Never Fearing Wild Things

Recently I drove through a foggy winter morning. Fog, though threatening to those travelling in fast moving vehicles, is relatively innocuous. It is soft, gentle, tenuous. As we drove, it was like slipping through ghosts who were not there.

Brain fog, a “symptom” of many conditions like Long Covid, ME/CFS and other ailments, is a very real and challenging symptom. But when you say you suffer from “brain fog” the response from both medical professionals and friends alike is often similar to how they would respond to you saying, “I suffer from feeling a bit of softness on my hand.”

This brain fog started for me about a month and half after recovering from my acute bout of Covid. I remember it well. I was sitting in a meeting at work. We’d been at it for about an hour and it came on quite suddenly, or so I thought. I started having a hard time finding the words to express my thoughts and then I had a hard time finding the thoughts. Sentences were not coming out of my mouth in a timely manner and words were getting mixed up. I realized I was not able to continue, made some excuse and went home and lay down on my bed.

Since then, brain fog sneaks up on me, much like fog in the world does. The changes within my body slowly work their way and suddenly, or not so suddenly, I can’t find words, my tongue feels thicker and pronunciation is a challenge. Sentences get mixed up somewhere between my cerebral cortex and larynx. 

On the face of it, it’s often quite funny. My kids get a lot of good laughter out of my drunken slur and verbal mix ups. I’ve learned to laugh along – what else can I do?

The truth is, it isn’t funny at all. Inside it is quite frightening at times and long term, it is full of grief for me. When I am feeling the all pervasive fatigue of my day to day life start to tip beyond the normal, I start conversations with, “Forgive me if I struggle to find words or mix things up, I’m just a little tired.” In the early days of this experience, I even asked my doctor if I should be assessed for dementia. What was happening in my brain scared me.

I used to be able to preach without notes, or with minimal prompts. Now I have to write the whole sermon out, word for word. Some Sundays I can speak, for a moment or two, from memory. Other Sundays, when the fatigue is more acute, I have to read each word and even that can be a struggle. Brain fog affects your ability to read too.

This fog is part of every day. I’m clearer in the morning if I’ve had a good night sleep. This is when I try to get most of my work done. Inevitably there is more work that needs attention than I have energy, focus and clarity for. It is always frustrating and I do my best to hold that frustrated anger at bay. Such feelings do not help.

There is nothing soft and gentle about brain fog. It’s like a ghost. No one else sees it, but it has taken up residence in my brain and holds on with a tenacity no exorcist can release.