As another wave of fatigue sweeps toward me, I remember a time when such a thing would be alarming.
There was a time decades ago, even as recently as a few years ago, when the challenge of each day consisted of how to channel my seemingly limitless reserves of energy into all of my waking hours. Personal and professional projects all moved along at a good quick pace. When my feet hit the floor in the morning I looked forward to the day’s first workout. And a long day of work would follow, and social connections, and when bed time finally came it found me with a relaxed sense of accomplishment.
At seventy years of age (I officially become a septuagenarian next month) my operative dynamic is different now. Simply waking up takes about two hours. From the time my eyes open and I roll out of the sack to the time when my aches have receded enough, when my physical equilibrium is steady enough, when my mental acuity has sufficiently returned to a level that allows me to interact responsibly with other folks, a good two hours will have elapsed. If I’m lucky. Some days it takes much longer. And some days it doesn’t happen.
Perhaps the best way to describe the waves of fatigue that now come more or less regularly is by way of analogy. Imagine yourself walking in gently lapping knee-deep water on a sunny day. There is a bright, sandy beach to one side, and an expanse of ocean to the other side. As waves come in and recede the water level will sometimes drop down to nearer your ankles, and other times it will rise up your thighs to nearly your waist. And sometimes the waves of fatigue will even wash over you and you’ll find yourself drifting off to sleep. That’s not an unpleasant thing at all, really. Naps are nice whenever they come.
It is interesting to note the difference in the dynamic of my days now compared to when I was a young man. I consider myself lucky to have had those busier, more energetic days. They’re fun to remember in this quieter, calmer time.
