Fatigue

The lingering beast of stroke recovery, the word that never seems to quite capture the experience: fatigue. How do you really explain it to someone who hasn’t experienced it (although, of course, every survivor’s experience will be unique)? There’s always the starting point from pre-stroke: “I used to work 15-hour days and get home and collapse.” But then there’s the leap: “But this is something else altogether.” So how can one word capture both experiences, and convey the reality to someone outside the experience?

Well, of course, it can’t. But how do you capture it? I’ve tried my best to articulate my own experience with the post-stroke fatigue. For me, it’s always the same progression. First, I’ll notice that my left arm feels like it’s made of lead. Then, if I keep pushing myself to do something that requires physical or mental exertion, it becomes like the mid-point between the moment you become self-aware of being nauseous, and the moment you’re exhausted and you stop for a moment, and your brain drops the chemicals to slow your brain into sleep whether you like it or not. And then, if I keep on keeping on, it feels like a hand is trying to pull down the force-shutdown lever on my brain. I’m having to realise that my battery has been replaced. I used to have a new battery—fast-charging, holds its charge. But it’s been swapped with an old battery from the back of the cupboard—takes a long time to charge, and drains very quickly. When that happens, it’s as though gravity has doubled. My left side feels doubly heavy, and it’s a battle to keep moving. That’s what my life is like now, and God only know how long it will take before this fatigue doesn’t loom over my days.