By Joseph Stashko in Medium.
I often wonder how it’s possible to be this sick and still be alive.
For the past few months, I’ve had a recurring dream. I’m running. I’m not running from anything, and there’s nothing hostile about where I am; it’s actually very close to where I live. I run and run, eventually stretching my arms out to either side of me, when a gust of wind picks me up and pulls me into the air. I’m above the pocket of south London where I was born, flying effortlessly. The sun is shining. Then the wind drops. I begin to fall. I am awake.
What I find most arresting about the dream is not so much the flying, it’s the running. It’s something I’ve been unable to do for over 18 months. I became disabled overnight in November 2016, after coming down with a fever and viral symptoms from which I never recovered.
At first, I tried to drag myself into work, noticing small but telling signs that something was wrong. Stairs required a concerted effort, and it felt like the world around my desk was moving slower than it had before, as if it were underwater and I was the only one who couldn’t swim. I developed a permanent sore throat and an overwhelming need to sit down on the train during my morning commute.
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