An exhaustion so complete it starts at my fingernails and oozes through my bone marrow. I’m tired. Sick and tired of the pain, the drugs, the nausea that sometimes hovers around the edges and sometimes surges insistently to the fore. I’m tired. A kind of tired I’ve never been before: like the fatigue from all these years of illness suddenly accumulated and animated into a steam roller, which is slowly flattening me. I’m tired. The kind of tired that doesn’t go away when I sleep, that gnaws at the edges of my consciousness — oppressive, unremitting. I’m tired.