It has been five years since I tagged along with some doctors, nurses and physical therapists on a trip to Haiti after the earthquake.
When we got back, I was tired. A kind of tired I had never felt before.
I initially assumed it was just because photographer Jon Fletcher and I had worked long days trying to keep up with the medical volunteers. Or because I’m a light sleeper and we slept (or tried to) in a room crammed full of cots, with the sound of snores echoing off the metal roof.
One night I moved outside to a couch on the porch. I did manage to catch a few winks before the roosters started crowing (long before sunrise). The next morning one of the veteran volunteers said, “You slept out there with the tarantulas?”
I wasn’t sure if he was joking or serious, but I moved back inside the next night.
When I got back home, I tried to make up for lost sleep. I started crawling into my bed not long after dinner and, instead of getting up before dawn to go for a run like I did most mornings, slept until it was time to take Mia to school.
This lasted for several months. It didn’t matter how much sleep I got. I still was exhausted, still was irritable, still was walking through each day feeling like a zombie.
I had blood work done several times. My white blood cell count was a little low, but nothing was far out of the norm. Maybe my body was fighting off some kind of bug. Or maybe this was depression, a kind of depression I had never felt before. I still don’t really know.
I didn’t write about this. Why would I? More than 100,000 people died. Tens of thousands lost limbs. Even the survivors still were living in a poverty unlike anything I had ever seen. And when I returned to Jacksonville — to my home, my bed, my job, my car, my smooth roads — I was tired?
Five years later, it seems as insignificant, if not more so, than it did then.
Click here to read the whole article by mark.woods@jacksonville.com at the The Florida Times-Union.