Other people’s words about … fatigue
My legs, when I got up to go to the toilet or kitchen, felt light and shaky, far away from the rest of me …
Even speaking was too much. My words seemed pinned to the bottom of my jaw, and came out compressed and monosyllabic. I don’t remember crying much, but there was a dampness, as if moisture were constantly seeping through my skin, and sinking. As if everything inside me had become viscous, liquid, beholden to gravity and I was draining always to the lowest point; the soles of my feet, my buttocks, my back.
by Kate Cole-Adams
The year I turned forty, I caught glandular fever (known by my North American readers as mononucleosis). It was a pretty typical case, I think: for the next year or so, I caught colds and viruses and coughs at the drop of a hat, and meanwhile I experienced a tiredness that — like the tiredness Kate Cole-Adams describes in the passage above, in a depiction of her own experience of adult-onset glandular fever — was beyond any kind of tiredness I had ever experienced before. It wasn’t tiredness at all, really: it was lethargy, lassitude, limpness, listlessness, languor — all those ‘L’ words, combined with a clammy, vaguely feverish kind of exhaustion. My limbs felt heavy and my head felt swirly and the floor seemed spongy beneath my feet.
Though the fatigue and exhaustion eventually, two or so years down the track, dissipated, I have found that even now, years later, I still get the occasional, sudden bout of glandular-fever-type fatigue. It always happens when I’m least expecting it and lasts for a few days, sometimes a week or more. If I think about it deeply enough, I am usually able to explain it by pointing to a higher than normal level of stress in my life.
I had one of those bouts again just recently. Serendipitously, I had a few days off between shifts at work, and so I decided to spend some time away in that place I love, Aldinga. I was sapped of energy and appetite: too tired to walk on the beach or catch up with family and friends as I’d hoped; too tired, even, to write or to bake. Instead, I lay on a sofa in a pool of sun, and read, and dozed, and waited for the fatigue to pass. I knew that it would. I just didn’t know when. (Actually, I still don’t know. As I write this post, a couple of weeks down the track, I’m still experiencing fatigue and unwellness. But it will pass, as all things do.)
The first day that I felt even vaguely up to it, I went for a wander in the Aldinga Scrub. I was still very tired, and so I took the walk slowly, following the path marked out by signposts for tourists, which takes you on a small loop: first south, parallel with the coast, then east towards the hills, then back northwards and west to the starting point. (Its official name is the Coral Lichen Circuit, and you can find more out about it here.)
It was late spring: whistlers burbled (mostly) unseen in the branches. The yellow months had passed, and now it was the time for blues and purples and pinks and whites. And everywhere that I walked there were twining fringe lilies growing. As the photos in this post illustrate, I found them peeking through the leaves and branches and stalks and branches of sea box bushes, and rock ferns, and mallee pea-bushes, and muntries, and sheoaks, and grass trees, just to name a few.
They are common native flowers in South Australia, I gather — neither delicate nor rare. And yet each time I saw one on my walk that day, I felt a little thrust of joy at their very ubiquity. It was partly to do with the fact that I was able to identify them; partly to do with the fact that I’d reached a point in the ebb and flow of my own exhaustion where I felt I had enough stamina to go on another of those wanders, however gentle that wander was; and partly, simply, to do with the lovely prettiness of the lilies themselves.
Perhaps the fringe lilies were a symbol for me that day, growing and twining — despite their appearance of delicate fragility — in amongst all the other greenery. Thriving, despite everything.
Or perhaps symbols are unnecessary here. Perhaps it was enough just to see them and enjoy them exactly for what they were.
I recently found a wonderful resource for anyone who is interested in learning more about the Aldinga Scrub. It is the Flickr account of the Friends of the Aldinga Scrub, which has hundreds of wonderful photos taken in the scrub, not only capturing but also identifying the native flora, fauna and fungi. Check it out here.
2 thoughts on “Ubiquitous”
Adult mono sounds terrible, it was bad enough when I had it in high school. I wonder if is still latent in my body and comes up from time to time? Some days I feel as you described. I think it was great that you nurtured yourself, reading and resting.
“sea box bushes, and rock ferns, and mallee pea-bushes, and muntries, and sheoaks, and grass trees” All exotic and foreign to me, I’m glad you gave the link to learn more about these. Thanks!
I am sure that it remains latent in some people once they’ve had it. A friend of mine who had it in his teens says the same thing as you. I suspect that the older you are when you get it, the more likely this is … but I have no medical training, so it’s just intuition, really! x PS Glad the links were helpful.