Episode 947
As the Immune System Turns…
So it begins.
It always begins the same way, and I ignore it every single time until I can’t ignore it anymore.
The first sign is just one morning of impossible tiredness.
Not “I stayed up too late watching documentaries about Dutch settlers in the 1600s” tired.
More like stress-induced narcolepsy.
The kind where staying awake feels optional, but only because your body has already decided it isn’t.
This stage happens every time.
Sometimes it’s so bad I can’t safely drive anywhere because I have to sleep. There is no negotiating. No,
“I could really use a nap.”
Just-
“Congratulations. Your consciousness must pause for this brief commercial break.”
So I think to myself, and my husband says out loud:
I should call Dee.
Dee is my doctor.
She practices about thirty minutes away, keeps banker hours, and exists behind a gauntlet of scheduling gymnastics, half-days, executive functioning, and my own stubborn optimism that maybe this time it’ll just go away on its own.
Because the next phase is coming.
The one where I can’t sleep at night…
…and I can’t stay awake during the day.
I become anxious. Moody. Mentally useless.
I stare blankly at work screens while simultaneously deciding that now—of all possible times—is probably the perfect opportunity to recreate Wikipedia through eighteenth-century genealogy.
Apparently that still feels like a reasonable use of my remaining brain cells.
Brain fog is such an innocent sounding phrase.
Fog sounds peaceful.
Brain fog isn’t peaceful.
It is standing in the kitchen wondering why I’m there.
It is asking,
“What was I doing?”
…twelve times before lunch.
It is looking at the clock, blinking twice, and asking,
“How is it four o’clock already?”
Bills become mysterious suggestions rather than deadlines.
Cleaning?
That’s adorable.
Showering starts feeling like an Olympic event requiring registration, training, and at least one waiver.
Anyway…
I’m there now.
My back starts hurting.
The dizziness creeps in.
My urine develops the unmistakable aroma of what I can only describe as a failed high school chemistry experiment left in the sun.
And yet…
Have I called Dee?
Of course not.
Why?
Because experience has taught me it’s a coin toss whether any prescribed medication will make any difference at all.
So instead…
I wait.
Again. Still.
The truly maddening part isn’t even feeling sick anymore.
It’s that this has happened for years.
It has a rhythm.
A pattern.
A beginning.
A middle.
And eventually, an end.
It is cyclical.
Predictable.
Documented by the world’s least enthusiastic participant.
And somehow…
Despite all the appointments…
All the lab work…
All the specialist referrals…
And all the moments where I think,
Maybe this time someone will finally connect the dots…
I’m still here.
Still feeling the first signs of flare and thinking…maybe I’m actually wrong this time.
Still wondering what exactly my body is trying so desperately to tell me.
Because these aren’t dramatic episodes.
They’re just…
Real.
Real enough to quietly dismantle my ordinary life for a while.
Then disappear.
Only to come back…
…and introduce themselves all over again.
As the immune system turns…
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