The Definition of Lonely
When Charlie and I get home after this unusual encounter, we immediately go back to our routine. I take a can of dog food form the pantry to feed Charlie. As always, he gives a few excited yelps while I walk over to his bowl – he's so greedy! I feel pleased with myself and with Charlie. If it hadn't been for him, it wouldn't have happened.
Even so, while I watch him wolf down his Frolic, I start wondering. I jumped head over heels into this, and I am starting to feel I might have bitten off more than I can chew. What do I know about narcolepsy? That man must be seriously ill – by the sound of it, he's totally isolated. What if he really can't stay awake long enough for a sensible conversation, or other acitivities?
If I'm being honest with myself, though, I've got quite a crush – the idea of not calling him or calling off our date makes me genuinely sad. How typical for me! I really must be more careful, or I'll fall into the same trap as when I met Ian. Back then, it became clear soon enough that he had serious psychological issues. I should have backed away then – looking back, it even seems possible that I may have been able to help him better if I hadn't got romantically involved with him. But I did. I told myself I could handle it, that our love would conquer this obstacle, that he needed to be saved.
And here I am, just a year after that horror, asking out a man with a strange and rare condition that appears pretty difficult to handle. Am I crazy? Or is it the real thing this time?
After all, there was something. I felt something. He said it too – he said it had been the longest conversation he had had in years. That must mean something, mustn't it? It was easy being with him, and the attack didn't frighten me at all.
This date will work out fine: I'll just take him to Stan's where he can sit on the sofa in the corner and I can take the chair opposite. That way, he can lean back comfortably if anything happens. I would have taken him out to a fancier place on our first date, but safety is more important. Plus, Stan will give me the table I want, even if it is short notice.
So, I can handle the date, no problem. I'll take him by cab, so he can't fall over, and after dinner, I'll drop him off again. I guess it's advisable anyway not to stretch out the evening. If it doesn't go well or he realises he can't keep up a conversation for long, we can end it quickly. And I am already resolved not to take any risks tomorrow. I'm keeping it purely platonic – I don't want to overexcite him – or myself, for that matter.
I call Stan's to order a table for tomorrow night at seven. Stan himself picks up the phone. We're old friends and I feel safe taking this unusual date to his restaurant. He promises me to keep my favourite table ready. I can hear in his voice that he is grinning knowingly while we talk. If he knew…
After that, I reckon it would be wise to find out more about this cataplexy thing. Better be prepared. So I sit down at my desk to do some Internet research. After about two hours, I am stunned. I had known the word "narcolepsy" from jokes and anecdotes and had never thought twice about it. Now I understand how serious this issue is for those afflicted by it.
And something else strikes me: I found out that cataplexies often happen when the patient laughs or cries. We were talking about me having been married to a man when he had his attack. What was he feeling at the time? When it was over, he talked about the fact as if he hadn't been surprised at all. But was he?