by far is fatigue. Not the kind of fatigue my fellow surgery intern referred to when he responded, "Hell yeah I’m tired. I've been up for the last 36 hours straight!" when I asked if he was tired, attempting to pacify my concerns over my own fatigue issues.
The kind of fatigue to which I am referring is paralyzing. It is a fatigue so oppressive that one finds oneself not only unwilling, but unable to move…for anything. It is a fatigue, that in my own description, feels as though one’s arms and legs are embedded in cement. On bad days it feels as though the cement is still wet, still unset. On the worst days, it feels as though the concrete has dried, encasing and pinning one’s body down. While lying in bed with the toilet less than 10 feet away, knowing that every attempt at moving closer to the toilet only pushes it further, one decides it is easier to make a mess of oneself right where they are instead of attempting the futile task of making it to the toilet.
Fortunately, I only have at most one or two episodes of this kind of fatigue a year, generally announcing that a viral or bacterial infection of some sort is soon to follow. At this announcement I know to begin searching diligently for the source of the infection. Urinary tract infections or cellulitis are the most frequent offenders. The most recent episode occurred just a few weeks ago. Only, unlike the usual occurrences of fatigue, this episode was different. The infection announced the arrival of the fatigue.
During my nightly bedtime ritual on a Friday night few years ago, I noticed a mild uneasiness deep in my gut. I could not discern whether the rumbling I felt was aways off in the distance or an imminent attack. The inconclusiveness of my assessment led me to don prophylactically an adult diaper. Around midnight I awoke, though not feeling in immediate danger, I asked for a bucket. As soon as the bucket was placed next to my head, I began throwing up.
With the onset of puking came relaxing of some of my body’s tension with which I had been sleeping. It seemed as though my body’s little generals sensed the “at ease” and issued an "everybody out" order. This order of “reveille, charge” called the troops to action, as I began getting flanked around both ends by body fluids. This occurred a few more times throughout the night.
The following morning, despite my friend Kristi’s suggestion of calling an ambulance, I stubbornly attempted to get out of bed with the goal of taking a shower and cleaning myself of the previous night’s events. Before being able to get my second foot on the floor, I went down. I went down hard. After several futile attempts at getting up. I opted to lie there and rest on the cool hardwood bedroom floor, hoping a few more minutes of rest and relaxation would recharge my drained batteries.
When I awoke a few hours later, however, my hopes of waking with recharged batteries quickly vanished as I attempted unsuccessfully to go from a prone, flat on my stomach, position up to my hands and knees. My plan of moving from a hands and knees position to a fully upright position with the help of my bed cane was quickly foiled as I abruptly returned to a prone position on the floor. With help from Kristi, I drag myself across the floor, into my bathroom, and into my shower. I lay on the floor as the cool water from the shower sprayed me. Brown water with particulate matter and scattered chunks began floating around me on the tiled shower floor towards the drain.
Once the water on the floor became clear, or my hundred-gallon hot water heater began spraying only ice-cold water (I do not recall which), I turned off the shower and continued lying on the floor. After a few minutes, my friend returned to assist me. At that moment, I uttered words I had never spoken before, words I should have said hours earlier.
"Call an ambulance please.”
