One of my first jobs was to keep a lookout for lions. There are some occupations that are not suitable for someone with untreated narcolepsy and this is probably one of them. I was 22, a recent zoology graduate studying meerkats in the Kalahari desert in South Africa. We worked in pairs, one of us on foot, walking with meerkats, the other in the jeep scanning the horizon for signs of leonine danger. On many occasions, I awoke with the imprint of the steering wheel on my forehead, realizing that meerkats and colleague had wandered out of sight. I would look for signs of life and, as the panic grew, signs of death. I can tell this story now only because nobody got eaten.
I have not always been like this. For the first 20 years of my life, I had a healthy relationship with sleep. Shortly after my 21st birthday, though, I began to experience symptoms of narcolepsy, a rare but not-so-rare disorder thought to affect around one in 2,500 people. If people know one thing about narcolepsy, it’s that it involves frequent bouts of uncontrollable sleepiness. This is true, but the condition is so much more disabling, often accompanied by cataplexy (where a strong emotion causes loss of muscle tone and a rag doll–like collapse), trippy dreams, sleep paralysis, frightening hallucinations, and, paradoxically, fractured nighttime sleep. There is no cure. Yet.
In the Kalahari, back in 1995, I was new to these symptoms. I had little sense of the incalculable toll that fighting a never-ending battle against sleep (with defeat the inevitable outcome) would take on mind, body, and soul. I was not alone. Few family doctors had heard of the disorder, let alone encountered a patient. Some neurologists knew what to look for, but many did not. Not even sleep specialists could explain why this disorder would suddenly strike, with peak onset at around 15 years of age.